Hey all,
So I recognize that the last few entries were negative, and have received a few emails about it. It was a bad week, and I had trouble keeping my sense of humor about things. Life is much better now, I just have to remember to laugh. Like when you're on your way somewhere important, and every time your car stops, they have to push it to get it started again, and every time they need to open the door, they just lift it off the car...the whole process takes extra long to get passengers out, but if I keep the right mood, it tickles me every time. The Gambia is great.
You know what else is great? The moon. The moon is positively spectacular lately.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
"Ouch! My Penis Hurts!"
Know whats even more fun than having a ceremony to name your baby? Having a ceremony to circumcise one. It was ridiculous!
So today I went to two post-circumcision parties in my area, and it was a crazy time!! Both these ceremonies were for boys, I have yet to see one for girls, and don’t know how those celebrations differ.
Anyhoo. I’m told that boys are meant to be taken to “the bush” for circumcision in their early teens, but I’d say these kids averaged age eight(one was only two). The boys in a community are gathered and sequestered in a compound for two to three weeks. During this time they are circumcised and taught to be men. An important character to mention during this tradition is the “kankoran.” He is a man dressed head-to-toe in strips of bark and he carries two machetes. His job is to keep the boys sequestered from any females or uncircumcised males during their time in the bush. So during the weeks the boys are gone, he is going around the village, chasing women away with his machetes and yelling. I don’t think he’d hurt me, but I run just the same, I don’t want to test it. At the end of this time away, the community holds a big party for the boys, which is what I attended.
On the morning of the boys’ return, all their female relatives got all dressed up in rags, face paint, beads, and necklaces made from candy and cookies, and went around town dancing, singing, and generally carrying on. Then for most of the rest of the day, people were cooking, dancing, and waiting for the boys. Then, around dusk, the boys all arrived back. They were draped head to foot in cloth, such that you couldn’t tell who was who, all seated on a mat. The large group who had gathered by that time all formed a circle around the boys, with a group of drummers in the middle. One by one, each boy was uncovered and brought to the center of the circle where he had to dance. People threw money and candy, and sometimes went to pick the boy up to carry him around. These kids were terrified. Overall, it was a long day of dancing. While at the party, lots of women’s clubs wearing their asobi (matchy-matchy clothing) and were having what looked like West Side Story-style dance-offs. Except with less finger-snapping, more ass-shaking. It was way fun.
So today I went to two post-circumcision parties in my area, and it was a crazy time!! Both these ceremonies were for boys, I have yet to see one for girls, and don’t know how those celebrations differ.
Anyhoo. I’m told that boys are meant to be taken to “the bush” for circumcision in their early teens, but I’d say these kids averaged age eight(one was only two). The boys in a community are gathered and sequestered in a compound for two to three weeks. During this time they are circumcised and taught to be men. An important character to mention during this tradition is the “kankoran.” He is a man dressed head-to-toe in strips of bark and he carries two machetes. His job is to keep the boys sequestered from any females or uncircumcised males during their time in the bush. So during the weeks the boys are gone, he is going around the village, chasing women away with his machetes and yelling. I don’t think he’d hurt me, but I run just the same, I don’t want to test it. At the end of this time away, the community holds a big party for the boys, which is what I attended.
On the morning of the boys’ return, all their female relatives got all dressed up in rags, face paint, beads, and necklaces made from candy and cookies, and went around town dancing, singing, and generally carrying on. Then for most of the rest of the day, people were cooking, dancing, and waiting for the boys. Then, around dusk, the boys all arrived back. They were draped head to foot in cloth, such that you couldn’t tell who was who, all seated on a mat. The large group who had gathered by that time all formed a circle around the boys, with a group of drummers in the middle. One by one, each boy was uncovered and brought to the center of the circle where he had to dance. People threw money and candy, and sometimes went to pick the boy up to carry him around. These kids were terrified. Overall, it was a long day of dancing. While at the party, lots of women’s clubs wearing their asobi (matchy-matchy clothing) and were having what looked like West Side Story-style dance-offs. Except with less finger-snapping, more ass-shaking. It was way fun.
I hear its nice to be nice
So a long time ago I promised an entry on bumsters. Now is as good a time as any.
