Lately, I find myself craving a journal, some medium with which I can turn the mishmash in my head into something decipherable. One wouldn't necessarily make the connection, but that also means that the brushes of wanderlust are tickling my spine, my feet, and that deep place in my belly that pulls me toward out-of-the-ordinary places, new experiences, and unexpected adventures. I want to buy a plane ticket. I spent yesterday afternoon stalking backpacker websites on Italy.
Once the wedding craze wound down and all of the tulle and twinkle lights were boxed up, I had a chance to catch my breath and realize - I had no plans. And no money. I reveled, honestly, in the lack of a plan, the open spaces of the future. I settled myself into a temporary job and a bunch of applications for jobs in far off countries that I was almost kind of qualified for. One of those, "yeah, but if you meet me, you'll really like me!" things. Grad school, the obvious solution to this problem, went on the list of maybes. Meanwhile, I found myself having perfect timing at the law office I'd started working at - due to unfortunate circumstances - and my 1 month went to make yourself comfortable, it could be a while.
There is something lovely about having a steady routine (and the paycheck that accompanies it). I'm enjoying the calm certainty of where I am right now. Contributing to humanity, it seems, can be accomplished from a small office in Iowa with a window facing a parking garage just as easily as from a village in Mali with a window facing my mango tree. But you already knew that. Time is easing my inability to connect with other Americans and vice versa. There is a hesitation at the "oh, I was in Africa the last 3 years," mark, where they don't know what to say and I don't know how to make it less awkward. There are a multitude of things from my life there that are similar to my life here, many areas to find relatable, similar if not shared experiences. But to get over that hurdle, both parties must recognize the shared human experience. Having a solid job on this side of the ocean, I've found, is diffusing the wobbly moments.
In this way, the weeks have leaked into months as I adjust to the Western world. My job is teaching me many things, including how to balance my time and find space for a life around the exhausting 9-5. Learning to be an adult has also allowed me time to avoid that big, ominous eventuality -- commitment. 3 years ago, fresh out of college and doe-eyed new to village life, I was sure I knew where I was going, what I wanted. As I sit here today, little of that ideal is the same as what I want now. So these past some odd weeks, when I could (- c, + sh) have made a decision on the job vs. school front, the move to D.C. vs. try hard for an over seas job front, the focus on MPH vs. look into dual degrees front, I shifted into neutral. What continues to haunt me is this: what if I change my mind again? When I chose to change direction (which I can roughly pinpoint at October 2011) last time, it caused a slight tremor. The china in the cabinets rattled, but didn't break. My fear, as I do become an adult, is that if/when I do want something else, change direction again, it will be far enough down the road that it will cause an earthquake, and I'll have to cross my fingers that everything doesn't shatter.
Roughly 1 week ago (a day after I first sat down to try and type this out), I tripped over words of something insignificant that I couldn't even tell you about now. But in that moment, I realized that if I want my life to move forward in any direction (which I believe I do), I need to start making choices. So maybe that's me becoming an adult. It's not buying a nice work blazer, or waking up early enough to pack a healthy lunch for the 9-5, or hosting dinner parties with cheese plates and nice drinks. It's me, making choices and commitments, and handling the consequences.
... Though I am strongly considering Italy for the month of July. So I'm not quite there yet.
Peace & Love
Elyse
November 23, 2013
Live a Life That Scares You
Live a life that scares you. The possibilities that the future, both near and far, hold ought to numb your fingers, send jolts through your knees. You were not meant for some equator, an even line of knowing what comes next. You were meant for bitter cold that cuts so deep your bones groan and your tear ducts crystalize. You were meant for heat that hits you like a linebacker, dries out your lungs if you breathe too deep. You were meant for rains that turn your skin to salamander scales, that thunder by the force of it all and drown your mind of anything but that noise.
You were not meant for the predictable; to wake up every day and walk the dotted line laid out before you, apperceptive to only what has been prescribed. You were meant for fear, anger, passion, and irrational love. You were meant to fall, bend, break. You were meant to fail utterly and pick yourself back up. Live a life that scares you. Your heart might beat out a different pace, but the honey will be sweeter, the colors more vivid, and the successes will give you wings.
Peace & Love
Elyse
You were not meant for the predictable; to wake up every day and walk the dotted line laid out before you, apperceptive to only what has been prescribed. You were meant for fear, anger, passion, and irrational love. You were meant to fall, bend, break. You were meant to fail utterly and pick yourself back up. Live a life that scares you. Your heart might beat out a different pace, but the honey will be sweeter, the colors more vivid, and the successes will give you wings.
Peace & Love
Elyse
September 8, 2013
The Road to Zanzibar
I started the following post at the beginning of August, determined to keep this thing going (even if it is just me reminiscing on my times in Africa). Unfortunately, the wedding opened its giant jaws and swallowed me whole, just spitting me out a few days ago. Guess I didn't taste very good. Hopefully, I'll keep up with this thing now that life is returning to some form of normalcy.
-------------------------------------------
I was standing by the road at least an hour before tremors started up in my nerves. The man on the dala-dala out of Stone Town said the one I'd take to Pongwe would come soon, but what if it didn't? I started listing options in my head.
20 minutes later and I was listing for the 10th time, when a man who obviously worked the dala-dala system (they'd just stop and give him money... what?) sauntered over, asked if I spoke Kiswahili (in Kiswahili). I smiled apologetically, "English only." He must have wondered what this young mzungu without any useful language was doing hitching a bus in Zanzibar - my thoughts traced the same path.
In the act of traveling, I generally have 2 faces. My usual is pleasant but closed, disdainful a first prices, bored and vaguely annoyed with cars that don't stop to offer a ride. I used this face a lot in Zambia and Mali. The second is wide-eyed, confused. Young. Neither is a manipulation; more often than not, I just find it better to express confidence, as though maybe I do know what's going on. On the side of that road in Zanzibar, however, I allowed my face to mirror my insides - wide-eyed, confused, and young.
The man and I managed to communicate my destination with gestures and a shared vocabulary of less words than I have of fingers (apparently, there are 2 Pongwes. This caused a lot of head shaking and repetitions, but eventually we figured out). "You wait, maybe 10 minutes," he assured me.
10 minutes later, a bus that had the right name pulled up. Magic. I grabbed my bags but the man ran over, waving his hands, "No! you wait, you wait. Maybe 10 minutes." Must've been going to the wrong Pongwe. Eventually, a dala-dala drove up. I was still squinting, trying to read the destination displayed in the windshield, when the man motioned for me to get on. As I threw up my bags and thanked him, he smiled wide and spread his arms, "Welcome to Zanzibar!"
On the dala-dala, there wasn't a space to sit. I was preparing to squat in the aisle when 2 men squeezed apart, leaving enough space for the edge of my butt to balance precariously on the edge of the bench. I was just happy to be on my way. I thought we were full then, but we stopped to pick up 4 people to squat in the aisle, then for a couple of men to stand on the back bumper. I think if the thing had rolled, we all would've been fine, snug in our spots, we were packed so tight. Well, except for the men on the back, that is.
This whole thing started before my words, back in Stone Town, where I began my search for a dala-dala. Beginning to end, there were many peope helping me along. There wre conversations about me between strangers, additional strangers stopping to add their 2 cents. All in Kiswahili, I understood nothing, just followed along (literally). A couple of the men must've gotten a kick-back, but most were helping because that's just what you do. A good friend summed it up well a few weeks prior -- In America, generosity is taking the time to give directions. In Africa, generosity is taking the person to their destination yourself.
-------------------------------------------
I fell for Stone Town the way you fall for a new lover. Stepping off the boat, I breathed deep and something inside said Oh, this could be special. I fell knowing - as we do - how fleeting love can be, choosing to let myself become enraptured, infatuated. Choosing to savor the silences, the missteps as much as the interactions and the laughter.
Her flaws were quirks, her dust and grime character. I refused the decay, called her an old soul. Wandering the alleys, I blushed with embarrassment at coming into this so unprepared; I lacked the language, the direction. I tried to make up for myself with wide smiles and bright eyes - those things that catch us in the beginning.
I opened myself to people, to possibility, and laughed as much as possible. Leaving my iPod in my room, my camera hanging unused at my side, I allowed myself to be enchanted by the little moments, created memories just for myself, presents to unwrap and treasure on low days.
Jealousy surfaced at regarding those living with her. I saw something in the eyes of people who got to know her to the full extent, an appreciation that I couldn't touch as a tourist. She seemed to find my jealousy amusing.
The end came quickly, as I knew it would. I found myself rushing to hold onto, capture something that couldn't be caught. Leaving, I thanked her for taking me as I was.
Peace & Love
Elyse
-------------------------------------------
 |
| Welcome to Zanzibar! |
I was standing by the road at least an hour before tremors started up in my nerves. The man on the dala-dala out of Stone Town said the one I'd take to Pongwe would come soon, but what if it didn't? I started listing options in my head.
20 minutes later and I was listing for the 10th time, when a man who obviously worked the dala-dala system (they'd just stop and give him money... what?) sauntered over, asked if I spoke Kiswahili (in Kiswahili). I smiled apologetically, "English only." He must have wondered what this young mzungu without any useful language was doing hitching a bus in Zanzibar - my thoughts traced the same path.
In the act of traveling, I generally have 2 faces. My usual is pleasant but closed, disdainful a first prices, bored and vaguely annoyed with cars that don't stop to offer a ride. I used this face a lot in Zambia and Mali. The second is wide-eyed, confused. Young. Neither is a manipulation; more often than not, I just find it better to express confidence, as though maybe I do know what's going on. On the side of that road in Zanzibar, however, I allowed my face to mirror my insides - wide-eyed, confused, and young.
The man and I managed to communicate my destination with gestures and a shared vocabulary of less words than I have of fingers (apparently, there are 2 Pongwes. This caused a lot of head shaking and repetitions, but eventually we figured out). "You wait, maybe 10 minutes," he assured me.
10 minutes later, a bus that had the right name pulled up. Magic. I grabbed my bags but the man ran over, waving his hands, "No! you wait, you wait. Maybe 10 minutes." Must've been going to the wrong Pongwe. Eventually, a dala-dala drove up. I was still squinting, trying to read the destination displayed in the windshield, when the man motioned for me to get on. As I threw up my bags and thanked him, he smiled wide and spread his arms, "Welcome to Zanzibar!"
