In America, the fight for gender equality has become a subtle fight where probably most Americans feel that the big war is over and now we are just trying to fine tune it. I never feel like a second class citizen just because I am female, and I rarely feel that I am treated differently than males. America's history for the fight for gender equality has created a day where females take it for granted that we are equal to men.
In Guinea and Burkina Faso, there has not been the fight for gender equality. Instead the conditions are being prepared for a future war. Women and men are not equal. Men have power, status, education and the leisure to relax and play. Women are second class citizens who do most of the work with little recognition, have babies, and struggle every minute of their lives to please the men, to keep their children alive, and to keep themselves from drowning in the poverty of West Africa.
As the visiting foreigner, I felt like a third gender. I was female but I had power, status, education, and the leisure to relax and play. I was not seen as a second class female citizen, but as a gender closer to males and was treated as such. Being on the top of the hierarchy, I didn't ever really personally feel that I was being treated differently just because I was female. As a daughter of the American fight for equality, I of course noticed the gender inequalities.
If I had been married, it would have been a different story, and I would have personally felt the gender inequality. I would have been ignored while my husband was acknowledged. Messages would have been passed to me by way of the male of the household even if it had nothing to do with him. He would have been asked to fight my fights, to solve my problems, to be the leader of the pair as I just sit quietly and look pretty.
In China where I see road and construction crews with a noticeable female worker presence, I wonder what is the status of gender equality in China? Did the increase of female employment during the Mao era create gender equality? One of Chairman Mao's sayings was "Women hold up half the sky."
Okay so I hold up half the sky; therefore, treat me as an equal. It is here in China where I have personally felt the inequality of being female. At a wedding of a personal friend who we have known for over a year, neither I nor my sitemate were asked to give a speech. Instead, the newly arrived American male foreigner who worked at the bride's father's school was asked to say some words. He had only arrived three days ago and had never even met the bride.
Another time that I felt the effects of gender inequality was at a restaurant. There were three of us, one American male, and two American females where one of them, me looks Chinese. The waiter come up to our table and started giving us a speech. No, let me rephrase that, the waiter instead of talking to the table and talking to everyone, turned and faced directly towards our American male and proceeded to explain something to him in Chinese. Maybe the waiter incorrectly assumed that our male companion had amazing Chinese language skills. Maybe the waiter didn't notice the Chinese American girl who is always assumed to speak Chinese. Or maybe gender inequality is still strongly alive in China.
One could assume that in China there is a push towards equality. Girls are educated as boys are. Women work and there is a claim of equal pay. There is an idea that women can do work that men do. But the true answer I believe is in the day to day interactions between males and females. Males are acknowledged and females are ignored. Males still have the higher status and females have very little.
Every country has its problems with gender inequality and I can only hope that we continue the fight, continue educating, continue thinking and acknowledging the problems. Change does happen. Sometimes it takes living in another country to realize just how lucky I am to be female living in America and how thankful I should be towards those women and men who fought in the war for gender equality.
Showing posts with label lifestyle in Guinea. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lifestyle in Guinea. Show all posts
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Contemplating in a Cold Flat
It has been a day full of learning how to do a new knitting technique because my sweater vest is too short. As I sit here ripping out, catching stitches, and fixing dropped ones, a few thoughts have been passing through my mind:
I wonder how much cell phones cost in the USA. I never had one stateside except when my mother gave me one for a few months since I was in Alabama before moving to Africa. I would have never had one in Africa or in China except a friend gave me one. That friend sure does supply me with a lot of electronics that I would never bought for myself: ipod, laptop, digital camera, wolverine, Solaris. (I had a cheap film camera that I left behind when I evacuated out of Guinea. That was a stupid idea not bringing a digital camera to Africa, but I was trying to be frugal and not a target for thieves.)
I wonder if knitting is like meditating. I am reading eat, pray, love by Elizabeth Gilbert. It has kind of inspired me to start meditating again. I wonder if trying to meditate will be easy or a challenge. Is knitting a type of meditation that will make sitting for 20-30 minutes observing my breath easier?
I wonder if Peace Corps would pay for a month home leave if I decided to stay one more year in China and do a fourth year. I have already had one month home leave for the third year transfer to China. I really want to come home and know sort of that it is important to maybe start making money, but there are times when I feel like WOW, I am really part of this community.
One more thought:
One of the biggest pieces of advice veteran volunteers give newbies is "Leave your house, flat, or compound at least once a day. Do not hole up there!"
In Africa, I found this to be easy. There were places to explore, cooler trees to sit under, tea to drink, and well the compound can get awfully boring with only books, music, paper and chores to entertain you with.
I do remember one time sitting at my desk in Guinea debating whether or not to go buy some freshly killed cow. I was a newbie scared to bargain, scared of not knowing how to choose which part and how much of the cow to point to, scared to look like a rich foreigner who can afford meat. When I finally got the nerve, the meat was all gone.
In China, holing up in one's apartment is kind of easy. Outside is cold and rainy. Inside is warm and full of electronic stimuli. As a veteran, I don't hole up in my flat, but it sure does seem like I spend a lot of time in there.
Today I had a Chinese lesson, judged a speech competition, ate in the cafeteria, and had a tea party with some students, American cookies with Chinese tea. I think in China because I have electricity the days are just longer and one has plenty of time to step out of the flat as well as spend a lot of time in the flat. Last night I didn't go to bed until 3 am.
I wonder how much cell phones cost in the USA. I never had one stateside except when my mother gave me one for a few months since I was in Alabama before moving to Africa. I would have never had one in Africa or in China except a friend gave me one. That friend sure does supply me with a lot of electronics that I would never bought for myself: ipod, laptop, digital camera, wolverine, Solaris. (I had a cheap film camera that I left behind when I evacuated out of Guinea. That was a stupid idea not bringing a digital camera to Africa, but I was trying to be frugal and not a target for thieves.)
I wonder if knitting is like meditating. I am reading eat, pray, love by Elizabeth Gilbert. It has kind of inspired me to start meditating again. I wonder if trying to meditate will be easy or a challenge. Is knitting a type of meditation that will make sitting for 20-30 minutes observing my breath easier?
I wonder if Peace Corps would pay for a month home leave if I decided to stay one more year in China and do a fourth year. I have already had one month home leave for the third year transfer to China. I really want to come home and know sort of that it is important to maybe start making money, but there are times when I feel like WOW, I am really part of this community.
One more thought:
One of the biggest pieces of advice veteran volunteers give newbies is "Leave your house, flat, or compound at least once a day. Do not hole up there!"