Bumsters are young men in the Gambia who hang around looking to be picked up by, usually older, European or American women. They spend most of their time walking up and down the beaches, doing ridiculous “exercises.” Yes, they’re usually ripped but that’s from working on the farm, not doing their weird moves.
Anyhoo. Bumsters approach women on the beaches, or really anywhere in the Kombos, and strike up conversations. They are extremely persistent. “Hey boss lady” is a common opener. As is “hey nice lady,” “hey, nice baby,” or “what’s your nice name?” or just “its nice to be nice.” Their hope is to pick up a boss lady who will pay them for their services, or if they’re lucky, take them back to toubabodu (America or Europe).
Now, I recognize that this system wouldn’t be there if it didn’t work, sometimes. I have definitely seen it in action--older women in their little short shorts, walking around with a Gambian man thirty years their junior. While we were in training village up in Kiang, a bumster brought his 55-year-old girlfriend home around Tobaski. She was around the village, dressed totally inappropriately, holding his hand (also not culturally appropriate) and it just looked silly. And I try not to judge. But really, how is that not prostitution?
On top of it, prostitution or not, it just makes my day rough. Even men who are not bumsters by profession still buy into the culture. The assumptions about white women are still there. Sometimes, the unsolicited flirtation is just too much. Men in positions of power are the worst, policemen, etc. The cheesy smiles, the catcalls, the “Where are you from, beautiful lady?” Really now, why are you calling out, over two lanes of traffic to try and greet me? Why aren’t you greeting all the other women on the street? If I don’t answer, they’re not like “Whoa, I was harassing that woman, that’s why she ignored me.” its more like, “how dare she? I was just trying to talk to her, she must be racist.” When I do answer, it just turns into “Where do you live? When can I come see you? Do you have a boyfriend in the Gambia? I’ll come see you tomorrow, would you like that?” Do I tell them where I live, and thereby gain some street credit for not being a tourist, but also run the risk of them coming to see me? I tell them I’m married, but lying and saying that he’s here is too big a lie to keep up, and in a culture where extra-marital affairs are pretty common, its not much of a deterrent. And damnit, if I even stop to have this conversation, they’ve won. They’ve got my attention. And they always find a reason to touch me, even though by the rules of Islam, they’re not supposed to.* There’s not an age limit either. Some ten-year-olds are certified creepers. Even some men that I’ve been working with, and thought that I had a very professional relationship with, have suddenly turned creepy out of nowhere, which is very disappointing.
Its hard, I don’t want to hate on men, most of my friends at home are men. And I can’t very well be a successful Peace Corps Volunteer if I ignore half the population. My host father is great. My host brother is really nice, and has never once been creepy to me. Some of the men I work with are downright wonderful. When I’ve got the patience for it, and a man hasn’t been too offensive yet, sometimes I’ll stop to talk, and we’ll talk about why I don’t like being catcalled, why its rude, and those are some of the best conversations I’ve ever made time for, however I‘m never sure if I‘ve made a dent or not. Other days I just don’t have the patience, or they ask me who is going to keep me warm when the cold seasons comes. This being West Africa and all, when the “cold” comes, I think I’ll somehow manage.
*speaking of touching me, the Tickle Finger (aka the Icky Finger). Its when a man, while shaking your hand in greeting (also not ok by Muslim rules, but plenty do), uses his index finger to tickle my palm. Its gross. It means he wants to sleep with you, and its hella creepy.
Nothing puts the peace in Peace Corps quite like gritting your teeth to stop yourself from spitting insults. Men of The Gambia, I’m not your boss lady. Its not nice to be nice, sometimes its nice to be an asshole.
Bumsters are young men in the Gambia who hang around looking to be picked up by, usually older, European or American women. They spend most of their time walking up and down the beaches, doing ridiculous “exercises.” Yes, they’re usually ripped but that’s from working on the farm, not doing their weird moves.
Anyhoo. Bumsters approach women on the beaches, or really anywhere in the Kombos, and strike up conversations. They are extremely persistent. “Hey boss lady” is a common opener. As is “hey nice lady,” “hey, nice baby,” or “what’s your nice name?” or just “its nice to be nice.” Their hope is to pick up a boss lady who will pay them for their services, or if they’re lucky, take them back to toubabodu (America or Europe).