On the dala-dala, there wasn't a space to sit. I was preparing to squat in the aisle when 2 men squeezed apart, leaving enough space for the edge of my butt to balance precariously on the edge of the bench. I was just happy to be on my way. I thought we were full then, but we stopped to pick up 4 people to squat in the aisle, then for a couple of men to stand on the back bumper. I think if the thing had rolled, we all would've been fine, snug in our spots, we were packed so tight. Well, except for the men on the back, that is.
I was the last stop, there were only 3 other men around by then. "That one!" I basically shouted, flinging out my arm as we passed a sign with the name of my lodge. We stopped at a lodge sign 10 yards down the way and they helped me down. After multiple emphatic "this one!"'s from the men, I did as they said and walked down the wrong road. 5 minutes later I figured out it was the right road and found myself at a guest house on the Indian Ocean. And that was the moment I decided to abandon my dreams and become a trophy wife for anyone with a vacation home on the Indian Ocean.
This whole thing started before my words, back in Stone Town, where I began my search for a dala-dala. Beginning to end, there were many peope helping me along. There wre conversations about me between strangers, additional strangers stopping to add their 2 cents. All in Kiswahili, I understood nothing, just followed along (literally). A couple of the men must've gotten a kick-back, but most were helping because that's just what you do. A good friend summed it up well a few weeks prior -- In America, generosity is taking the time to give directions. In Africa, generosity is taking the person to their destination yourself.
-------------------------------------------
I fell for Stone Town the way you fall for a new lover. Stepping off the boat, I breathed deep and something inside said Oh, this could be special. I fell knowing - as we do - how fleeting love can be, choosing to let myself become enraptured, infatuated. Choosing to savor the silences, the missteps as much as the interactions and the laughter.
Her flaws were quirks, her dust and grime character. I refused the decay, called her an old soul. Wandering the alleys, I blushed with embarrassment at coming into this so unprepared; I lacked the language, the direction. I tried to make up for myself with wide smiles and bright eyes - those things that catch us in the beginning.
I opened myself to people, to possibility, and laughed as much as possible. Leaving my iPod in my room, my camera hanging unused at my side, I allowed myself to be enchanted by the little moments, created memories just for myself, presents to unwrap and treasure on low days.
Jealousy surfaced at regarding those living with her. I saw something in the eyes of people who got to know her to the full extent, an appreciation that I couldn't touch as a tourist. She seemed to find my jealousy amusing.
The end came quickly, as I knew it would. I found myself rushing to hold onto, capture something that couldn't be caught. Leaving, I thanked her for taking me as I was.
Peace & Love
Elyse
August 5, 2013
Explanations are Necessary
I decided back in December that as much as I love Zambia, my work there, and travel, I love my family more. As such, I decided to end my service with Peace Corps just a hair short of 365 days and take a week for myself in Zanzibar. Then, last Thursday, I boarded a plane headed to big, bad, bright Las Vegas and surprised my sister at her bachelorette party.
As my time in Zambia winded down, there were many things I wanted to write, facebook statuses I wanted to post. I suspended my facebook account so I wouldn't be tempted (and so no one would accidentally give me away), carefully worded blog posts, and straight up lied to Emily. I can tell you now that it was definitely worth it to see the look of shock on her face when I walked into that room. Being off of the grid the last couple of weeks has been refreshing. I left Zambia semi-quietly, faded out of the social media scene for a couple of weeks. It's been nice, but I realize that popping up in Iowa is not as simple - explanations are necessary.
14/07/13
There are many things I want to tell you. I want to tell you that my eating and sleeping habits have become semi-irregular because I have 8 1/2 days left in country, that it's FREAKING ME OUT. I want to post on Facebook that I am the queen of avoidance, that I detest packing. Detest.
I want to tell you that I have a plane ticket taking me to Dar es Salaam, inquiries made in Zanzibar. This will be my first real solo vacation, which feels like a big step for me. I'm craving the solitude, excited to get to know myself during the quiet days on the beach, but my-oh-my am I nervous about doing it alone.
16/07/13
I want to tell you that I have one week left and I'm continuing to freak. Jitters in my bones are discredited as the effects of caffeine and malaria pills; stress and nerves are blatantly ignored.
I've begun to mark my lasts. Last time I visit the falls, last time I buy ripped movies off the street, last time I walk through the markets in Kalomo, last time I have to poop in a cup. My growing catalog of lasts isn't final, I'm sure I'll do many of them again. It is, however, the last time I'll do any of them as who I am here and now, the last time I'll see them and appreciate them in this exact way. It's thrilling - in both positive and negative ways - what I'm wrapping up now, seeing where I'm going next.
19/07/13
I want to tell you - gloat, honestly - that I've narrowed down my schedule for Zanzibar. It seems to be one of those places you can just sow up at, decide your ideal beach on the fly. I, however, am not really an on-the-fly kind of girl. Traveling alone, I'm instead making plans and booking lodges. But don't worry, I'm leaving days to lay on the beach and get to know the Indian Ocean.We haven't met yet; I think I'm going to like her.
I want to tell you that I have a long-standing habit of associating one song with an event in my life and listening to it repeatedly during said event. Leaving Mali, this song was Don't Think Twice by Bob Dylan. Leaving Zambia, the song is The World Ain't Slowing Down by Ellis Paul - leaving on a much happier note, clearly.
21/07/13
I want to tell you that it's my last full day in Zambia. I woke up growling and clutching at the sheets as the bed had morphed into a mechanical bull. Swearing to never drink again (ever), I forced myself to get out of bed and into a day full of last last minute packing and travel. There wasn't a moment for me to think about the significance of it all until Kalomo was a dusty blur out the bus window.
Sitting in my lodge, staring at a hiking backpack that is far too heavy, it's all catching up to me. Tomorrow morning I 'ring out' - officially closing my service with Peace Corps. Not closing , leaving with the intention of re-uping asap, as was the case last year, but actually closing my service. I will not say never, and maybe someday I will return to Peace Corps. But, for now, this is it. That feels pretty big.
----------------------------
I'm sitting in my Momma's living room, typing this out while also trying to organize and articulate the jumble that my head is (to be honest, I kind of just want to sway to the fuzzy/dizzy feeling I'm getting from my malaria drugs. I hadn't taken them in quite some time but decided to do so just to make sure I didn't get sick while in Vegas. Maybe that's just the jet-lag talking). Filling out customs forms upon leaving Zambia and hopping between other countries, my heart sped up at the lines "occupation" and "country of residence." I didn't think that the passport control officers would accept "drifting" as an answer for either.
Let me say that this is nothing like my return to the states last May. It seems that every time I take another hop between continents, it becomes easier to deal with the shock. The intensity of my emotions upon my unexpected return last May knocked me down, drained my emotional reserves entirely. Now, aside from the excitement over surprising Em & seeing everyone, I've had to search myself for any strong emotional reaction. I am sorry that my time in Zambia went so quickly, saddened to leave people I've grown close to. But at the same time, this just feels right,and I feel ready. I am eternally grateful to Peace Corps for the opportunities they have given me over the last 3 years, and to everyone I worked with during that time for what I've learned & for preparing me for what comes next, whatever that may be (and no, I don't know what's next. Working on it).
As much as I want to leave you all with heartfelt revelations from the last year, I'm going to need time to process things first. I can feel the words in me, they're just a tangled mess rolling around my head. So this is not a goodbye, and I hope you'll keep reading. But right now I have more important things to do - mainly unpacking my giant backpack one last time and washing everything.
p.s. Zanzibar was perfection. If you ever find yourself in East Africa, you really ought to go.
Peace & Love
Elyse
As my time in Zambia winded down, there were many things I wanted to write, facebook statuses I wanted to post. I suspended my facebook account so I wouldn't be tempted (and so no one would accidentally give me away), carefully worded blog posts, and straight up lied to Emily. I can tell you now that it was definitely worth it to see the look of shock on her face when I walked into that room. Being off of the grid the last couple of weeks has been refreshing. I left Zambia semi-quietly, faded out of the social media scene for a couple of weeks. It's been nice, but I realize that popping up in Iowa is not as simple - explanations are necessary.
14/07/13
There are many things I want to tell you. I want to tell you that my eating and sleeping habits have become semi-irregular because I have 8 1/2 days left in country, that it's FREAKING ME OUT. I want to post on Facebook that I am the queen of avoidance, that I detest packing. Detest.
I want to tell you that I have a plane ticket taking me to Dar es Salaam, inquiries made in Zanzibar. This will be my first real solo vacation, which feels like a big step for me. I'm craving the solitude, excited to get to know myself during the quiet days on the beach, but my-oh-my am I nervous about doing it alone.
16/07/13
I want to tell you that I have one week left and I'm continuing to freak. Jitters in my bones are discredited as the effects of caffeine and malaria pills; stress and nerves are blatantly ignored.
I've begun to mark my lasts. Last time I visit the falls, last time I buy ripped movies off the street, last time I walk through the markets in Kalomo, last time I have to poop in a cup. My growing catalog of lasts isn't final, I'm sure I'll do many of them again. It is, however, the last time I'll do any of them as who I am here and now, the last time I'll see them and appreciate them in this exact way. It's thrilling - in both positive and negative ways - what I'm wrapping up now, seeing where I'm going next.
19/07/13
I want to tell you - gloat, honestly - that I've narrowed down my schedule for Zanzibar. It seems to be one of those places you can just sow up at, decide your ideal beach on the fly. I, however, am not really an on-the-fly kind of girl. Traveling alone, I'm instead making plans and booking lodges. But don't worry, I'm leaving days to lay on the beach and get to know the Indian Ocean.We haven't met yet; I think I'm going to like her.
I want to tell you that I have a long-standing habit of associating one song with an event in my life and listening to it repeatedly during said event. Leaving Mali, this song was Don't Think Twice by Bob Dylan. Leaving Zambia, the song is The World Ain't Slowing Down by Ellis Paul - leaving on a much happier note, clearly.
21/07/13
I want to tell you that it's my last full day in Zambia. I woke up growling and clutching at the sheets as the bed had morphed into a mechanical bull. Swearing to never drink again (ever), I forced myself to get out of bed and into a day full of last last minute packing and travel. There wasn't a moment for me to think about the significance of it all until Kalomo was a dusty blur out the bus window.
Sitting in my lodge, staring at a hiking backpack that is far too heavy, it's all catching up to me. Tomorrow morning I 'ring out' - officially closing my service with Peace Corps. Not closing , leaving with the intention of re-uping asap, as was the case last year, but actually closing my service. I will not say never, and maybe someday I will return to Peace Corps. But, for now, this is it. That feels pretty big.