In Africa, I found this to be easy. There were places to explore, cooler trees to sit under, tea to drink, and well the compound can get awfully boring with only books, music, paper and chores to entertain you with.
I do remember one time sitting at my desk in Guinea debating whether or not to go buy some freshly killed cow. I was a newbie scared to bargain, scared of not knowing how to choose which part and how much of the cow to point to, scared to look like a rich foreigner who can afford meat. When I finally got the nerve, the meat was all gone.
In China, holing up in one's apartment is kind of easy. Outside is cold and rainy. Inside is warm and full of electronic stimuli. As a veteran, I don't hole up in my flat, but it sure does seem like I spend a lot of time in there.
Today I had a Chinese lesson, judged a speech competition, ate in the cafeteria, and had a tea party with some students, American cookies with Chinese tea. I think in China because I have electricity the days are just longer and one has plenty of time to step out of the flat as well as spend a lot of time in the flat. Last night I didn't go to bed until 3 am.
Friday, October 09, 2009
I love Africa but
instead of doing a third year, I left. I would have loved to do a third year, but the mosquitoes drove me out of the country. Every mosquito bite turned into a staph infection and I ended up with nasty quarter size and sometimes larger black scars. Lucky for me my legs didn't end up as bad as some volunteers' polka dotted legs.
Sometimes during the summer my legs and feet would be covered with band aids and a huge number of flies would land on each covered sore. It was gross.
I could have stayed in Africa if I had been willing to wear pants, socks, and shoes, but it was so hot. Plus have you ever tried to pee in an empty field with your butt exposed to the world? Skirts were practical pieces of clothing, easy to go to the bathroom in, easy to create a bit of privacy in a country with few bushes and trees, easy to hide from the bush taxi eyes as they followed the foreigner who has to pee, easy to be modest and create a bit of respect from the Muslim men.
Lucky for me I moved to Gansu, a dry desert where the mosquitoes are few.
However, last week I went to Chengdu for the national holiday and mid-autumn's day. In that wet humid climate, a city filled with water canals, and a teahouse culture where you sit by the water drinking tall glasses of chrysanthemum and green tea for hours at a time, the mosquitoes attacked.
PS. Have you heard Peace Corps Guinea volunteers are being moved out of the country again? Remember when that happened to me?
Sometimes during the summer my legs and feet would be covered with band aids and a huge number of flies would land on each covered sore. It was gross.
I could have stayed in Africa if I had been willing to wear pants, socks, and shoes, but it was so hot. Plus have you ever tried to pee in an empty field with your butt exposed to the world? Skirts were practical pieces of clothing, easy to go to the bathroom in, easy to create a bit of privacy in a country with few bushes and trees, easy to hide from the bush taxi eyes as they followed the foreigner who has to pee, easy to be modest and create a bit of respect from the Muslim men.
Lucky for me I moved to Gansu, a dry desert where the mosquitoes are few.
However, last week I went to Chengdu for the national holiday and mid-autumn's day. In that wet humid climate, a city filled with water canals, and a teahouse culture where you sit by the water drinking tall glasses of chrysanthemum and green tea for hours at a time, the mosquitoes attacked.
PS. Have you heard Peace Corps Guinea volunteers are being moved out of the country again? Remember when that happened to me?
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Did living in Africa, change the way I do things?
When I first moved to China, I was still wearing African fashions, the big airy shirts that add a couple of pounds and that allow the skin to breathe under the hot sun. I was still wearing a lot of skirts and was not feeling really comfortable wearing form fitting pants. Plus they were hot and skirts were more practical for squat toilets.
Nowadays though, I live in a part of China where the weather is cold. 
Pants and long underwear are necessary. I have given up my desire to be Little House on the Prairie modest in long ankle length skirts and have adopted the more practical fashion of pants. I am still not very comfortable in tight jeans; although, lately I have been wearing them and have gotten used to them again.
In Africa, laundry was done by hand, two buckets, one with soapy water and one with clean water for rinsing. In China, I have a washing machine that uses electricity to agitate the soapy water, spin one way, spin the other. One must manually add water and drain the water. There is a spinner that is like a scientific centrifuge that spins out water while stretching out your clothes. I still do part of the wash the African way. I use a bucket to rinse out the soap and use muscle to squeeze out the water.
In Africa, I did not have a refrigerator. I would sometimes put leftovers i
n a clay cannery to keep the food cold. If it smelled all right and didn't have a slimy texture, I might eat it for breakfast.
In China, I have a refrigerator, but haven't figured out how to fill it. My fridge right now is completely empty. In a city, where I can eat out, three meals for $3 a day, I don't cook much and even if I did, I'd probably walk to the supermarket once a day like the locals do. For some reason, vegetables don't keep very well in fridges. They get slimy by the next day.
So did living in Africa change the way I live life or do things?
Not really.
What changes the way I do things, is what is available in the country in which I'm living. In Africa, I wore skirts, cooked small individual sized meals, and washed my clothes by hand. In China, I use the washing machine. I eat out and shop for food like the locals. I wear pants.
When I return to the states, I will probably start using a dryer unless I am living in the countryside. I will probably cook with an oven and drive a car unless I am in a bike friendly city.
Living abroad has taught me that I adapt. I don't hang onto my old ways, but follow the ways of the place I am living. Will I adopt the wasteful ways of the US? I hope not, but my track record of adopting a particular country's ways tells a different story.
Nowadays though, I live in a part of China where the weather is cold. 
Pants and long underwear are necessary. I have given up my desire to be Little House on the Prairie modest in long ankle length skirts and have adopted the more practical fashion of pants. I am still not very comfortable in tight jeans; although, lately I have been wearing them and have gotten used to them again.
In Africa, laundry was done by hand, two buckets, one with soapy water and one with clean water for rinsing. In China, I have a washing machine that uses electricity to agitate the soapy water, spin one way, spin the other. One must manually add water and drain the water. There is a spinner that is like a scientific centrifuge that spins out water while stretching out your clothes. I still do part of the wash the African way. I use a bucket to rinse out the soap and use muscle to squeeze out the water.In Africa, I did not have a refrigerator. I would sometimes put leftovers i
n a clay cannery to keep the food cold. If it smelled all right and didn't have a slimy texture, I might eat it for breakfast.In China, I have a refrigerator, but haven't figured out how to fill it. My fridge right now is completely empty. In a city, where I can eat out, three meals for $3 a day, I don't cook much and even if I did, I'd probably walk to the supermarket once a day like the locals do. For some reason, vegetables don't keep very well in fridges. They get slimy by the next day.