Now, I recognize that this system wouldn’t be there if it didn’t work, sometimes. I have definitely seen it in action--older women in their little short shorts, walking around with a Gambian man thirty years their junior. While we were in training village up in Kiang, a bumster brought his 55-year-old girlfriend home around Tobaski. She was around the village, dressed totally inappropriately, holding his hand (also not culturally appropriate) and it just looked silly. And I try not to judge. But really, how is that not prostitution?
On top of it, prostitution or not, it just makes my day rough. Even men who are not bumsters by profession still buy into the culture. The assumptions about white women are still there. Sometimes, the unsolicited flirtation is just too much. Men in positions of power are the worst, policemen, etc. The cheesy smiles, the catcalls, the “Where are you from, beautiful lady?” Really now, why are you calling out, over two lanes of traffic to try and greet me? Why aren’t you greeting all the other women on the street? If I don’t answer, they’re not like “Whoa, I was harassing that woman, that’s why she ignored me.” its more like, “how dare she? I was just trying to talk to her, she must be racist.” When I do answer, it just turns into “Where do you live? When can I come see you? Do you have a boyfriend in the Gambia? I’ll come see you tomorrow, would you like that?” Do I tell them where I live, and thereby gain some street credit for not being a tourist, but also run the risk of them coming to see me? I tell them I’m married, but lying and saying that he’s here is too big a lie to keep up, and in a culture where extra-marital affairs are pretty common, its not much of a deterrent. And damnit, if I even stop to have this conversation, they’ve won. They’ve got my attention. And they always find a reason to touch me, even though by the rules of Islam, they’re not supposed to.* There’s not an age limit either. Some ten-year-olds are certified creepers. Even some men that I’ve been working with, and thought that I had a very professional relationship with, have suddenly turned creepy out of nowhere, which is very disappointing.
Its hard, I don’t want to hate on men, most of my friends at home are men. And I can’t very well be a successful Peace Corps Volunteer if I ignore half the population. My host father is great. My host brother is really nice, and has never once been creepy to me. Some of the men I work with are downright wonderful. When I’ve got the patience for it, and a man hasn’t been too offensive yet, sometimes I’ll stop to talk, and we’ll talk about why I don’t like being catcalled, why its rude, and those are some of the best conversations I’ve ever made time for, however I‘m never sure if I‘ve made a dent or not. Other days I just don’t have the patience, or they ask me who is going to keep me warm when the cold seasons comes. This being West Africa and all, when the “cold” comes, I think I’ll somehow manage.
*speaking of touching me, the Tickle Finger (aka the Icky Finger). Its when a man, while shaking your hand in greeting (also not ok by Muslim rules, but plenty do), uses his index finger to tickle my palm. Its gross. It means he wants to sleep with you, and its hella creepy.
Nothing puts the peace in Peace Corps quite like gritting your teeth to stop yourself from spitting insults. Men of The Gambia, I’m not your boss lady. Its not nice to be nice, sometimes its nice to be an asshole.
Magic
So today I was riding my bike back from a nearby village, when I came across a man coming out of the bush carrying a live owl by the wing. It was an odd sight, so I pulled over to greetgreetgreet and “What have you got there?” The man brought me to his house and explained that he was a marabout (Traditional healer of sorts, see earlier entry), then showed me all his marabout accoutrements--sticks, leaves, shells, ink, etc--for making jujus. I then asked again what he planned to do with the owl. He explained that the owl was a devil who had been sent by a person to steal the good health of children in the village. He had been in the bush collecting things for making jujus when he saw the owl, had called out to it, and it had come down. Then the man cut its wings so that it couldn‘t fly. This owl was a dangerous thing, but because he was wearing such strong jujus he would be safe. Then he began yelling at the owl (in Jola, unfortunately, so I don’t know what he was saying), sounding almost like a mother scolding a child, and a crowd gathered. Whenever the owl fluffed himself up, or postured with his wings, everyone gasped and stepped back. Another man stepped up to yell at the owl, in mixed English and Jola like this “Jolajolajola F*ck you! You awful thing we kill you! Jolajolajola!” (actually the F word is more common here than I would have guessed, but it doesn’t seem to carry the same weight). When I asked again what their plan was with the owl, he said that he would kill it to protect the village, and within three days, the man who sent it would also die. But we’re going to taunt it first? Awesome guys.