----------------------------
I'm sitting in my Momma's living room, typing this out while also trying to organize and articulate the jumble that my head is (to be honest, I kind of just want to sway to the fuzzy/dizzy feeling I'm getting from my malaria drugs. I hadn't taken them in quite some time but decided to do so just to make sure I didn't get sick while in Vegas. Maybe that's just the jet-lag talking). Filling out customs forms upon leaving Zambia and hopping between other countries, my heart sped up at the lines "occupation" and "country of residence." I didn't think that the passport control officers would accept "drifting" as an answer for either.
Let me say that this is nothing like my return to the states last May. It seems that every time I take another hop between continents, it becomes easier to deal with the shock. The intensity of my emotions upon my unexpected return last May knocked me down, drained my emotional reserves entirely. Now, aside from the excitement over surprising Em & seeing everyone, I've had to search myself for any strong emotional reaction. I am sorry that my time in Zambia went so quickly, saddened to leave people I've grown close to. But at the same time, this just feels right,and I feel ready. I am eternally grateful to Peace Corps for the opportunities they have given me over the last 3 years, and to everyone I worked with during that time for what I've learned & for preparing me for what comes next, whatever that may be (and no, I don't know what's next. Working on it).
As much as I want to leave you all with heartfelt revelations from the last year, I'm going to need time to process things first. I can feel the words in me, they're just a tangled mess rolling around my head. So this is not a goodbye, and I hope you'll keep reading. But right now I have more important things to do - mainly unpacking my giant backpack one last time and washing everything.
p.s. Zanzibar was perfection. If you ever find yourself in East Africa, you really ought to go.
Peace & Love
Elyse
July 11, 2013
Where are you from?
Lately, it seems like all I do is ride around. Busses, taxis, safari land cruisers... my legs are crying out, my feet still swollen. Not done yet, though. Settling into my bus seat a couple days ago, a preacher got up to bless the bus and read from scripture. Usually somewhat piqued by this (common) practice, I found myself thinking it quaint. And there it is - the nostalgia is setting in, and I haven't even left yet.
I was heading home on that bus, after a fantastic vacation with Allyn, Michelle, and my mom (we fit in a safari, waterfalls, 3 countries, lots of market time, relaxing on a lake, and so much delicious food in 9 days. I love visitors). But with the end of my service looming and for sure being in Iowa late in August (someone has a wedding, I hear?), I've been tripping over the word 'home' as it tumbles out of my mouth. The location and delineation of home is slippery.
When you ask a Zambian where they come from, there's a slight hesitation, confusion over the question. "I come from Such&Such village in Luapula Province," you might hear, "but I was born in and have always lived in Lusaka." Here, where one comes from is determined by where one's family is, where they come from. I've been jealous of this all but assumed understanding of where you come from, the people and place that claim you. Those roots run deep, and I've interpreted this as having only rudimentary, shallow roots myself. But looking towards the wedding and talking with my mom about all of the family (both blood-related and not) that we'll see there - some of whom I haven't seen for years - I realize that although I may not have a secure "where are you from?" in the same way that Zambians do, I do have a strong network of "where can you go?" My roots may not be buried deep in the bedrock, but they branch out, extend far in many directions. The stability and security I feel in embracing that is beautiful. Makes it easier to swallow my confusion over my own home.
The past year has rushed by, much like the waterfalls that have played such a prominent role in it. I'm not done quite yet, but it's close enough that I can taste it in the air. Bittersweet. This year has been many sorts of wonderful that I'll tell you about when I'm actually done, but it's also been educational. So...
12 Things I've Learned in 12* Months
* almost. 11 1/2 months, stop being so particular.
Peace & Love
Elyse
I was heading home on that bus, after a fantastic vacation with Allyn, Michelle, and my mom (we fit in a safari, waterfalls, 3 countries, lots of market time, relaxing on a lake, and so much delicious food in 9 days. I love visitors). But with the end of my service looming and for sure being in Iowa late in August (someone has a wedding, I hear?), I've been tripping over the word 'home' as it tumbles out of my mouth. The location and delineation of home is slippery.
When you ask a Zambian where they come from, there's a slight hesitation, confusion over the question. "I come from Such&Such village in Luapula Province," you might hear, "but I was born in and have always lived in Lusaka." Here, where one comes from is determined by where one's family is, where they come from. I've been jealous of this all but assumed understanding of where you come from, the people and place that claim you. Those roots run deep, and I've interpreted this as having only rudimentary, shallow roots myself. But looking towards the wedding and talking with my mom about all of the family (both blood-related and not) that we'll see there - some of whom I haven't seen for years - I realize that although I may not have a secure "where are you from?" in the same way that Zambians do, I do have a strong network of "where can you go?" My roots may not be buried deep in the bedrock, but they branch out, extend far in many directions. The stability and security I feel in embracing that is beautiful. Makes it easier to swallow my confusion over my own home.
The past year has rushed by, much like the waterfalls that have played such a prominent role in it. I'm not done quite yet, but it's close enough that I can taste it in the air. Bittersweet. This year has been many sorts of wonderful that I'll tell you about when I'm actually done, but it's also been educational. So...
12 Things I've Learned in 12* Months
- Africa gets cold. Really.
- More than I ever expected to know about malaria.
- Wild animals may look adorable, but they're still wild. Proceed with caution.
- Learning local greetings will make people smile. Learning the language will impress them, earn their respect. Put some effort into it.
- How to use a smartphone. Those screens are tricky.
- Trainings are better when run in a local language, by local trainers
- Putting time, energy, and $$ into a place to make it your own is worth it, even if you'll only be there for 12 - 8 - 6 - however few months.
- Tourists, short term volunteers, and even missionaries have interesting experiences. Don't be so condesending and disregard them; listen to them and learn from them.
- Network. Just put on your big girl pants and do it.
- A hot shower is never going to get old.
- Don't look a baboon in the eye, and don't feed the monkeys. Just don't.
- Your mid-20's aren't going to look like your 18 year old self thought they would. And that's ok.
* almost. 11 1/2 months, stop being so particular.
Peace & Love
Elyse
June 3, 2013
Detachment
My life right now is full of loose ends and dirty laundry (in the literal sense). I've been busy as of late, between technical support and trainings during the week and plans on the weekends (and a visit from my dad in there!) and haven't really spent any time at home. So this weekend, I begged off of socializing and spent almost the entirety on my couch, eating nuts, cheese, and starburst. It was heavenly. And now I'm back on track, scheduling supervisions and browsing recipes (I think banana cream puffs are in order)
This past week found me in Siavonga, where all of the cell-phone induced headaches were forgiven with a glance out the window, slipping onto the deck to drink in the vista.
The poinsetta trees and unexpected zebras also helped.
After work, I sat on the balcony by the pool, enjoying the weather-induced goosebumps (it is fall here, after all) and casually watched kapenta boats float out for nighttime fishing.
The majority of my time was spent tinkering with smartphones that community health workers (CHWs) will take into the field (the purpose of the training, by-the-by, was preparing CHWs to do mass screen & treat campaigns for malaria). A good portion of my free time, however, was taken up by a blog post that had popped up on my facebook feed. The question posed is a short, simple one. It fit easily in my mouth, was comfortable being rolled around and chewed like gum. The question is thus: Am I an island? This is the kind of question that lurks under the surface, hazy ripples hidden in the weeds. It's easily camoflaged, neglected until an outside source points it out.
I've spent the last 8 days or so ruminating on this post. The question has inserted itself - rather emphaticallly - into my life, and I can't seem to kick it. Let me assure you (honestly assuring myself...) that I don't think I am an island; more-so, I'm struck by the ease of detachment.
The weekend before last, I was talking to a friend about his recent sojourn into the bush. Among other things, he spoke of looking forward to spending time with the local people there, really bonding and establishing connections. His excitement reverberated within me at the thought of immersing oneself in a community, remembering weaving together friendships in Feremuna, the way it felt when I realized Djelikat and Drissa were no longer strangers or babysitters, but family.
In the time that I was really working at a grassroots level, working with small, arguably insignificant groups (I would strongly argue that any group is significant, but that's for another day), I was so very, inextricably connected. There were long nights sitting around a fire, sipping tea, and drawn out afternoons shucking corn, beating millet, sweeping rice. These activities on their own are mundane, but they were done together, surrounded by laughter of friends and family. I think that was part of what I fell in love with out here -- in America, we're so self-focused, so independent so detached. In Africa (yep, sweeping generalization), I've found collectivist societies, lived and breathed what it means to negotiate privacy and personal space in order to embrace the undercurrent of being a part of something. Not that I'm good at letting go of privacy.
As I move forwards and upwards (hesitant use of the word), focus on a bigger picture, it becomes that much easier to detach. I am thrilled at my prospects, my heart beats with nervous anticipation at thoughts of the new future, of my own forward projection. But without a family, a village I claim roots to, it's simple to disconnect, to leave market interactions on an impersonal level, beg off social visits. It's been a relief, in some ways, to step back like this. But I was so easily reminded that by pushing myself into those situations, I learned so much more. Experiences were more vibrant, saturated with emotion.
Some time ago now, I wrote of asking the simple question "Can I come?" (3rd post in, if you're interested) more often, of finding myself remorseful that I didn't ask it more. At the time, I swore to myself to be more open to... well, everything. Really experience it. Something I failed to recognize - ignored, truly - is that this requires conscious attention and effort. So here's my recommitment to that attention, 'case I know putting in the energy will be more than worthwhile.
Unrelated, I loved this post being part of the Marine Corps and the Peace Corps.
Peace & Love
Elyse
This past week found me in Siavonga, where all of the cell-phone induced headaches were forgiven with a glance out the window, slipping onto the deck to drink in the vista.
The poinsetta trees and unexpected zebras also helped.
After work, I sat on the balcony by the pool, enjoying the weather-induced goosebumps (it is fall here, after all) and casually watched kapenta boats float out for nighttime fishing.
The majority of my time was spent tinkering with smartphones that community health workers (CHWs) will take into the field (the purpose of the training, by-the-by, was preparing CHWs to do mass screen & treat campaigns for malaria). A good portion of my free time, however, was taken up by a blog post that had popped up on my facebook feed. The question posed is a short, simple one. It fit easily in my mouth, was comfortable being rolled around and chewed like gum. The question is thus: Am I an island? This is the kind of question that lurks under the surface, hazy ripples hidden in the weeds. It's easily camoflaged, neglected until an outside source points it out.