So did living in Africa change the way I live life or do things?
Not really.
What changes the way I do things, is what is available in the country in which I'm living. In Africa, I wore skirts, cooked small individual sized meals, and washed my clothes by hand. In China, I use the washing machine. I eat out and shop for food like the locals. I wear pants.
When I return to the states, I will probably start using a dryer unless I am living in the countryside. I will probably cook with an oven and drive a car unless I am in a bike friendly city.
Living abroad has taught me that I adapt. I don't hang onto my old ways, but follow the ways of the place I am living. Will I adopt the wasteful ways of the US? I hope not, but my track record of adopting a particular country's ways tells a different story.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
December 11
My village in Burkina has a lot more than my village in Guinea: rice ladies, a daily taxi to Ouaga, many people who'll take your portrait for a fee, a catholic and protestant church, stores stacked high of goods, an ambulance, a cell tower, a dance club, fridges and freezers run on a bottle of gas, a movie shack.
My village in Guinea had oranges and avocados galore, a water faucet right outside my door, freshly baked French bread, and two kids who sold a table full of goods for their parents.
My Burkina village has a lot more amenities. It is a bigger village. Just like how a city has a certain coldness due to the number of strangers, my Burkina village has a certain coldness. Just like how it is harder to make friends, to find community in a big city, I also find this difficulty in my Burkina village.
My Guinea village was small and I was quickly absorbed into the community becoming an active participant, trekking 5 km by foot to attend funerals and fetes.
Sunday my Burkina village left for a big fete in a neighboring village. No one told me.
My village in Guinea had oranges and avocados galore, a water faucet right outside my door, freshly baked French bread, and two kids who sold a table full of goods for their parents.
My Burkina village has a lot more amenities. It is a bigger village. Just like how a city has a certain coldness due to the number of strangers, my Burkina village has a certain coldness. Just like how it is harder to make friends, to find community in a big city, I also find this difficulty in my Burkina village.
My Guinea village was small and I was quickly absorbed into the community becoming an active participant, trekking 5 km by foot to attend funerals and fetes.
Sunday my Burkina village left for a big fete in a neighboring village. No one told me.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Where do I live?
Tuesday January 23
My village has two parts: the village and the center of town.
The village is a huge area where most everyone lives. The area is surrounded by a man-made fence to keep livestock out. It takes about 20 minutes to walk from one end to the other. It is a wooded area with lots of huts, cassava gardens, orange trees, bamboo groves, avocado and mango trees. The mosque is in the village towering over the trees.
In the center of town, there is a huge tree, a small mosque, and a couple of concrete buildings where a tailor stores his machine, where rice, flour, and other goods are stored. Here there aren’t many trees. It is mostly wide open land with concrete houses on plots of land surrounded by fences to keep the sheep out. There is a football field. Both the middle school and the elementary school are here. Here we have pump water powered by solar panels. In the village, they have wells. The well-groomed dirt road passes through this part of the village.
Sometimes I wish I lived in the village under cool trees, in a mud hut; however, I am also quite happy living in the center of town with my close by running water.
My village has two parts: the village and the center of town.
The village is a huge area where most everyone lives. The area is surrounded by a man-made fence to keep livestock out. It takes about 20 minutes to walk from one end to the other. It is a wooded area with lots of huts, cassava gardens, orange trees, bamboo groves, avocado and mango trees. The mosque is in the village towering over the trees.
In the center of town, there is a huge tree, a small mosque, and a couple of concrete buildings where a tailor stores his machine, where rice, flour, and other goods are stored. Here there aren’t many trees. It is mostly wide open land with concrete houses on plots of land surrounded by fences to keep the sheep out. There is a football field. Both the middle school and the elementary school are here. Here we have pump water powered by solar panels. In the village, they have wells. The well-groomed dirt road passes through this part of the village.
Sometimes I wish I lived in the village under cool trees, in a mud hut; however, I am also quite happy living in the center of town with my close by running water.
The Boring Village
Monday 22 January
It is day 13 of nationwide strikes. Give up your Presidential power is the cry. As I was riding the5 km to use the nearby radio to check in with Peace Corps, I thought, I have seen my village. I have tasted its food. I have sat through its ceremonies, its deaths, it births, its religious rituals. I have experienced its generosity and hospitality. I have shopped in its market. I have played with its children and talked with its old. I have experienced a small part of Africa.
Is it time to leave? It isn’t as strange as I would have assumed sitting in the U.S. I haven’t eaten any insects, danced around any fires, seen any elaborate costumes, or strange ceremonies.
There isn’t any magic here in this village.
Today was a scheduled nationwide gathering to show the strength of the striking people. I asked if the village was doing anything. No way. We are in the country, not in the city was the reply.
Sitting on my porch on a stool, the floor as my table, scrubbing the dishes, I heard a distant drum. I have only heard a drum one other time when the village was called to pray during the end of Ramadan. Was this second drumming a call having to do with the strikes?
The children started jumping with excitement chanting, “Caillou, Caillou.”
Do I really want to go transport rocks from the hillsides to the courtyard of the mosque? I have nothing else better to do. Plus wouldn’t it be cool to leave something behind once I left Africa? How about a bowl full of rocks?
I followed some of my male students carrying a bowl of red stones upon my shoulder. I was afraid of the weight upon my head. At the mosque, I saw every familiar face of the village, everyone excited, everyone with a thank you upon their lips. I did two more trips with some of my female students, walking 500 yards to the hillsides, squatting in the brown dry terrain, gathering bauxite to fill the courtyard. The men enthusiastically grabbed my bowl spreading the rocks in the sacred yard, an area bigger than half a football field. Then I rested under a tree with 50 other females sitting on our overturned bowls.
I watched as 30 old women passed us bowls of rock upon their heads singing in Arab, one voice answered by the many. As they exited, they goaded us for sitting and I rose with the principal’s wife, Binta, to continue on with the group.
Reaching the hillside, we split off in multiple directions finding a spot rich with rocks. I followed the principal’s wife and we quickly filled our bowls. As I shoulder it to take off, she said, “Wait. We’ll wait here.”
The women regathered and then there was an uproar, a clucking of hens. I asked Binta to translate. She said, “Everyone’s yelling ‘Wait. Wait,’” scolding as one lone woman started to take off. When a mass of women had gathered, we started a slow steady walk, a tight group. I was in the middle of the tall female strength gazing between the pots of rock upon their heads, the towers of the mosque looming ahead. It was in that moment that I felt the magic of a community effort to build our mosque, finding the pleasure in being.