I did say that I didn’t think the owl was dangerous, of course they disagreed. I did consider trying to take the owl home, but not having any training in how to care for this injured wild animal, not to mention I own a cat, decided it might be better if they would just kill it. I did feel sad about it though. I’ve talked with a lot of people about magical beliefs versus scientific explanations, and it strikes me that they use the same tone of language that I use when talking about cultural differences (Gambians see knees and thighs as very sexual, but think that breasts are no big deal. Toubabs feel the opposite. Cultural difference.), and perhaps on some level, they’re right.
When talking about why women hide their pregnancies, and why its rude for me to ask when a mother is due to give birth, I was told that if a woman openly acknowledges her pregnancy, she is worried that she may be cursed by someone, and she will lose the baby. This woman told me that while toubabs believe that a body loses the baby through medical reasons and science, and Africans believe that it is black magic curses, just a cultural difference. And this person is fairly well educated, such that she at least knew what the medical perspective on miscarriage is. Do I know all my body’s minute intracellular functions? No, I know things on a more macro level, and if I need to know more I know where to look for this information, and what sort of sources to trust. I know that there are a variety of reasons a body may miscarry, and that none of them are black magic. Why do I “know” these things? I was told from a very young age to trust the doctors around me, and that there is a scientific answer for everything. Cultural difference. Maybe we do just believe in a different type of magic, I just trust that someone somewhere can prove what I believe. They probably believe the same. I’m not trying to be judgmental here, everyone is a product of their environment, and the President of Gambia claims to cure HIV/AIDS through witchcraft, what are people supposed to think? I’m pretty sure a similar phenomenon exists in the States right now, only its God who makes all these things happen and that’s all any of us need to know.
This happens in other areas as well, even when its not a medical issue, more just a practice which I would like to discourage. Toubabs believe in having only few children, we believe “a person must suffer.” The toubabs believe in not burning everything in our fields at the end of the season, but we Africans have always done that, so that is what we will do. Sometimes when I make a suggestion, or at least try to begin a dialogue, I’m told “Toubab, this is none of your business.”
So the difficulty is, the burden of proof is on me if I‘m to educate people about healthy practices and choices. Even people who have been to school and heard the scientific explanations still carry some traditional beliefs. But I feel like the detailed medical explanation for things is often too long and over people’s heads, and even if I could show these processes in all their cellular detail, I’m not sure I would be believed, but my only other answer for these explanations is “It just is!” which is in itself no more concrete than explaining that I’m sick because an owl devil took my good health.
I did say that I didn’t think the owl was dangerous, of course they disagreed. I did consider trying to take the owl home, but not having any training in how to care for this injured wild animal, not to mention I own a cat, decided it might be better if they would just kill it. I did feel sad about it though. I’ve talked with a lot of people about magical beliefs versus scientific explanations, and it strikes me that they use the same tone of language that I use when talking about cultural differences (Gambians see knees and thighs as very sexual, but think that breasts are no big deal. Toubabs feel the opposite. Cultural difference.), and perhaps on some level, they’re right.
When talking about why women hide their pregnancies, and why its rude for me to ask when a mother is due to give birth, I was told that if a woman openly acknowledges her pregnancy, she is worried that she may be cursed by someone, and she will lose the baby. This woman told me that while toubabs believe that a body loses the baby through medical reasons and science, and Africans believe that it is black magic curses, just a cultural difference. And this person is fairly well educated, such that she at least knew what the medical perspective on miscarriage is. Do I know all my body’s minute intracellular functions? No, I know things on a more macro level, and if I need to know more I know where to look for this information, and what sort of sources to trust. I know that there are a variety of reasons a body may miscarry, and that none of them are black magic. Why do I “know” these things? I was told from a very young age to trust the doctors around me, and that there is a scientific answer for everything. Cultural difference. Maybe we do just believe in a different type of magic, I just trust that someone somewhere can prove what I believe. They probably believe the same. I’m not trying to be judgmental here, everyone is a product of their environment, and the President of Gambia claims to cure HIV/AIDS through witchcraft, what are people supposed to think? I’m pretty sure a similar phenomenon exists in the States right now, only its God who makes all these things happen and that’s all any of us need to know.