I've spent the last 8 days or so ruminating on this post. The question has inserted itself - rather emphaticallly - into my life, and I can't seem to kick it. Let me assure you (honestly assuring myself...) that I don't think I am an island; more-so, I'm struck by the ease of detachment.
The weekend before last, I was talking to a friend about his recent sojourn into the bush. Among other things, he spoke of looking forward to spending time with the local people there, really bonding and establishing connections. His excitement reverberated within me at the thought of immersing oneself in a community, remembering weaving together friendships in Feremuna, the way it felt when I realized Djelikat and Drissa were no longer strangers or babysitters, but family.
In the time that I was really working at a grassroots level, working with small, arguably insignificant groups (I would strongly argue that any group is significant, but that's for another day), I was so very, inextricably connected. There were long nights sitting around a fire, sipping tea, and drawn out afternoons shucking corn, beating millet, sweeping rice. These activities on their own are mundane, but they were done together, surrounded by laughter of friends and family. I think that was part of what I fell in love with out here -- in America, we're so self-focused, so independent so detached. In Africa (yep, sweeping generalization), I've found collectivist societies, lived and breathed what it means to negotiate privacy and personal space in order to embrace the undercurrent of being a part of something. Not that I'm good at letting go of privacy.
As I move forwards and upwards (hesitant use of the word), focus on a bigger picture, it becomes that much easier to detach. I am thrilled at my prospects, my heart beats with nervous anticipation at thoughts of the new future, of my own forward projection. But without a family, a village I claim roots to, it's simple to disconnect, to leave market interactions on an impersonal level, beg off social visits. It's been a relief, in some ways, to step back like this. But I was so easily reminded that by pushing myself into those situations, I learned so much more. Experiences were more vibrant, saturated with emotion.
Some time ago now, I wrote of asking the simple question "Can I come?" (3rd post in, if you're interested) more often, of finding myself remorseful that I didn't ask it more. At the time, I swore to myself to be more open to... well, everything. Really experience it. Something I failed to recognize - ignored, truly - is that this requires conscious attention and effort. So here's my recommitment to that attention, 'case I know putting in the energy will be more than worthwhile.
Unrelated, I loved this post being part of the Marine Corps and the Peace Corps.
Peace & Love
Elyse
May 22, 2013
Full Circle
Near the beginning of my time in Zambia, I attended a training for Step 2 of MACEPA's program. During that first training, I sat to the side, wide-eyed and trying to pretend I knew what was going on. I didn't. There were a few ways I might have stepped in and helped out, except I was too shy/nervous/terrified to do so. This week, I'm at another training for Step 2 for the next round of test & treat campaigns. That first training, I couldn't have lead anything, answered any questions - truthfully, I was just as confused about the program and knew little more about malaria than the participants. I was just attending. Now, my role has more depth to it - I answer questions, help out with problems that arise, and (though not this specific training), lead sessions. The finish line is within my view now; looking back at that first training, it feels like I've come full circle in some small way.
There's a rhythm, a cadence to language here. In Mali, I was told I could speak Bambara not when I had mastered (ha) the vocab, the technicalities, but when my stories flowed in that rhythm. Similarly, when I was teaching, that same flow was necessary for real communication. My Bambara has a rhythm. It's a simple, toubab rhythm, but it's something. My English, in comparison, is erratic and rushed. I speak English like an American, fitting as many words as possible into a breath, smudging the consonants, mumbling and dropping sentence ends (a strong argument could be made that I mumble more than others...). When speaking to Zambians -- or to anyone with a different first language -- my words become more defined, stuccato. I've noticed this habit in many mzungus. Standing up to present at a training a couple of months ago, I reminded myself to speak as I would in Bambara, slow my words, turn a sentence into a conversation. My words, however, tumbled out as they always do. Not an easy habit to break. Speaking to a well-educated group, we continued with few hiccups. The idea of then training anyone who might have a more difficult time understanding me, however, made me hesitate.
What I'm getting around to, in a rather long-winded fashion, is the advantage of training locals to be the trainers. That educated group I was presenting to in February were district medical office staff being trained in the malaria elimination program as well as adult teaching methods. A few weeks later, I saw them in action. They spoke in both local languages and English, but in speaking they kept the audience engaged, followed some notes with examples, others with stories. All of their words flowed with the rhythm I lack. In a session I was leading, I invited one of the trainers to translate into Tonga for me. Short sentences turned into paragraphs, slight admonishments morphed into stories. I was humbled. Since that, the group of new trainers has been kept busy, cycling through trainings for Steps 2 & 3 of the program. With every training, they become more confident in their own knowledge of the material, take on more roles.
In training future trainers, the local workforce is empowered to take on responsibility for the malaria elimination program. It becomes a part of the expected workload, not something pushed on them by an outside force. They have a comprehensive understand the nuances of the steps, can answer a broad range of questions. Coming from within the community, they recognize issues that will develope, sections that need to be repeated, more easily than someone else. This knowledge can be exercised when they are leading trainings, of course, but also when they are back in their districts, informing others at the office or providing support to clinic and rural staff within their districts. Within the trainings themselves, participants are being educated by people that they know and relate to, they can make more sense out of what is taught, and they benefit from a stronger grasp on the material.
In Peace Corps, there's a saying that anyone can feed a man fish when he's hungry; what we're doing is teaching him how to fish. This can be turned into a full-blown story, but as we've already noted, I lean towards simplification. This is an aspect that has made me proud to be a member of Peace Corps for almost 3 years. In the last 10 months, I've found the same drive for generating knowledge rather than just raw materials, for passing on a program that will be sustained once the program creators have withdrawn, in people I'm working with in MACEPA. In short, things are going well.
--------------------------------------
Early last week, a couple of friends stayed at my house. One had been there months before and commented on how much more of a home my place had become. My father, visiting later in the week, made a similar comment, noting that I had amassed things to keep me living comfortably. Over the weekend, someone else mentioned that she'd be leaving a month before me and that before she leaves, I should come get the things she was leaving behind. These three moments got me thinking about one of the assumptions of Peace Corps volunteers. There's this idea that we live very sparsly, pack light, and have less interest in material things. Not true. Given the chance, any volunteer wants all of the things. A friend, for example, told me about a PCV who, after meeting with volunteers on their way out, ended up with a few bottles of soy sauce. She kept them all, not because maybe there's some recipe that will require a cup of soy sauce, but because we collect all of the things.
Considering my house last week, my blinders were lifted and I realized how much stuff I've collected over the last 10 months, often through hand-me-downs from leaving friends. I know that I don't need most of it, and there's much that I rarely use. The craziest part is that it's all so temporary. Little of it is going back to the states with me at the end of my service, something that I've known since day 1. Knowing this, I'd like to stop, to suppress the itch to collect and hoard. But if I'm honest with myself, I will stop by my friend's place and take the things she leaves behind next month (what if I need 3 bags of rice at short notice???). I console myself with the thought that these things won't go to waste, will soon be passed on to someone else, continuing the cycle.
--------------------------------------
I want to write something about my dad's visit while it's still fresh in my mind. I did not take hundreds of photos as I meant to, focused instead on staying in the moment, appreciating the time we had (maybe I forgot to take my camera everywhere...). If I pushed myself, I'm sure I could come up with a couple of paragraphs on how truly fantastic it is to have someone visit you during your Peace Corps service, go on about feelings, seeing the world, opening your mind. But sitting here, all that comes to mind is how wonderful it was to hug my dad. The rest will have to wait.
Couple of interesting things...
Taking steps to actually eliminating malaria in Zambia
Yet another reason I'm proud to be part of Peace Corps
Peace & Love
Elyse
There's a rhythm, a cadence to language here. In Mali, I was told I could speak Bambara not when I had mastered (ha) the vocab, the technicalities, but when my stories flowed in that rhythm. Similarly, when I was teaching, that same flow was necessary for real communication. My Bambara has a rhythm. It's a simple, toubab rhythm, but it's something. My English, in comparison, is erratic and rushed. I speak English like an American, fitting as many words as possible into a breath, smudging the consonants, mumbling and dropping sentence ends (a strong argument could be made that I mumble more than others...). When speaking to Zambians -- or to anyone with a different first language -- my words become more defined, stuccato. I've noticed this habit in many mzungus. Standing up to present at a training a couple of months ago, I reminded myself to speak as I would in Bambara, slow my words, turn a sentence into a conversation. My words, however, tumbled out as they always do. Not an easy habit to break. Speaking to a well-educated group, we continued with few hiccups. The idea of then training anyone who might have a more difficult time understanding me, however, made me hesitate.
What I'm getting around to, in a rather long-winded fashion, is the advantage of training locals to be the trainers. That educated group I was presenting to in February were district medical office staff being trained in the malaria elimination program as well as adult teaching methods. A few weeks later, I saw them in action. They spoke in both local languages and English, but in speaking they kept the audience engaged, followed some notes with examples, others with stories. All of their words flowed with the rhythm I lack. In a session I was leading, I invited one of the trainers to translate into Tonga for me. Short sentences turned into paragraphs, slight admonishments morphed into stories. I was humbled. Since that, the group of new trainers has been kept busy, cycling through trainings for Steps 2 & 3 of the program. With every training, they become more confident in their own knowledge of the material, take on more roles.
In training future trainers, the local workforce is empowered to take on responsibility for the malaria elimination program. It becomes a part of the expected workload, not something pushed on them by an outside force. They have a comprehensive understand the nuances of the steps, can answer a broad range of questions. Coming from within the community, they recognize issues that will develope, sections that need to be repeated, more easily than someone else. This knowledge can be exercised when they are leading trainings, of course, but also when they are back in their districts, informing others at the office or providing support to clinic and rural staff within their districts. Within the trainings themselves, participants are being educated by people that they know and relate to, they can make more sense out of what is taught, and they benefit from a stronger grasp on the material.
In Peace Corps, there's a saying that anyone can feed a man fish when he's hungry; what we're doing is teaching him how to fish. This can be turned into a full-blown story, but as we've already noted, I lean towards simplification. This is an aspect that has made me proud to be a member of Peace Corps for almost 3 years. In the last 10 months, I've found the same drive for generating knowledge rather than just raw materials, for passing on a program that will be sustained once the program creators have withdrawn, in people I'm working with in MACEPA. In short, things are going well.