It isn’t the time to leave my village yet. There is more magic to be found.
It is day 13 of nationwide strikes. Give up your Presidential power is the cry. As I was riding the5 km to use the nearby radio to check in with Peace Corps, I thought, I have seen my village. I have tasted its food. I have sat through its ceremonies, its deaths, it births, its religious rituals. I have experienced its generosity and hospitality. I have shopped in its market. I have played with its children and talked with its old. I have experienced a small part of Africa.
Is it time to leave? It isn’t as strange as I would have assumed sitting in the U.S. I haven’t eaten any insects, danced around any fires, seen any elaborate costumes, or strange ceremonies.
There isn’t any magic here in this village.
Today was a scheduled nationwide gathering to show the strength of the striking people. I asked if the village was doing anything. No way. We are in the country, not in the city was the reply.
Sitting on my porch on a stool, the floor as my table, scrubbing the dishes, I heard a distant drum. I have only heard a drum one other time when the village was called to pray during the end of Ramadan. Was this second drumming a call having to do with the strikes?
The children started jumping with excitement chanting, “Caillou, Caillou.”
Do I really want to go transport rocks from the hillsides to the courtyard of the mosque? I have nothing else better to do. Plus wouldn’t it be cool to leave something behind once I left Africa? How about a bowl full of rocks?
I followed some of my male students carrying a bowl of red stones upon my shoulder. I was afraid of the weight upon my head. At the mosque, I saw every familiar face of the village, everyone excited, everyone with a thank you upon their lips. I did two more trips with some of my female students, walking 500 yards to the hillsides, squatting in the brown dry terrain, gathering bauxite to fill the courtyard. The men enthusiastically grabbed my bowl spreading the rocks in the sacred yard, an area bigger than half a football field. Then I rested under a tree with 50 other females sitting on our overturned bowls.
I watched as 30 old women passed us bowls of rock upon their heads singing in Arab, one voice answered by the many. As they exited, they goaded us for sitting and I rose with the principal’s wife, Binta, to continue on with the group.
Reaching the hillside, we split off in multiple directions finding a spot rich with rocks. I followed the principal’s wife and we quickly filled our bowls. As I shoulder it to take off, she said, “Wait. We’ll wait here.”
The women regathered and then there was an uproar, a clucking of hens. I asked Binta to translate. She said, “Everyone’s yelling ‘Wait. Wait,’” scolding as one lone woman started to take off. When a mass of women had gathered, we started a slow steady walk, a tight group. I was in the middle of the tall female strength gazing between the pots of rock upon their heads, the towers of the mosque looming ahead. It was in that moment that I felt the magic of a community effort to build our mosque, finding the pleasure in being.
It isn’t the time to leave my village yet. There is more magic to be found.
The Grass is Greener
Sunday 21 January
In Seattle, a lazy Sunday would be spent in a coffee shop writing, sipping a Latte, a pastry waiting in the corner of my eye. Sometimes I’d stop and have an ice cream my spoon sinking into the soft cold sweetness.
In Guinea, a lazy Sunday is spent sitting at a desk, writing, sipping a full bottle of water, artwork and photographs in the corner of my eye, a cool breeze passing through the open door and windows. My spoon sinks into the yellow sweetness of a freshly picked papaya.
In Seattle, a lazy Sunday would be spent in a coffee shop writing, sipping a Latte, a pastry waiting in the corner of my eye. Sometimes I’d stop and have an ice cream my spoon sinking into the soft cold sweetness.
In Guinea, a lazy Sunday is spent sitting at a desk, writing, sipping a full bottle of water, artwork and photographs in the corner of my eye, a cool breeze passing through the open door and windows. My spoon sinks into the yellow sweetness of a freshly picked papaya.
Guinean Tidbits
Guinean Tidbits
It just dawned on me. Vultures here in Africa are as common as red cardinals in Alabama. I forgot that you out there in the US don’t get to see them everyday. Today on my way home from a 5 km hike to a neighboring village for lessons on how to read Pular, I saw the most beautiful huge vulture, taller than my knee. It even had a mane like ruffle. I wish I could have finished watching it dine.
Five young kids were on my porch with 10 oranges to peel the special Guinean way, leaving the white pulp intact, slicing the top off so each child could suck and squeeze the juice out without getting their hands messy. This non-wannabe mother took a deep breath and started.
My 3 cockroach friends who live in the latrine have turned into 30 with one dead, a hundred ants attending the funeral.
Non,a Russian onion flatbread was a bigger success to my tongue than the tortillas. Cooking projects are fun during these nationwide strikes. Day 12 had arrived with no end in sight.
It just dawned on me. Vultures here in Africa are as common as red cardinals in Alabama. I forgot that you out there in the US don’t get to see them everyday. Today on my way home from a 5 km hike to a neighboring village for lessons on how to read Pular, I saw the most beautiful huge vulture, taller than my knee. It even had a mane like ruffle. I wish I could have finished watching it dine.
Five young kids were on my porch with 10 oranges to peel the special Guinean way, leaving the white pulp intact, slicing the top off so each child could suck and squeeze the juice out without getting their hands messy. This non-wannabe mother took a deep breath and started.
My 3 cockroach friends who live in the latrine have turned into 30 with one dead, a hundred ants attending the funeral.
Non,a Russian onion flatbread was a bigger success to my tongue than the tortillas. Cooking projects are fun during these nationwide strikes. Day 12 had arrived with no end in sight.
Leave and Good Things Will Happen
Wednesday 18 January 2007
Needing to get out of my house, I sat in the town center under a tree, upon a rock, with the nine gathered there: 3 children at their near empty tables of condiments that are hard to find as day 8 of the strikes continue- the Labe trucks don’t come to our Thursday market anymore- several women selling tomatoes, dried manioch roots, and peanuts, and 3 women dressed in their best stopping to chat.
I asked the typical greeting in Pular, “Where are you coming from?” The mother of one of my best 7th grade students replied, “There was a death in the village. Have you gone? He was an old man, very nice.”
I was wondering where all of the men who typically gather in the town center. I continued sitting there as the mother continued on. She is one of the few women who speak French and indirectly hinted that I should go greet the mourning family as she said goodbye.