This happens in other areas as well, even when its not a medical issue, more just a practice which I would like to discourage. Toubabs believe in having only few children, we believe “a person must suffer.” The toubabs believe in not burning everything in our fields at the end of the season, but we Africans have always done that, so that is what we will do. Sometimes when I make a suggestion, or at least try to begin a dialogue, I’m told “Toubab, this is none of your business.”
So the difficulty is, the burden of proof is on me if I‘m to educate people about healthy practices and choices. Even people who have been to school and heard the scientific explanations still carry some traditional beliefs. But I feel like the detailed medical explanation for things is often too long and over people’s heads, and even if I could show these processes in all their cellular detail, I’m not sure I would be believed, but my only other answer for these explanations is “It just is!” which is in itself no more concrete than explaining that I’m sick because an owl devil took my good health.
Its too hot here. Its too hot to garden. Its too hot to sleep. Its too hot to walk across the street to talk to the neighbors, because you’ll have to be out of the shade and in direct sunlight for about 12 seconds. Its too hot to wear clothes. Its too hot to lay naked face-down on the concrete floor of your house because its too hot to do anything else. Its too hot.
City Folks
Hey, know what I noticed? City people are jerks. Seriously. Mostly men, from my experience, maybe kids too. But I definitely had to get out of the Kombo area to understand.
Lately, I’ve been put off a little bit by people. For example, we were taught when we got here to begin social interactions with the Arabic “Salaamalekum” (“Peace be with You”), then proceed with other greetings, and that’s definitely how Gambians do it. But lately, I’ve had more than a few people challenge me on it. Like, I’ll get into a taxi, and I’ll greet the driver and other passengers with “Salaamalekum”, and sometimes someone will ask “Are you Muslim?” or “Do you pray?” (which I’ve noticed means the same thing to them). And when I reply no, they proceed to tell me that wishing someone peace in this way is for Muslims only. Really guys? I’m in your country for two years, trying to help with development, and you can’t wish me peace? Of all the things that don’t cost you anything, peace would just be a nice thing to wish someone. It wouldn’t hurt my feelings so much if my Gambian, Muslim language teachers hadn’t encouraged us to use this greeting. I’m not trying to upset someone’s religion. Sometimes I try to argue, saying that everyone likes peace, so I’m going to wish it. This infidel is wishing you all peace, whether you want it or not.
I’ve also had a couple of people challenging me on language while in town. Like, if I start speaking in Mandinka, some guy just turned to me to say “You’re trying to speak Mandinka, but you cannot.” By that point, I hadn’t even messed up yet. He then proceeded to tell me in Mandinka that I can’t hear Mandinka clearly, because I’m just a toubab. Thanks dude. I understood what you just said. I replied accordingly. I came to your country, and thought it might be nice to try to learn the language. I bet it didn’t take you only six months to learn English. It just sounds to me like my friends up-country don’t have this problem.
Also, there is just more bumster-type men hanging around in the city. I’m always the boss lady, first lady, nice lady, with the nice name, and its impossible to live your life without being hit up by a man. My least favorite is a group of twenty-somethings, all leaning against a wall, drinking attaya, and they catcall with a very demanding, “girl, come here!” (that’s the translation, but for some reason it sounds more rude when its “naa bang!”) Guys, I know that wall won’t hold itself up without you, and while you’re performing that public service you might as well drink some tea, but jeez, I’ve got stuff to do.
But in the surrounding villages? People are so much nicer! I rode my bike up to a little village north of where I am. On the way I got lost, and asked a man for directions. He rode with me almost all the way (along a tiny dirt path over hills and through people’s back yards), then pointed me down the last part of my ride. Then, not only did he not say “toubab, give me your bike” he prayed out loud asking Allah to give me peace on the road. (to which I replied by tapping my forehead and saying “Ameen!”) Thanks, dude, I hope so too! And same to you! And when I got to the village I was going to, there was no toubabing from the kids! No bumster-like behavior!