--------------------------------------
Early last week, a couple of friends stayed at my house. One had been there months before and commented on how much more of a home my place had become. My father, visiting later in the week, made a similar comment, noting that I had amassed things to keep me living comfortably. Over the weekend, someone else mentioned that she'd be leaving a month before me and that before she leaves, I should come get the things she was leaving behind. These three moments got me thinking about one of the assumptions of Peace Corps volunteers. There's this idea that we live very sparsly, pack light, and have less interest in material things. Not true. Given the chance, any volunteer wants all of the things. A friend, for example, told me about a PCV who, after meeting with volunteers on their way out, ended up with a few bottles of soy sauce. She kept them all, not because maybe there's some recipe that will require a cup of soy sauce, but because we collect all of the things.
Considering my house last week, my blinders were lifted and I realized how much stuff I've collected over the last 10 months, often through hand-me-downs from leaving friends. I know that I don't need most of it, and there's much that I rarely use. The craziest part is that it's all so temporary. Little of it is going back to the states with me at the end of my service, something that I've known since day 1. Knowing this, I'd like to stop, to suppress the itch to collect and hoard. But if I'm honest with myself, I will stop by my friend's place and take the things she leaves behind next month (what if I need 3 bags of rice at short notice???). I console myself with the thought that these things won't go to waste, will soon be passed on to someone else, continuing the cycle.
--------------------------------------
I want to write something about my dad's visit while it's still fresh in my mind. I did not take hundreds of photos as I meant to, focused instead on staying in the moment, appreciating the time we had (maybe I forgot to take my camera everywhere...). If I pushed myself, I'm sure I could come up with a couple of paragraphs on how truly fantastic it is to have someone visit you during your Peace Corps service, go on about feelings, seeing the world, opening your mind. But sitting here, all that comes to mind is how wonderful it was to hug my dad. The rest will have to wait.
Couple of interesting things...
Taking steps to actually eliminating malaria in Zambia
Yet another reason I'm proud to be part of Peace Corps
Peace & Love
Elyse
May 15, 2013
Distraction
I grabbed my backpack out of the shared taxi and moved to get on the bus. The taxi driver blocked my way, insisting that it wasn't worth it, that we were really leaving this time. "Unless you can tell me we are leaving right now," I replied, "I'm getting on the bus."
"Yes, we're going to leave right now"
"RIGHT now??"
The hesitation ran across his face, "we're leaving very, very soon"
"Sorry, but I must leave now," I said, pushing past him and onto the bus that was already pulling away.
Settling in my seat, I found a movie playing directly above me. A South African slapstick comedy, it wasn't my genre but the screen still drew me in. Head craned, neck bent at an awkward angle, I missed the little girl in front of me as she got out of her seat and stood in the aisle. Suddenly, my feet felt like they were getting sprayed by something -- I looked down to find the child mid-stream. I pulled my legs up to the seat, thankful that I hadn't set my bag on the ground (a rule since sitting next to a man with a plastic bag leaking fish juice. That he so kindly pointed out 1/2 hour later). Trying to mask my disgust and keep my cool with my legs in the air, I texted a friend. "TIA," I said to her. The boys across from me giggled at my position. Karma, I thought to myself. Maybe next time I'll wait with the first driver I agree to.
--------------------
I've been checking my phone manically the last couple of days. Time - email - viber - facebook - time. Just in case something changes, something goes wrong, and someone decides to tell me. Because OHMYGOD my dad is coming to visit this week. Everyone knows. I'm not sure that they all care, but I've been telling them anyways. I've tried to do some work, opened up excel files and jotted down clinics in my little notebook, only to find myself sitting back down and looking at it all an hour later, wondering what I was trying to do and why I got up in the first place. But oh look there's my smartphone, time-email-viber-facebook-time. Nothing. And it still isn't Thursday.
I'm looking forward to a fresh set of eyes, to remember what this all looks like from a new perspective. My camera will be glued to my side for his entire stay so that I remember to take photos of things I no longer consider unusual, things I no longer notice. I am looking forward to showing him what my life is like, to showing off my home (first time my dad will be staying at a place that's "mine" and he had to fly across the world to see it). Mostly I'm looking forward to hugging him. Walking home this evening, I told myself to blog, felt like writing. Instead I'm scrolling through my tabs -- it's 9:15, no new emails, no new viber messages, no new facebook messages. And it still isn't Thursday. Clearly, any productivity will have to be postponed.
Peace & Love
Elyse
"Yes, we're going to leave right now"
"RIGHT now??"
The hesitation ran across his face, "we're leaving very, very soon"
"Sorry, but I must leave now," I said, pushing past him and onto the bus that was already pulling away.
Settling in my seat, I found a movie playing directly above me. A South African slapstick comedy, it wasn't my genre but the screen still drew me in. Head craned, neck bent at an awkward angle, I missed the little girl in front of me as she got out of her seat and stood in the aisle. Suddenly, my feet felt like they were getting sprayed by something -- I looked down to find the child mid-stream. I pulled my legs up to the seat, thankful that I hadn't set my bag on the ground (a rule since sitting next to a man with a plastic bag leaking fish juice. That he so kindly pointed out 1/2 hour later). Trying to mask my disgust and keep my cool with my legs in the air, I texted a friend. "TIA," I said to her. The boys across from me giggled at my position. Karma, I thought to myself. Maybe next time I'll wait with the first driver I agree to.
--------------------
I've been checking my phone manically the last couple of days. Time - email - viber - facebook - time. Just in case something changes, something goes wrong, and someone decides to tell me. Because OHMYGOD my dad is coming to visit this week. Everyone knows. I'm not sure that they all care, but I've been telling them anyways. I've tried to do some work, opened up excel files and jotted down clinics in my little notebook, only to find myself sitting back down and looking at it all an hour later, wondering what I was trying to do and why I got up in the first place. But oh look there's my smartphone, time-email-viber-facebook-time. Nothing. And it still isn't Thursday.
I'm looking forward to a fresh set of eyes, to remember what this all looks like from a new perspective. My camera will be glued to my side for his entire stay so that I remember to take photos of things I no longer consider unusual, things I no longer notice. I am looking forward to showing him what my life is like, to showing off my home (first time my dad will be staying at a place that's "mine" and he had to fly across the world to see it). Mostly I'm looking forward to hugging him. Walking home this evening, I told myself to blog, felt like writing. Instead I'm scrolling through my tabs -- it's 9:15, no new emails, no new viber messages, no new facebook messages. And it still isn't Thursday. Clearly, any productivity will have to be postponed.
Peace & Love
Elyse
May 3, 2013
On Mail and Making Friends
... Except me. I said that. I encouraged package sending while I was in Mali because, let's be honest, everyone loves to get a package. And it's that much better when you feel lonely and you're hating on your hut and you just want some gummy bears. But when getting ready to leave for Zambia, I told everyone not to bother, backed myself up with very rational excuses. My P.O. box was rarely given out, and I've gone the last 8 months content with my decision. There are grocery stores here, after all.
Until today. Sometime in March, my mom told me she'd put a small Easter package in the mail. I was perturbed. I whined about how long it would take, how difficult it would be to pick it up, how expensive it must have been.... What?! I plead temporary insanity. Today, I received said package. Nothing out of the ordinary... good candy, a small notebook, a nice smelling candle, and an Easter card that said "I love you." Reading that, munching on JellyBellys, I remembered that getting packages during my service was never really about what was inside (except for a few desperate cases), it was about reading a silly hallmark card and feeling the message, about knowing that someone went to the trouble of picking out those specific things and putting them together just. for. you. Those packages were reminders that I had people who believed in what I was doing when I didn't, reminders that I am loved. My mom, of course, knew that all along.
------------------------------------------
It's been a very, very long while. I have a backed up list of things to write about and no reason for not writing about them. Hopefully I'll soon flood this thing with those posts. For now I'll make due with some photos. Since the last time I was on here, I hopped over the border to stand on top of the world for a few days...
 |
| Dune 7. The streak of blue on the horizon (left side) is the ocean... |
 |
| On top of Big Daddy in Sossousvlei park |
and made some new friends.
Later in the month, World Malaria Day happened
 |
| There were also speeches but, honestly... |
 |
| the dancers were my & my camera's favorite. |
 |
| Adorableness repping Mama Safenite bednets |
And I saw a rainbow late at night
I've also been saying too many goodbyes. At the beginning of my time here, a friend spoke of what a Peace Corps friend of his called the beautiful sadness, or some such. When you lead a transient lifestyle, whether abroad or in your home country, you meet travelers of every kind. Tourists, backpackers, expats with intriguing scars and even more interesting stories. It's fun to find these people, exchange "this one time in ___" over a few beers. Moving through the stream of people, you are bound to find a few that you connect with on a different, indescribable level. You may have similar life goals, personal philosophies and insights, or maybe you just laugh constantly when you're together (those are my favorite). You find a kindred spark in someone else, and it's wonderful, beautiful. But, as at least one of you can't seem to just settle down, the time you have is always too brief as you each continue on where you're headed. Therein lies the sadness.
Sifting through memories of friends that I've made and let go in the last 3 years, people I've bonded with over weeks, months, years, I'm comforted by the idea that you never really say goodbye. You might not see each other for years, but - wandering as we do - your paths are bound to cross again. Maybe that's the beautiful part.
A few interesting things...
Even on a Peace Corps stipend, I'm still in the top 15% richest people in the world
UNICEF's new ad campaigns...
Great post by a journalist I met, Imani Cheers, on how we use cell phones in the fight against malaria in Zambia
Most importantly, making these made my week. It may not be hard-core Peace Corps, but I love having a kitchen.
Peace & Love
Elyse
March 22, 2013
20/20
Today marks one year. One year since my mother called me with rumors of gunfire in Bamako. One year since I left Feremuna and got on a bus, determined to go to my friend's birthday party in Sikasso, getting stuck in Koutiala. One year since everything changed.
I don't want to linger too long, go into too many details - I lack the words and still find myself too emotional for descriptions. Looking back, I wish I'd stayed in village those last few days when there was the chance. I wish I'd taken all of the pictures I was putting off until the end, given more gifts, given more hugs. If I'd done my big grant project - a well at the maternity - in my first year, I could've left that accomplishment, not abandoned plans. If I'd known, admitted what was happening the last time I was allowed to back (those of us in safe areas were sent home for a day before they announced the evacuation and we had to really leave), I would have spent the day visiting everyone I never seemed to visit enough. I would have stayed up all night talking with Djelicat and Drissa, would have bought them sacks of rice and beans. I would have told them all what they mean to me, how much I appreciate what they gave me. My hindsight is flawless.