I sat for a while longer then stood, “Awa, see you later.” At home I went into the inner bedroom, lay upon my bed, and looked up at the metal ceiling through my mosquito net. I’m tired. I just spent a day riding 3 hours on my bike. I don’t want to go visit a mourning family. It’s late, 16 h. How will I find their hut? I ran across the mothers of my concession returning from their visit as I was returning from my bike ride. They are not going to want to stop their dinner preparations to take me. All the older kids have been sent to other villages to help with work. The younger kids won’t be able to guide me. Anyways what difference does it make if I go or if I don’t go. I’m tired. You’re just feeling guilty because you’re a people pleaser. What is the big deal if I miss this one visit? You know the village would be pleased with your presence. They’re probably just wanting money.
I took a few deep breaths, closed my eyes, and relaxed, observing how I was feeling, observing my breath, stopping the voice in my head for 5 minutes. Then pop, like a bullet out of a gun, I jumped out of bed through the opening of my net and grabbed my African clothes, my good sandals, wrapped up my hair, and locked up bringing only my keys, no money.
I took off in the direction that I saw the mothers coming from earlier. I walked with a 7th grade student, trying to get directions from her, a girl whose French level was low. I had to be clever in my questioning. Some people answer yes to every question coz they don’t understand all the questions.
There was a death in the village?
Yes.
It’s late. Will there be anyone there?
Yes.
But aren’t the men burying the body?
Yes.
So there will be no one there?
Yes.
So if I go over there will there be anybody?
A few.
Am I going in the right direction?
Yes.
Is it near the mosque (opposite direction)?
Non.
Is it far?
Yes.
As far as Lamba?
Non.
She pointed in a general direction as she left me for her own home. Well this is going to be an adventure.
I continued on and in the far distance two figures greeted me, “On Jaramma. Ko honto yahataa?” Hello. Where are you going?
I pointed in the direction, shouting, “There was a death in the village wasn’t there?
They shouted back, “Wait there. We are some of your students. One of us is going home and lives over there.”
Thank goodness. Now I have a guide and won’t be wandering aimlessly in he maze of paths of the densely packed village full of huts, fruit-trees, and gardens.
We twisted right then left through rock filled courtyards, past girls sifting pounded corn, always under rotting orange filled trees, past a bamboo grove, across a dry creek until we reached a gathering of women sitting on mats. I sat down.
Thank goodness in Forricarriah during training I had accompanied my family to visit a mourning family, the husband of a friend had died. That friend was even a friend of mine, a woman who often sat in our kitchen preparing dishes unfamiliar to my family, but believed that I would enjoy. She helped cook my birthday feast. She had labored over toe, a favorite of mine, a play dough like cassava dish. So I was familiar that consoling a family was by visiting and sitting for some time. You can stay for a long time or just for a couple of minutes. I had experience in a situation that can be culturally scary to a newbie.
Children gathered around me. The women laughed as two started crying as the two young uns caught my eye and my smile. I saw some of my students learning the death was an old teacher of Arab, an uncle of one of my students. I greeted the mourning wife, sat for a few minutes more, and took my leave, followed by 10 giggling kids accompanied by two students back through the maze.
I felt a sense of well-being as I learned the two female students’ names, a challenge I have been trying to overcome- learning 120 strange names. Little by little they say here in Guinea. Walking home I saw 6 girls playing soccer. Wow, what a find! Each time I leave my house I learn something new.
Returning home, 6 kids were singing and dancing on my porch. What have they been eating? Their explosive energy, moved through their feet, their arms, into their shoulders radiating through their smiles. I pulled out a chair and the kids lay in a semi-circle around my feet. “Teach us French,” Mamadou asked. I taught them the 2 French songs I know “Alouette” and “Frere Jacques.”
I asked them to do a recitation. Their first grade memorized speech was about the days of the week, recited without understanding. I then asked what today was giving them a lesson about Thursdays being market day, Fridays mosque day, and Sundays no school days. Then we practiced our sums. I tried to help them learn to count their fingers instead of just memorizing the answers, answers that have no meaning.
The sun set. I sent them to their house. I went to bed, content with the good things of this Wednesday
Needing to get out of my house, I sat in the town center under a tree, upon a rock, with the nine gathered there: 3 children at their near empty tables of condiments that are hard to find as day 8 of the strikes continue- the Labe trucks don’t come to our Thursday market anymore- several women selling tomatoes, dried manioch roots, and peanuts, and 3 women dressed in their best stopping to chat.
I asked the typical greeting in Pular, “Where are you coming from?” The mother of one of my best 7th grade students replied, “There was a death in the village. Have you gone? He was an old man, very nice.”
I was wondering where all of the men who typically gather in the town center. I continued sitting there as the mother continued on. She is one of the few women who speak French and indirectly hinted that I should go greet the mourning family as she said goodbye.
I sat for a while longer then stood, “Awa, see you later.” At home I went into the inner bedroom, lay upon my bed, and looked up at the metal ceiling through my mosquito net. I’m tired. I just spent a day riding 3 hours on my bike. I don’t want to go visit a mourning family. It’s late, 16 h. How will I find their hut? I ran across the mothers of my concession returning from their visit as I was returning from my bike ride. They are not going to want to stop their dinner preparations to take me. All the older kids have been sent to other villages to help with work. The younger kids won’t be able to guide me. Anyways what difference does it make if I go or if I don’t go. I’m tired. You’re just feeling guilty because you’re a people pleaser. What is the big deal if I miss this one visit? You know the village would be pleased with your presence. They’re probably just wanting money.
I took a few deep breaths, closed my eyes, and relaxed, observing how I was feeling, observing my breath, stopping the voice in my head for 5 minutes. Then pop, like a bullet out of a gun, I jumped out of bed through the opening of my net and grabbed my African clothes, my good sandals, wrapped up my hair, and locked up bringing only my keys, no money.
I took off in the direction that I saw the mothers coming from earlier. I walked with a 7th grade student, trying to get directions from her, a girl whose French level was low. I had to be clever in my questioning. Some people answer yes to every question coz they don’t understand all the questions.
There was a death in the village?
Yes.
It’s late. Will there be anyone there?
Yes.
But aren’t the men burying the body?
Yes.
So there will be no one there?
Yes.
So if I go over there will there be anybody?
A few.
Am I going in the right direction?
Yes.
Is it near the mosque (opposite direction)?
Non.
Is it far?
Yes.
As far as Lamba?
Non.
She pointed in a general direction as she left me for her own home. Well this is going to be an adventure.
I continued on and in the far distance two figures greeted me, “On Jaramma. Ko honto yahataa?” Hello. Where are you going?
I pointed in the direction, shouting, “There was a death in the village wasn’t there?
They shouted back, “Wait there. We are some of your students. One of us is going home and lives over there.”
