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.
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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.
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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
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