I am thankful for where my life has brought me. In some ways, the coup changed my life for the better - without it, I would not have come to Zambia, wouldn't have all of these fantastic experiences that are forming the direction my life will take. Heavy price, though. I'm helping out with a training today, supervising I suppose. But my heart isn't in it, and I keep getting distracted by thoughts of my mango tree lined road. So many things can change in one year.
Peace & Love
Elyse
I don't want to linger too long, go into too many details - I lack the words and still find myself too emotional for descriptions. Looking back, I wish I'd stayed in village those last few days when there was the chance. I wish I'd taken all of the pictures I was putting off until the end, given more gifts, given more hugs. If I'd done my big grant project - a well at the maternity - in my first year, I could've left that accomplishment, not abandoned plans. If I'd known, admitted what was happening the last time I was allowed to back (those of us in safe areas were sent home for a day before they announced the evacuation and we had to really leave), I would have spent the day visiting everyone I never seemed to visit enough. I would have stayed up all night talking with Djelicat and Drissa, would have bought them sacks of rice and beans. I would have told them all what they mean to me, how much I appreciate what they gave me. My hindsight is flawless.
I am thankful for where my life has brought me. In some ways, the coup changed my life for the better - without it, I would not have come to Zambia, wouldn't have all of these fantastic experiences that are forming the direction my life will take. Heavy price, though. I'm helping out with a training today, supervising I suppose. But my heart isn't in it, and I keep getting distracted by thoughts of my mango tree lined road. So many things can change in one year.
Peace & Love
Elyse
March 12, 2013
Make Your Own Peace
I shuffle down the side of the road, loaded down with luggage for the week. Glancing behind to see a vehicle coming, I throw out my arm and flap my hand around, hoping for a ride. Free, preferably, but I'm not picky. 8 minutes in and no takers, 2 young girls join me. One wears a black T-shirt, the statement "No one in this city has swagger like me" splashed across the front in neon prints. It's wonderful. Not as good as the kitten shirt I saw an arrogant 20-something guy strutting around in a few weeks back, but close. I refrain from trying to buy it off her, instead make it a mission to buy my own.
We stop by the bus ticket booths, painted plywood shacks, only to be told they don't have any tickets. I wave goodbye to my 14 year old escorts and continue on, eventually catching a shared taxi. The car is a hatchback with the backseat rammed into the trunk so an extra 2 seats can be put in the middle. It's... snug. 50 kilometers down the way, I'm the only passenger left so I'm traded into a minibus that manages to turn a 2 hour drive into 4 hours. I spend the ride crammed into a 3 person seat with 3 other adults, 2 of them holding children; periodically there's an unspoken agreement between myself and a neighbor to shift so that one can lean backwards while the other forwards. There isn't room for all of our shoulders against the backrest. Getting off, I take a couple of minutes to walk, enjoying the feeling of stretching my legs, before grabbing a cab to my lodge. Drained from the travel, I almost cry when I set down my bags and fall onto the bed. Because there's a working shower, I will call this a good day.
-------------------
The last couple of weeks, my attention has been absorbed by a never-ending eye infection that I had to go see an opthamologist for, getting a new roommate (and giving her said eye infection... sorry, Carrie), and a water crisis in Kalomo (explanations on that will be coming). During that time, 2 important celebrations occured: Peace Corps Week, and International Women's Day.
Comfort is a woman in Belo, Cameroon. She runs her household and buys and sells food for local schools to support them. 1/2 way through our summer when we met her, Comfort saw a need in Ariel and I that neither of us knew we had. Once a week we'd go to her house -- often moody, verging on rude, and emotionally exhausted. We were drained, had nothing else to give. But we'd sit on her couch and she'd make us omlettes with fries. It was always just what I needed. Sometimes we chatted, but throughout the time we knew her, Comfort asked nothing of us, just wanted to give us some support. She's taught me, inspired me to be more generous.
Salimata is the first wife (of 4) in the family I lived with during homestay (my first few months) in Mali. She was the one who woke me up to make sure I got to school in time, oversaw my meals (and made sure it was all food a toubab's stomach could handle), made sure I bathed. Malians don't really hug, but she did, and she was good at it. She took me with her when she went out every so often - I think just to make sure I got out of the house enough. One of these trips was to a women's literacy class she was taking. 25 older women crammed in children's benches, carefully practicing the alphabet in their notebooks. On the day I left homestay, she painstakingly wrote down her name and phone number on a small piece of paper, then smiled at it, almost in wonder at her own handwriting. It was a beautiful moment. Salimata taught me to be more outspoken, gave me the understanding of how fortunate I am for my education.
Djelikat is my bamuso, my Malian mother. As a woman in rural Mali, she isn't in the best situation. She's constantly working, the home couldn't function without her, but she's considered beneath men. Her life is hard, will not ever become easy, but she doesn't ever quit. Djelikat has bad teeth. Like, really bad teeth. Her smile quickly became beautiful to me, but all of my visitors noticed her teeth. One day I brought a coconut home from market, and we were splitting it up after dinner. She took her little portion and shaved it on a plastic grater while I looked on, slightly confused. Seeing my face, she pointed to her mouth, grinning. "For my teeth!" she told me, "can't eat this with my teeth!" Then she laughed. Not awkward, fill-the-space western laughter, but a real laugh. Djelikat taught me to enjoy the little things, encouraged me to laugh at everything - including myself - whenever possible.
I don't know if I've told you this, but my mom is the shit. She came to Mali, she's coming to Zambia, and she supports me in all of my crazy ideas. 26 letters aren't enough to explain her, and there's no snapshot story to capture what she has given me and taught me in the last 24 years. She's worked hard and come a long way, and she gets to do something she's passionate about. She inspires me to strive for that passion. She's taught me to be thankful. She encourages me, inspires me to work hard and follow my dreams. She's my rock.
We stop by the bus ticket booths, painted plywood shacks, only to be told they don't have any tickets. I wave goodbye to my 14 year old escorts and continue on, eventually catching a shared taxi. The car is a hatchback with the backseat rammed into the trunk so an extra 2 seats can be put in the middle. It's... snug. 50 kilometers down the way, I'm the only passenger left so I'm traded into a minibus that manages to turn a 2 hour drive into 4 hours. I spend the ride crammed into a 3 person seat with 3 other adults, 2 of them holding children; periodically there's an unspoken agreement between myself and a neighbor to shift so that one can lean backwards while the other forwards. There isn't room for all of our shoulders against the backrest. Getting off, I take a couple of minutes to walk, enjoying the feeling of stretching my legs, before grabbing a cab to my lodge. Drained from the travel, I almost cry when I set down my bags and fall onto the bed. Because there's a working shower, I will call this a good day.
-------------------
The last couple of weeks, my attention has been absorbed by a never-ending eye infection that I had to go see an opthamologist for, getting a new roommate (and giving her said eye infection... sorry, Carrie), and a water crisis in Kalomo (explanations on that will be coming). During that time, 2 important celebrations occured: Peace Corps Week, and International Women's Day.
Peace Corps Volunteers, past and present, took a moment last week to celebrate the 2 years that helped define who they are. I found this old poster on the Peace Corps Tumblr. The words resonated within me, beat through my bloodstream and vibrated through my bones, reminding me. I am proud to be able to call myself a Peace Corps volunteer. It's a quite, understated pride. It isn't forceful, and it isn't something I need to explain or expect others to understand. What I've accomplished as a Peace Corps volunteer isn't easily put into words or numbers. It's hidden in the little moments - teaching a mother how to give her infant a food supplement, discussing proper waste management with a midwife, helping a 6th grader paint in the world, and - now - teaching a clinician how to send in data with a phone.
There are many reasons you shouldn't join Peace Corps, it's not for everybody. And I've come in contact with people who scorn what I will have soon given 3 years to, write it off as a bunch of hippies avoiding real life to party in foreign countries, a waste of money. I've learned to let these moments go, don't expect to get anything out of an argument. My numbers, when I do have any to show, are small. I have not and I am not changing the world, I am just one girl, just a drop in the ocean. Being in the Peace Corps, you get a better idea of how big the puzzle is, and how ever-so-small you are. So why do it? Because now when I meet another RPCV, it doesn't matter from where, there's a connection, there's respect. Because however small it is, you did add that drop to the ocean. You know it, and in a village no map knows the name of, there are people - however many or few - who appreciate what you've done.
-----
I agree with Melinda Gates (I often do) that International Women's Day can expose what still needs to be done and provide the opportunity to take action to empower women. That is why last Thursday as I got ready for bed, I set my alarm to get up and cheer on the women of Kalomo as they marched down the main street. But despite my good intentions, I woke up on Friday at 9:00 and didn't make it out of the house until afternoon. I agree with Melinda Gates that Women's Day can be a call for action, but I do also feel that it can be a celebration of women. So I celebrated by baking muffins.
Women's Day doesn't make me think of all of the great women of history, ones who've broken barriers and changed the lives of populations. Instead I think of all of the unknown women who are living out quiet lives around the world. Throughout the day last Friday, I imagined what would be happening in Feremuna, my home in Mali. The slow gathering of women dressed in complets of Women's Day fabric, the greetings, the gigantic bowls of food, and then the dancing. When the men aren't around, the women in my village can really cut a rug. A smile lingered on my lips throughout the day, thinking of the laughter in my village.
There have been many inspiring women in my life, I don't think I have the room to list them all or give them justice. Instead, I want to mention women in the last few years who've taken me in without a second thought. Without these women, I wouldn't be the woman I am today. They've taught me, among countless other things, strength.