I’m glad for many reasons that I live in an urban area, fresh fruit and vegetables, internet, reliable phone service, always lots of things going on. But when I get out and away from all that crap, I think I could sort of dig the small-town life.
Lately, I’ve been put off a little bit by people. For example, we were taught when we got here to begin social interactions with the Arabic “Salaamalekum” (“Peace be with You”), then proceed with other greetings, and that’s definitely how Gambians do it. But lately, I’ve had more than a few people challenge me on it. Like, I’ll get into a taxi, and I’ll greet the driver and other passengers with “Salaamalekum”, and sometimes someone will ask “Are you Muslim?” or “Do you pray?” (which I’ve noticed means the same thing to them). And when I reply no, they proceed to tell me that wishing someone peace in this way is for Muslims only. Really guys? I’m in your country for two years, trying to help with development, and you can’t wish me peace? Of all the things that don’t cost you anything, peace would just be a nice thing to wish someone. It wouldn’t hurt my feelings so much if my Gambian, Muslim language teachers hadn’t encouraged us to use this greeting. I’m not trying to upset someone’s religion. Sometimes I try to argue, saying that everyone likes peace, so I’m going to wish it. This infidel is wishing you all peace, whether you want it or not.
I’ve also had a couple of people challenging me on language while in town. Like, if I start speaking in Mandinka, some guy just turned to me to say “You’re trying to speak Mandinka, but you cannot.” By that point, I hadn’t even messed up yet. He then proceeded to tell me in Mandinka that I can’t hear Mandinka clearly, because I’m just a toubab. Thanks dude. I understood what you just said. I replied accordingly. I came to your country, and thought it might be nice to try to learn the language. I bet it didn’t take you only six months to learn English. It just sounds to me like my friends up-country don’t have this problem.
Also, there is just more bumster-type men hanging around in the city. I’m always the boss lady, first lady, nice lady, with the nice name, and its impossible to live your life without being hit up by a man. My least favorite is a group of twenty-somethings, all leaning against a wall, drinking attaya, and they catcall with a very demanding, “girl, come here!” (that’s the translation, but for some reason it sounds more rude when its “naa bang!”) Guys, I know that wall won’t hold itself up without you, and while you’re performing that public service you might as well drink some tea, but jeez, I’ve got stuff to do.
But in the surrounding villages? People are so much nicer! I rode my bike up to a little village north of where I am. On the way I got lost, and asked a man for directions. He rode with me almost all the way (along a tiny dirt path over hills and through people’s back yards), then pointed me down the last part of my ride. Then, not only did he not say “toubab, give me your bike” he prayed out loud asking Allah to give me peace on the road. (to which I replied by tapping my forehead and saying “Ameen!”) Thanks, dude, I hope so too! And same to you! And when I got to the village I was going to, there was no toubabing from the kids! No bumster-like behavior!
I’m glad for many reasons that I live in an urban area, fresh fruit and vegetables, internet, reliable phone service, always lots of things going on. But when I get out and away from all that crap, I think I could sort of dig the small-town life.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
So its never too early to worry about going home
Hey, so I’ve been here about six months now (Actually, my whole training group has, we haven’t lost anyone. Isn’t that great?), and I still love it. Which leads me to think about going home, and what that might mean.
Day to day, I’m really happy here. Downright joyful sometimes. And on the days that I’m not quite so elated, I’m at least physically and mentally engaged such that I’m never bored. That being said, I’m remembering when I was home, I was pretty happy, most of the time. But there were times when I very much had a feeling of “now what?” plaguing me. These feelings were a big part of me deciding to join the Peace Corps. Don’t get me wrong, I liked my job enough, and wanted to advance. In fact I was positive at the time that I was meant to be a teacher (maybe I still will, later on). I liked my friends. I liked my living situation. But I didn’t feel this ALIVE, and now that I have, I wonder if I could go back to doing what I was doing and feel content. Maybe I’m one of those fabulously lucky people who can always find a way to be happy wherever she is. Maybe I can totally go back to the life I was living, make it mine again, and it will be great. Or maybe now that I’ve felt this free, I can’t. I don’t know.