Thank goodness. Now I have a guide and won’t be wandering aimlessly in he maze of paths of the densely packed village full of huts, fruit-trees, and gardens.
We twisted right then left through rock filled courtyards, past girls sifting pounded corn, always under rotting orange filled trees, past a bamboo grove, across a dry creek until we reached a gathering of women sitting on mats. I sat down.
Thank goodness in Forricarriah during training I had accompanied my family to visit a mourning family, the husband of a friend had died. That friend was even a friend of mine, a woman who often sat in our kitchen preparing dishes unfamiliar to my family, but believed that I would enjoy. She helped cook my birthday feast. She had labored over toe, a favorite of mine, a play dough like cassava dish. So I was familiar that consoling a family was by visiting and sitting for some time. You can stay for a long time or just for a couple of minutes. I had experience in a situation that can be culturally scary to a newbie.
Children gathered around me. The women laughed as two started crying as the two young uns caught my eye and my smile. I saw some of my students learning the death was an old teacher of Arab, an uncle of one of my students. I greeted the mourning wife, sat for a few minutes more, and took my leave, followed by 10 giggling kids accompanied by two students back through the maze.
I felt a sense of well-being as I learned the two female students’ names, a challenge I have been trying to overcome- learning 120 strange names. Little by little they say here in Guinea. Walking home I saw 6 girls playing soccer. Wow, what a find! Each time I leave my house I learn something new.
Returning home, 6 kids were singing and dancing on my porch. What have they been eating? Their explosive energy, moved through their feet, their arms, into their shoulders radiating through their smiles. I pulled out a chair and the kids lay in a semi-circle around my feet. “Teach us French,” Mamadou asked. I taught them the 2 French songs I know “Alouette” and “Frere Jacques.”
I asked them to do a recitation. Their first grade memorized speech was about the days of the week, recited without understanding. I then asked what today was giving them a lesson about Thursdays being market day, Fridays mosque day, and Sundays no school days. Then we practiced our sums. I tried to help them learn to count their fingers instead of just memorizing the answers, answers that have no meaning.
The sun set. I sent them to their house. I went to bed, content with the good things of this Wednesday
A Treat
Monday 15 January 2007
Have I been in Africa too long when mashed night chilled ripe avocados mixed with sugar tastes like ice cream?
Have I been in Africa too long when mashed night chilled ripe avocados mixed with sugar tastes like ice cream?
Patience for a Sunset
Saturday 13 January
I walked in-between two of the mothers of my concession through our fruit tree filled village, up a rocky path surrounded by barely green bushes only slightly taller than us, across a barren black burned field down a hill into a tiny village of about 5 huts. And there I sat in silence for 3 hours upon a chair, the only one sitting on a chair. Everyone else gathered leaves or straw or found prayer mats to sit upon on the ground. There was no one to explain the ceremony we were attending. The men, the French speakers were all gathered over there.
I sat and watched with a patience that never found comfort in the wooden chair. A singing parade of people carrying wood upon their heads dumped it all in a pile. Money was collected. Women gave 100 GF. Because I didn’t know what the ceremony was for, I pretended I didn’t have any money in my bag. I didn’t want to be giving money to some ceremony I might not agree with. Everyone just sat listening, listen to what? No idea. We couldn’t even hear what any of the men were saying, probably something from the Koran. Not knowing when the ceremony was going to end, I glanced at my watch, almost 17 h, hour of prayer. Maybe this silent sitting will end by then. My ass is beginning to numb.
We were on our way home by 18 h. That was the best part of the day. No not because we were finally going home, but because it was beautiful. The full round sun was setting amongst beautiful dark shades of barren ground dotted by brightly clothed women making their way home single-file.
I rarely, okay never get to see Guinea during dusk. I am always inside. My source of light, candles. It was a rare treat to watch the trees go dark, the grand mosque blacken against the sky.
We reached home barely able to see. The moon doesn’t come out these nights. It was there where the husband explained that the ceremony was a religious one giving two women the title Therino, for their devotion and dedication to Allah, striving to lead a sinless life, devoted to reading and interpreting the Koran. It was much better than the theories I came up with like a circumcision ceremony.
I walked in-between two of the mothers of my concession through our fruit tree filled village, up a rocky path surrounded by barely green bushes only slightly taller than us, across a barren black burned field down a hill into a tiny village of about 5 huts. And there I sat in silence for 3 hours upon a chair, the only one sitting on a chair. Everyone else gathered leaves or straw or found prayer mats to sit upon on the ground. There was no one to explain the ceremony we were attending. The men, the French speakers were all gathered over there.
I sat and watched with a patience that never found comfort in the wooden chair. A singing parade of people carrying wood upon their heads dumped it all in a pile. Money was collected. Women gave 100 GF. Because I didn’t know what the ceremony was for, I pretended I didn’t have any money in my bag. I didn’t want to be giving money to some ceremony I might not agree with. Everyone just sat listening, listen to what? No idea. We couldn’t even hear what any of the men were saying, probably something from the Koran. Not knowing when the ceremony was going to end, I glanced at my watch, almost 17 h, hour of prayer. Maybe this silent sitting will end by then. My ass is beginning to numb.
We were on our way home by 18 h. That was the best part of the day. No not because we were finally going home, but because it was beautiful. The full round sun was setting amongst beautiful dark shades of barren ground dotted by brightly clothed women making their way home single-file.
I rarely, okay never get to see Guinea during dusk. I am always inside. My source of light, candles. It was a rare treat to watch the trees go dark, the grand mosque blacken against the sky.
We reached home barely able to see. The moon doesn’t come out these nights. It was there where the husband explained that the ceremony was a religious one giving two women the title Therino, for their devotion and dedication to Allah, striving to lead a sinless life, devoted to reading and interpreting the Koran. It was much better than the theories I came up with like a circumcision ceremony.
Donnez moi un Bon Bon
Monday 8 Janvier 2007
As the ringing sound of the tire hit by a rock notifying us that school was out, I gave the 6 year old not yet of school age a bon bon. Her siblings slowly trickled to my porch. She spat it out into her grubby hand and popped it into her 7-year old sister’s demanding mouth. It passed from one to another until it was gone. When was the last time you shared a bon bon?
As the ringing sound of the tire hit by a rock notifying us that school was out, I gave the 6 year old not yet of school age a bon bon. Her siblings slowly trickled to my porch. She spat it out into her grubby hand and popped it into her 7-year old sister’s demanding mouth. It passed from one to another until it was gone. When was the last time you shared a bon bon?