Comfort is a woman in Belo, Cameroon. She runs her household and buys and sells food for local schools to support them. 1/2 way through our summer when we met her, Comfort saw a need in Ariel and I that neither of us knew we had. Once a week we'd go to her house -- often moody, verging on rude, and emotionally exhausted. We were drained, had nothing else to give. But we'd sit on her couch and she'd make us omlettes with fries. It was always just what I needed. Sometimes we chatted, but throughout the time we knew her, Comfort asked nothing of us, just wanted to give us some support. She's taught me, inspired me to be more generous.Salimata is the first wife (of 4) in the family I lived with during homestay (my first few months) in Mali. She was the one who woke me up to make sure I got to school in time, oversaw my meals (and made sure it was all food a toubab's stomach could handle), made sure I bathed. Malians don't really hug, but she did, and she was good at it. She took me with her when she went out every so often - I think just to make sure I got out of the house enough. One of these trips was to a women's literacy class she was taking. 25 older women crammed in children's benches, carefully practicing the alphabet in their notebooks. On the day I left homestay, she painstakingly wrote down her name and phone number on a small piece of paper, then smiled at it, almost in wonder at her own handwriting. It was a beautiful moment. Salimata taught me to be more outspoken, gave me the understanding of how fortunate I am for my education.Djelikat is my bamuso, my Malian mother. As a woman in rural Mali, she isn't in the best situation. She's constantly working, the home couldn't function without her, but she's considered beneath men. Her life is hard, will not ever become easy, but she doesn't ever quit. Djelikat has bad teeth. Like, really bad teeth. Her smile quickly became beautiful to me, but all of my visitors noticed her teeth. One day I brought a coconut home from market, and we were splitting it up after dinner. She took her little portion and shaved it on a plastic grater while I looked on, slightly confused. Seeing my face, she pointed to her mouth, grinning. "For my teeth!" she told me, "can't eat this with my teeth!" Then she laughed. Not awkward, fill-the-space western laughter, but a real laugh. Djelikat taught me to enjoy the little things, encouraged me to laugh at everything - including myself - whenever possible.I don't know if I've told you this, but my mom is the shit. She came to Mali, she's coming to Zambia, and she supports me in all of my crazy ideas. 26 letters aren't enough to explain her, and there's no snapshot story to capture what she has given me and taught me in the last 24 years. She's worked hard and come a long way, and she gets to do something she's passionate about. She inspires me to strive for that passion. She's taught me to be thankful. She encourages me, inspires me to work hard and follow my dreams. She's my rock.
And because we're talking about mothers,
Peace & Love
Elyse
February 20, 2013
The Basket Weaver
I've been meaning to write for weeks now, but inspiration has eluded me (and my writing goes downhill fast when lacking inspiration). But it seems to have hit all at once, so this may be a bit long. Work has kept me busy the last few weeks, helping out with a training of trainers (ToT) for a week and now with a qualitative study. This all has me traveling quite a bit; I'm currently conducting interviews in villages down in Southern Zambia, surrounded by lush mountains (mountains by Iowan standards, large hills by Alaskan). It's serene, picturesque. It also takes an hour to go 25 km on the road leading out here.
I began this blog post wanting to write something about a recent article I read on bad ideas in international aid. A few paragraphs in, however, I looked around my glass house and decided to put the whole thing aside. For now. Someday I'm sure I'll rant about reading another hero story.
Instead, I want to tell you about my afternoon. For the last few days, I've been passing by a little lean-to coming and going from my lodge, casually nodding to the owner and looking at the woven baskets he has hanging. This afternoon, my last day in town, I decided to go over and buy a basket that I really don't need.
I have a thing for woven baskets, it's turning into a collection. I promised myself to only get the smallest one but then there I was, haggling over a large grocery basket. After settling on the price, I asked if I could take his picture - he immediately stood up straight and gave me a huge grin, ready for his photo. After explaining that I had to go get my camera first, I quickly stopped by the lodge as he started in on the finishing touches.
Coming back, I took pictures as he wove the straps on. We chatted a bit - his name is Moses, he comes from the northern part of Zambia but ended up down here for work. He learned how to weave in school. Writing this, I realize that I was never meant to be a journalist. Too quiet, never enough questions. Moses asked me if his baskets could sell in America, if I could help make it happen. I came up with polite but non-committal responses and took some more photos.
After a bit, his friend came over to say hello. The sweet, earthy, definitely not tobacco smell of his cigarette wafted over. "Whatcha smoking there?" I asked, smirking. He grinned. "Want some?" I turned him down but he apparently decided I was cool enough, promising me a bracelet by tomorrow. That's about when Moses handed over my basket, and I paid him a little more than we'd settled on (he was just so nice). As I walked away, a man passing me in the street told me I had a nice basket. Maybe he was trying to get a rise out of the mzungu, but I responded with an enthusiastic 'thanks!' There isn't a point to this story, no lesson learned. Just a nice hour spent with a basket weaver.
---------------------------
I've perfected the bored pout, the distainful once-over claimed by women the world over. They're put to use at the bus station, waiting in lines, and walking through market. I check my outfit before going out in public in Kalomo, preparing for the stares and rude comments. I've taken notes, done my research. Jeans and a t-shirt, I'm greeted with "heyyyyyy mamahhh!" and men who step directly in my path, hips first. Slacks confuse the gamet of loitering men, and my ears are filled wtih a mix of 'mama!,' 'honey!', 'oh miss?' and 'excuse me.' Skirt and dress days (conservative, mind you) are the best. The looks could be categorized as glances, and it's all 'How are you miss?" and "Hello, madam." It's almost enough to make a girl throw out her jeans. But not quite.
I wonder at how normal this has become, that I can discreetly observe all of the men I'll walk by and, without stopping to calculate, know which will be trouble, which are harmless, and who I'll respond to. This all may have become blatantly obvious while living in Africa, but it's taken more than just 3 years to hone these skills. Waiting in line at the bank or the grocery store, I'm no longer surprised by the many men who smile and try to strike up conversation; the audacity of 16 year olds doing the same still leaves me slack-jawed. Days that I've put myself together, I can convince myself that it's something about me. But getting the same smiles and nods when I'm at my worst, I know it's not me, just my foreigner status.
---------------------------
Peace & Love
Elyse
I began this blog post wanting to write something about a recent article I read on bad ideas in international aid. A few paragraphs in, however, I looked around my glass house and decided to put the whole thing aside. For now. Someday I'm sure I'll rant about reading another hero story.
Instead, I want to tell you about my afternoon. For the last few days, I've been passing by a little lean-to coming and going from my lodge, casually nodding to the owner and looking at the woven baskets he has hanging. This afternoon, my last day in town, I decided to go over and buy a basket that I really don't need.
 |
| He also sells cigarettes, shake shake, and candy. Naturally. |
I have a thing for woven baskets, it's turning into a collection. I promised myself to only get the smallest one but then there I was, haggling over a large grocery basket. After settling on the price, I asked if I could take his picture - he immediately stood up straight and gave me a huge grin, ready for his photo. After explaining that I had to go get my camera first, I quickly stopped by the lodge as he started in on the finishing touches.
Coming back, I took pictures as he wove the straps on. We chatted a bit - his name is Moses, he comes from the northern part of Zambia but ended up down here for work. He learned how to weave in school. Writing this, I realize that I was never meant to be a journalist. Too quiet, never enough questions. Moses asked me if his baskets could sell in America, if I could help make it happen. I came up with polite but non-committal responses and took some more photos.
After a bit, his friend came over to say hello. The sweet, earthy, definitely not tobacco smell of his cigarette wafted over. "Whatcha smoking there?" I asked, smirking. He grinned. "Want some?" I turned him down but he apparently decided I was cool enough, promising me a bracelet by tomorrow. That's about when Moses handed over my basket, and I paid him a little more than we'd settled on (he was just so nice). As I walked away, a man passing me in the street told me I had a nice basket. Maybe he was trying to get a rise out of the mzungu, but I responded with an enthusiastic 'thanks!' There isn't a point to this story, no lesson learned. Just a nice hour spent with a basket weaver.
---------------------------
I've perfected the bored pout, the distainful once-over claimed by women the world over. They're put to use at the bus station, waiting in lines, and walking through market. I check my outfit before going out in public in Kalomo, preparing for the stares and rude comments. I've taken notes, done my research. Jeans and a t-shirt, I'm greeted with "heyyyyyy mamahhh!" and men who step directly in my path, hips first. Slacks confuse the gamet of loitering men, and my ears are filled wtih a mix of 'mama!,' 'honey!', 'oh miss?' and 'excuse me.' Skirt and dress days (conservative, mind you) are the best. The looks could be categorized as glances, and it's all 'How are you miss?" and "Hello, madam." It's almost enough to make a girl throw out her jeans. But not quite.
I wonder at how normal this has become, that I can discreetly observe all of the men I'll walk by and, without stopping to calculate, know which will be trouble, which are harmless, and who I'll respond to. This all may have become blatantly obvious while living in Africa, but it's taken more than just 3 years to hone these skills. Waiting in line at the bank or the grocery store, I'm no longer surprised by the many men who smile and try to strike up conversation; the audacity of 16 year olds doing the same still leaves me slack-jawed. Days that I've put myself together, I can convince myself that it's something about me. But getting the same smiles and nods when I'm at my worst, I know it's not me, just my foreigner status.
---------------------------
I don’t think I’ve told you yet, but I reuse my tinfoil. If
it can still be classified as clean, I’ll fold up a sheet of tinfoil to use
later; this type of thing has become routine for me. But when I was
home over Christmas, I started washing out a plastic container from some sort
of dip. The container was flimsy, lacking a lid. After a minute,
Travis was like, “…Elyse? What are you doing?” Followed by my mom and sister chipping
in with, “Oh honey, throw that away.”
It was embarrassing. I was reminded of it yesterday (a few
weeks ago, now that I’m actually posting this) when a stack of plastic
containers (with lids) collected from grocery store lunches over the week were thrown out by
the woman cleaning my room. I was pissed. I debated running after her,
demanding my containers back, but I resisted (something I’m regretting now).
Being in Peace Corps changes you in monumental ways. You become more confident,
more patient, more je-ne-sais-quoi. You will also most likely become a hoarder.
While in Mali, I came home from the city one day wearing a
new pair of flip flops. Upon showing them to Djelika, she asked what I did with
my old ones. My response was a simplified version of “Oh, those year old falling apart Old Navy flipflops? I gave
them to the woman who sold me these! They were broken. Useless.” Wagging her
finger at me, she admonished me, “next time, you bring those to me.” Peace
Corps and Africa have taught me that almost everything can be used again, that
throwing something out is often a waste. My trash in Mali consisted almost solely of thin plastic wrappers and broken bags – everything else was saved to become
something else. I then burned my trash, because if I gave it to my family to get
rid of, they’d pick through it. A week later I’d see a child licking
frantically at an old gummy bears wrapper.
But I digress.