Which begs the question, what do I love so much about being here? Mostly it stems from feeling that I am fully in charge of my life, and what I get to do day to day. If I think that something is a good idea, I do it. If it doesn’t, I don’t. I get to choose. And what is really nice, is that I get paid either way, so its not a financial risk like making a business work and being my own boss. I like that my job is often just enjoying people, or as Pastor Dave likes to say “loving on them.” I get to chat with people, laugh with them, dance with them, ask them questions about themselves. If I’m in a position to help someone, then I do. I get to be a big sister to about 30 kids in the neighborhood. That’s my job. Try to find that in the States. its not there.
I also feel a lot more confident in myself and much stronger now than I have in the last few years. I’m more accepting of personal short-comings, both my own and other people’s. I don’t WORRY about things nearly so much, and am a lot more content to just let life happen, doing what I can and leaving the rest to the universe. I feel a lot more creative now than I have had time to feel in the last few years. All said, I think this means I need a job where I am my own boss, or at least have a whole lot of freedom and leeway in my activities, time schedule, work-related goals. and i'm not sure how to find that, exactly.
Its not that I don’t miss Toubabodu (“Land of the toubabs”), there are plenty of things that I miss--Friends and family, jeans that fit and don’t hang off my skinny butt, turkey sandwiches on sliced wheat bread with tomato, lettuce, cheddar cheese, mayo and yellow mustard…..and my skin not looking like crap, to name a few. But honestly I don’t want to go home right now. Or soon. (or ever?) No need to worry yet, this is just stuff I’ve been pondering lately.
Or perhaps I’m just crazy on Mephloquin. Some people get vivid dreams from their malaria meds, maybe I get delusions of grandeur. And if that’s the case, I’m never going off it. ;-)
Day to day, I’m really happy here. Downright joyful sometimes. And on the days that I’m not quite so elated, I’m at least physically and mentally engaged such that I’m never bored. That being said, I’m remembering when I was home, I was pretty happy, most of the time. But there were times when I very much had a feeling of “now what?” plaguing me. These feelings were a big part of me deciding to join the Peace Corps. Don’t get me wrong, I liked my job enough, and wanted to advance. In fact I was positive at the time that I was meant to be a teacher (maybe I still will, later on). I liked my friends. I liked my living situation. But I didn’t feel this ALIVE, and now that I have, I wonder if I could go back to doing what I was doing and feel content. Maybe I’m one of those fabulously lucky people who can always find a way to be happy wherever she is. Maybe I can totally go back to the life I was living, make it mine again, and it will be great. Or maybe now that I’ve felt this free, I can’t. I don’t know.
Which begs the question, what do I love so much about being here? Mostly it stems from feeling that I am fully in charge of my life, and what I get to do day to day. If I think that something is a good idea, I do it. If it doesn’t, I don’t. I get to choose. And what is really nice, is that I get paid either way, so its not a financial risk like making a business work and being my own boss. I like that my job is often just enjoying people, or as Pastor Dave likes to say “loving on them.” I get to chat with people, laugh with them, dance with them, ask them questions about themselves. If I’m in a position to help someone, then I do. I get to be a big sister to about 30 kids in the neighborhood. That’s my job. Try to find that in the States. its not there.
I also feel a lot more confident in myself and much stronger now than I have in the last few years. I’m more accepting of personal short-comings, both my own and other people’s. I don’t WORRY about things nearly so much, and am a lot more content to just let life happen, doing what I can and leaving the rest to the universe. I feel a lot more creative now than I have had time to feel in the last few years. All said, I think this means I need a job where I am my own boss, or at least have a whole lot of freedom and leeway in my activities, time schedule, work-related goals. and i'm not sure how to find that, exactly.
Its not that I don’t miss Toubabodu (“Land of the toubabs”), there are plenty of things that I miss--Friends and family, jeans that fit and don’t hang off my skinny butt, turkey sandwiches on sliced wheat bread with tomato, lettuce, cheddar cheese, mayo and yellow mustard…..and my skin not looking like crap, to name a few. But honestly I don’t want to go home right now. Or soon. (or ever?) No need to worry yet, this is just stuff I’ve been pondering lately.
Or perhaps I’m just crazy on Mephloquin. Some people get vivid dreams from their malaria meds, maybe I get delusions of grandeur. And if that’s the case, I’m never going off it. ;-)
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