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Still in the Suitcase
Thursday 21 December 2006
Tonight the family drummed plastic water containers and clapped, once voice sang and while the others responded- call and response.
I brought a tape recorder.
*smile*
I better unpack.
I brought a tape recorder.
*smile*
I better unpack.
The Giving Dilemma
Thursday 21 December 2006
Tonight I ate half a chicken. It was prepared by the 11 year old daughter and her mother, one of the 3 wives of my concession.
Who got the rest? Did the mother? Did the daughter? Did the other two wives? Did any of the other 10 children? Did the father eat as well as I tonight?
How do I repay the labor and cost of each evening’s meal?
Money? How much?
Goods? I gave a 50 kg bag of rice (twenty-two dollars) about a fourth of my monthly living allowance. I buy produce and give it to the family.
As a giver, I want to just give and give, to go to Labe and get twenty dollars worth of oil for the family.
I need to find a balance though, a fair exchange. Just because I can give and give doesn’t mean I should. My income will not be contributing to this family for a lifetime. I’m leaving in a year and a half. I don’t want them to become dependent on a second breadwinner.
The problem is givers keep giving and giving. Givers also downplay their value, and sometimes even feel guilty or uncomfortable accepting an exchange.
My tailor made a beautiful skirt and blouse for me. He charged a dollar for his labor.
The daughter and mother who plucked and prepared the chicken probably only got to taste the chicken juice in the delicious soup not asking for anything for their labor.
I have a sense of guilt. I feel like a taker sitting in my house packing to go to Labe for Christmas, waiting for my dinner to be served.
How do I find a balance giving and taking in this giving culture along with my own nature to give?
Should I go back to cooking my own meals? Should I calculate the cost of the labor and of the meal and pay that in money or goods?
It is hard for me to feel a sense of satisfaction contributing to a family by giving money or goods; therefore, I have a tendency to just keep giving and giving. I want to partake in the labor, but it is hard to know how to. Today, I had 9 little kids trying to help me wash a sock. Is there a way to contribute other than by an exchange of money or goods, when the labor is split amongst so many?
Volunteers often give a 50 kg sac of rice every 2-3 months for their meals.
I didn’t even ask the wives if the mind cooking for one more.
When I first arrived, he father sat on my porch and explained that whatever I need, the family is there for me. I just have to ask.
The family gives. I give and now we have a giving dilemma.
Tonight I ate half a chicken. It was prepared by the 11 year old daughter and her mother, one of the 3 wives of my concession.
Who got the rest? Did the mother? Did the daughter? Did the other two wives? Did any of the other 10 children? Did the father eat as well as I tonight?
How do I repay the labor and cost of each evening’s meal?
Money? How much?
Goods? I gave a 50 kg bag of rice (twenty-two dollars) about a fourth of my monthly living allowance. I buy produce and give it to the family.
As a giver, I want to just give and give, to go to Labe and get twenty dollars worth of oil for the family.
I need to find a balance though, a fair exchange. Just because I can give and give doesn’t mean I should. My income will not be contributing to this family for a lifetime. I’m leaving in a year and a half. I don’t want them to become dependent on a second breadwinner.
The problem is givers keep giving and giving. Givers also downplay their value, and sometimes even feel guilty or uncomfortable accepting an exchange.
My tailor made a beautiful skirt and blouse for me. He charged a dollar for his labor.
The daughter and mother who plucked and prepared the chicken probably only got to taste the chicken juice in the delicious soup not asking for anything for their labor.
I have a sense of guilt. I feel like a taker sitting in my house packing to go to Labe for Christmas, waiting for my dinner to be served.
How do I find a balance giving and taking in this giving culture along with my own nature to give?
Should I go back to cooking my own meals? Should I calculate the cost of the labor and of the meal and pay that in money or goods?
It is hard for me to feel a sense of satisfaction contributing to a family by giving money or goods; therefore, I have a tendency to just keep giving and giving. I want to partake in the labor, but it is hard to know how to. Today, I had 9 little kids trying to help me wash a sock. Is there a way to contribute other than by an exchange of money or goods, when the labor is split amongst so many?
Volunteers often give a 50 kg sac of rice every 2-3 months for their meals.
I didn’t even ask the wives if the mind cooking for one more.
When I first arrived, he father sat on my porch and explained that whatever I need, the family is there for me. I just have to ask.
The family gives. I give and now we have a giving dilemma.
A Balancing Act
Wednesday 20 December
We pushed our bikes up the mile long hill with the natural made speed bumps to the main road which was only a little better. At least it was flat.
We straddled our bikes- two in their sarongs, their knees showing and me in my hippie dress, a petticoat, and capri pants, my knees not showing. Off we went for the 5 km ride back to my village.
One carried my backpack full of eggs, peanuts, oranges, grapefruit, cassava, guava and potatoes. The other had two on one handlebar and one on the other. I had one on each, hanging upside down tied by their feet, a total of five chickens. Our skirts safely flowed in the wind and we arrived dusty to my house.
Today I spent 3 hours eating freshly plucked fruit, walking in a neighboring village where at least 10 of my students commute from to attend school.
The generosity of the village was tremendous, even helping me carry all of my gifts home, circumventing what would have been a true balancing act.
We pushed our bikes up the mile long hill with the natural made speed bumps to the main road which was only a little better. At least it was flat.
We straddled our bikes- two in their sarongs, their knees showing and me in my hippie dress, a petticoat, and capri pants, my knees not showing. Off we went for the 5 km ride back to my village.
One carried my backpack full of eggs, peanuts, oranges, grapefruit, cassava, guava and potatoes. The other had two on one handlebar and one on the other. I had one on each, hanging upside down tied by their feet, a total of five chickens. Our skirts safely flowed in the wind and we arrived dusty to my house.
Today I spent 3 hours eating freshly plucked fruit, walking in a neighboring village where at least 10 of my students commute from to attend school.
The generosity of the village was tremendous, even helping me carry all of my gifts home, circumventing what would have been a true balancing act.
Is giving good?
Monday 18 December 2006
The hospitality of many Guineans is tremendous.
Pleasure is derived from feeding you well and giving you whatever they have.
People here often ask for gifts from us “rich” Americans. We often perceive it in a negative way. I often have to check my first response, my attitude of “Why the hell are you asking me for gifts? You think just because I am a rich American I have bikes, computers, and 100 francs to give you? No, I am not going to give you anything.”
I have to learn to adjust my reaction. I hate being called a patron by strangers who don’t know my name. The thing is I am rich. I don’t have three wives and 10-15 kids to feed. By American standards though I am not rich, but I am not in America. Yet, still when someone says, “Patron buy some lettuce,” my silent, irritated response is, “I’m not a patron. I’m a volunteer.”