I’ve decided to embrace the hoarder in me. It may mean that
I end up collecting useless old olive oil bottles (it’s a nice glass bottle, it
has to be useful somehow. I’m not about to throw away something that sturdy),
but it also means that I’m buying less and creating less waste. In America, it’s
easy to forget about your waste – how much of it there is, and that all of that trash has to eventually go somewhere. Like so many, many things in the land of
plenty, out of sight, out of mind. Here, my garbage is collected in a corner of
the compound yard to be burned. I may not need the old yogurt and peanut butter
containers, but I feel better filling them with leftovers than tossing them in
the burn pile.
I want to note that this, like the rest of my blog, is not intended to come from any sort of soapbox, it's just something that I've been thinking about recently. And that container I was washing back in the states? It really needed to be thrown out. You've gotta draw the line somewhere.
Peace & Love
Elyse
January 17, 2013
On Trust & the New Year
Mid-December, I started on a rather long journey back to Iowa for the holidays. After a quick stop in London, I headed back to Iowa and was greeted by a blizzard.
This is (obviously) after the snow happened. I was too busy freaking out to take pictures during the actual blizzarding. But that's neither here nor there.
At the end of my vacation, I made a quick stop at Knox to give a talk on my Peace Corps service, spanning my experiences in both Mali and Zambia. I like to think that the whole thing went rather well. Towards the end, it was brought up that returned PCVs often say they gained more from the experience than they ever gave, and I was asked my own opinion on what I've gained from my time with Peace Corps. To be honest, the question threw me.
As I believe I've mentioned here, I do feel that I have learned more about myself, the world, and life, than I could ever reciprocate during my time here. But how do you put that in tangible terms? I faltered, stumbling along "I learned patience and... uh... listening..." before shrugging and saying that I learned a lot. Not my best moment.
During my return trip, while navigating London, waiting for 5 hours on an emergency landing in Crete, and then especially when getting to Lusaka, I realized something I forgot in my mangled response: trust. Trust in the universe that everything will work out, even if the way it settles isn't the way you expected, and trust in strangers and our shared humanity.
Lusaka and Bamako have a seemingly similar public transport system. The minibuses, really just giant vans with too many seats, pick you up either at designated pull over spots, or just on the side of the road. Along with the driver, there is a man working the bus - he hangs out the side and yells where that minibus is headed, ushers you in, haggles the fare, and makes sure you get off at the correct spot (in Mali these men are called the prend-tigi, but I have no idea what they're called here. I call them boss). Though similar to the way any bus system works, this whole thing can be intimidating. There aren't signs, maps, nor machines asking you for your exact change - just a few crazed men in your face hustling you to get in RIGHT NOW. In Bamako, a taxi was rarely more than about $3, so I just avoided the minibuses. In Lusaka, average taxi fare is $ 6-8, also known as more than I want to pay. So, minibus, here we go.
I rarely find a minibus going directly where I need to be. As I am not in Lusaka enough to have mastered the details of this rather complicated system, I just tell the boss where I'm going and he decides if he can help me get where I need to go. Then I'm dropped off at different places and other strangers guide me to the next bus. It's all very pressed and urgent; I think I get a rush from the whole ordeal. This last time around, my friend Carrie and I were going to InterCity, the major (big) bus station. I told the boss and he said where he'd let us off - after 3 attempts I was too embarrassed to admit I hadn't the faintest what he was saying. He let us off at one of the main switching places, and we were fairly sure that we were close enough to walk. But no idea how or where.
While asking some very unhelpful drivers, some random guy says, "InterCity? I'm going there; come on, I'll take you." After an exhaustive 3-second background check (Does he look crazy? Nope. Is he clean/well dressed? Yes. Nice briefcase. Is he creepy? Not really.), we followed the guy. "It's quickest to just go straight, I know the shortcut," he said as we started off. While exchanging plesantries and talking about the upcoming AFCON, he lead us between buildings, through a hole in a fence, and across some traintracks. 5-10 minutes later, there we were at the bus station. We thanked him and exchanged emails. Stopping to think about the whole situation, I can see how it might seem strange from an outside perspective. But here, it's normal. Why wouldn't some random person help us get where we're going? Why would the guys running the busses take me to the wrong stop? I'm not saying that I don't keep an eye on my surroundings, assess the situation, but trusting people to be helpful, and trusting that things will work out, it does pay off. And, as a bonus, you're reminded that people are kind. Makes you feel pretty good inside.
----------------------------------
The world has changed in my absence. The bits of earth that can be seen are darker, richer, ranging from clay reds to coffee-tan sands as we drive; most of it is covered in a rainbow of lush green. Everything feels alive, the air seems to pulse with a collective heartbeat. Crisscrossing short-cut paths I knew a month ago have turned into a maze of mud and streams, surrounded by grasses almost as tall as me. The idea of taking one step to the side and becoming invisible, enveloped by the thriving grasses, is somehow a comfort.
My own return has a similar entrance. I'm not changed, per say, but refreshed, invigorated. I've always found New Years resolutions an amusing concept - this idea that we have new beginnings and can reinvent ourselves year after year. But, even as few people stick to their resolutions, there must be something to it, some reason we all keep trying. So, resolutions in hand, here's to 2013 - to doing all I can in the next 6 1/2 months here and to whatever comes next.
----------------------------------
I'm compelled to take a moment for Mali.
My family and friends, down in southern Mali, are thankfully safe and far from the fighting, but many Malians are in a different, extremely difficult, and scary situation. Words, at the moment, are failing me. Instead I would like to share a few really helpful links on the conflict:
The Basics
Bridges from Bamako (well-written, informative blog on Mali in general, as well as the current situation)
And, because this should end on an up-note, let's talk about music in Mali
Please keep the people of Mali in your thoughts.
Peace & Love
Elyse
This is (obviously) after the snow happened. I was too busy freaking out to take pictures during the actual blizzarding. But that's neither here nor there.
At the end of my vacation, I made a quick stop at Knox to give a talk on my Peace Corps service, spanning my experiences in both Mali and Zambia. I like to think that the whole thing went rather well. Towards the end, it was brought up that returned PCVs often say they gained more from the experience than they ever gave, and I was asked my own opinion on what I've gained from my time with Peace Corps. To be honest, the question threw me.
 |
| If you zoom in (can you zoom in?), this is what my face looks like when a question throws me. |
As I believe I've mentioned here, I do feel that I have learned more about myself, the world, and life, than I could ever reciprocate during my time here. But how do you put that in tangible terms? I faltered, stumbling along "I learned patience and... uh... listening..." before shrugging and saying that I learned a lot. Not my best moment.
During my return trip, while navigating London, waiting for 5 hours on an emergency landing in Crete, and then especially when getting to Lusaka, I realized something I forgot in my mangled response: trust. Trust in the universe that everything will work out, even if the way it settles isn't the way you expected, and trust in strangers and our shared humanity.
Lusaka and Bamako have a seemingly similar public transport system. The minibuses, really just giant vans with too many seats, pick you up either at designated pull over spots, or just on the side of the road. Along with the driver, there is a man working the bus - he hangs out the side and yells where that minibus is headed, ushers you in, haggles the fare, and makes sure you get off at the correct spot (in Mali these men are called the prend-tigi, but I have no idea what they're called here. I call them boss). Though similar to the way any bus system works, this whole thing can be intimidating. There aren't signs, maps, nor machines asking you for your exact change - just a few crazed men in your face hustling you to get in RIGHT NOW. In Bamako, a taxi was rarely more than about $3, so I just avoided the minibuses. In Lusaka, average taxi fare is $ 6-8, also known as more than I want to pay. So, minibus, here we go.
I rarely find a minibus going directly where I need to be. As I am not in Lusaka enough to have mastered the details of this rather complicated system, I just tell the boss where I'm going and he decides if he can help me get where I need to go. Then I'm dropped off at different places and other strangers guide me to the next bus. It's all very pressed and urgent; I think I get a rush from the whole ordeal. This last time around, my friend Carrie and I were going to InterCity, the major (big) bus station. I told the boss and he said where he'd let us off - after 3 attempts I was too embarrassed to admit I hadn't the faintest what he was saying. He let us off at one of the main switching places, and we were fairly sure that we were close enough to walk. But no idea how or where.
While asking some very unhelpful drivers, some random guy says, "InterCity? I'm going there; come on, I'll take you." After an exhaustive 3-second background check (Does he look crazy? Nope. Is he clean/well dressed? Yes. Nice briefcase. Is he creepy? Not really.), we followed the guy. "It's quickest to just go straight, I know the shortcut," he said as we started off. While exchanging plesantries and talking about the upcoming AFCON, he lead us between buildings, through a hole in a fence, and across some traintracks. 5-10 minutes later, there we were at the bus station. We thanked him and exchanged emails. Stopping to think about the whole situation, I can see how it might seem strange from an outside perspective. But here, it's normal. Why wouldn't some random person help us get where we're going? Why would the guys running the busses take me to the wrong stop? I'm not saying that I don't keep an eye on my surroundings, assess the situation, but trusting people to be helpful, and trusting that things will work out, it does pay off. And, as a bonus, you're reminded that people are kind. Makes you feel pretty good inside.
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The world has changed in my absence. The bits of earth that can be seen are darker, richer, ranging from clay reds to coffee-tan sands as we drive; most of it is covered in a rainbow of lush green. Everything feels alive, the air seems to pulse with a collective heartbeat. Crisscrossing short-cut paths I knew a month ago have turned into a maze of mud and streams, surrounded by grasses almost as tall as me. The idea of taking one step to the side and becoming invisible, enveloped by the thriving grasses, is somehow a comfort.
My own return has a similar entrance. I'm not changed, per say, but refreshed, invigorated. I've always found New Years resolutions an amusing concept - this idea that we have new beginnings and can reinvent ourselves year after year. But, even as few people stick to their resolutions, there must be something to it, some reason we all keep trying. So, resolutions in hand, here's to 2013 - to doing all I can in the next 6 1/2 months here and to whatever comes next.
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I'm compelled to take a moment for Mali.
My family and friends, down in southern Mali, are thankfully safe and far from the fighting, but many Malians are in a different, extremely difficult, and scary situation. Words, at the moment, are failing me. Instead I would like to share a few really helpful links on the conflict:
The Basics
Bridges from Bamako (well-written, informative blog on Mali in general, as well as the current situation)
And, because this should end on an up-note, let's talk about music in Mali
Please keep the people of Mali in your thoughts.
Peace & Love
Elyse
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