The thing is Guineans give. Rich Guineans get asked for gifts just like us Americans. They are well off. I am well off. We are all seen as such. If you have, you give in his country. This is not an American philosophy. Ours is sometimes more- I got mine. Why can’t you? I worked had. You can too. Don’t try to mooch off me.
I remember my host sister in Foreicarriah once saying that visiting relatives in Labe was extremely expensive because she would not only have to have the couple of 100,000 GF for transportation but a couple hundred more for gifts. She could not visit without giving gifts.
Even if you have nothing you give in this country. Farmers who live from hand to mouth give to this well-off teacher just because I can give their children something they can not, an education. They are happy, pleased, energized by giving.
Is it easy to take advantage of people who derive pleasure from giving, to take advantage of people who are more concerned for others’ well-being than their own?
I am at times a giver, someone who puts aside her wants, needs, desires for a partner. This becomes a problem when the generosity is neither acknowledged nor reciprocated. I can easily be taken advantage of by takers.
Is Guinea the same way?
The hospitality of many Guineans is tremendous.
Pleasure is derived from feeding you well and giving you whatever they have.
People here often ask for gifts from us “rich” Americans. We often perceive it in a negative way. I often have to check my first response, my attitude of “Why the hell are you asking me for gifts? You think just because I am a rich American I have bikes, computers, and 100 francs to give you? No, I am not going to give you anything.”
I have to learn to adjust my reaction. I hate being called a patron by strangers who don’t know my name. The thing is I am rich. I don’t have three wives and 10-15 kids to feed. By American standards though I am not rich, but I am not in America. Yet, still when someone says, “Patron buy some lettuce,” my silent, irritated response is, “I’m not a patron. I’m a volunteer.”
The thing is Guineans give. Rich Guineans get asked for gifts just like us Americans. They are well off. I am well off. We are all seen as such. If you have, you give in his country. This is not an American philosophy. Ours is sometimes more- I got mine. Why can’t you? I worked had. You can too. Don’t try to mooch off me.
I remember my host sister in Foreicarriah once saying that visiting relatives in Labe was extremely expensive because she would not only have to have the couple of 100,000 GF for transportation but a couple hundred more for gifts. She could not visit without giving gifts.
Even if you have nothing you give in this country. Farmers who live from hand to mouth give to this well-off teacher just because I can give their children something they can not, an education. They are happy, pleased, energized by giving.
Is it easy to take advantage of people who derive pleasure from giving, to take advantage of people who are more concerned for others’ well-being than their own?
I am at times a giver, someone who puts aside her wants, needs, desires for a partner. This becomes a problem when the generosity is neither acknowledged nor reciprocated. I can easily be taken advantage of by takers.
Is Guinea the same way?
Latrine: A Study by Headlamp
Monday December 18, 2006
Cockroaches are so cool.
Their antennas are longer
than their bodies.
Their antennas are longer
than their bodies.
Walking in their Shoes
Monday 18 December 2006
Some of my students are not as lucky as I. My home is right across from the school. I can leave my house at 7:44 am and be there on time for the 7:45 am national anthem and flag raising.
My students come from all directions. Some live off the main dusty road and can ride their bikes. Others live near the big Mosque, a mile or so from the school.
Today I hiked on a rocky non-bikable path up and over two hills, crossed two creeks, chasing after my 3 students who were almost running. In the hot noon sun surrounded by yellow tall grass, pulling up my long Guinean skirt that limited my stride, I walked an hour and half to the furthest village that my students come from.
The village welcomed me with great big smiles, enthusiastic handshakes, and fed me oranges and fonio with sauce until I was stuffed. Then they loaded me from their plentiful gardens, fruit from their trees containing hundreds of rotting and sweet oranges, grapefruit, cassava, peanuts, taro, fonio, sweet potatoes, and a live chicken. Thank goodness I brought my backpack.
The sun was setting as I tried to hurry home. Two students accompanied me part of the journey and then sent me on my way having no doubt I could make it carrying all of my heavy gifts, oranges and peanuts on my back, edible roots in one hand, and a live chicken in the other. One nice assumption Guineans have is that women are not assumed to be physically weak.
I have four truly dedicated students who walk 14 km (8-9 miles) round trip, 6 days a week to receive an education. I have a new respect for them walking in their shoes today.
Some of my students are not as lucky as I. My home is right across from the school. I can leave my house at 7:44 am and be there on time for the 7:45 am national anthem and flag raising.
My students come from all directions. Some live off the main dusty road and can ride their bikes. Others live near the big Mosque, a mile or so from the school.
Today I hiked on a rocky non-bikable path up and over two hills, crossed two creeks, chasing after my 3 students who were almost running. In the hot noon sun surrounded by yellow tall grass, pulling up my long Guinean skirt that limited my stride, I walked an hour and half to the furthest village that my students come from.
The village welcomed me with great big smiles, enthusiastic handshakes, and fed me oranges and fonio with sauce until I was stuffed. Then they loaded me from their plentiful gardens, fruit from their trees containing hundreds of rotting and sweet oranges, grapefruit, cassava, peanuts, taro, fonio, sweet potatoes, and a live chicken. Thank goodness I brought my backpack.
The sun was setting as I tried to hurry home. Two students accompanied me part of the journey and then sent me on my way having no doubt I could make it carrying all of my heavy gifts, oranges and peanuts on my back, edible roots in one hand, and a live chicken in the other. One nice assumption Guineans have is that women are not assumed to be physically weak.
I have four truly dedicated students who walk 14 km (8-9 miles) round trip, 6 days a week to receive an education. I have a new respect for them walking in their shoes today.
What Makes Me Laugh au Village
Thursday 12 December 2006
Sitting in the outdoor kitchen with my family, having a short-haired, goat looking sheep come into view running for its life, a half naked little boy in swift pursuit, of that gobbling manioch-leaf eating, nanny berry leaving pest, makes me laugh.
Having six little kids copying my every move as I dance, do the hokey poky, jump and hop on one foot, as I twirl, do somersaults, handstands, and cartwheels, high kicks in the air, pushups, and situps, makes me laugh.
Having crayons, sheets of paper, and kids scattered all over my porch shouting with glee as I say draw a flower, a car, a tree, a motorcycle, your family, feeling their eagerness to please, watching their shaking smiles at the impossibility of drawing a person makes me laugh.
Laughter, what a feeling for my well-being.
Sitting in the outdoor kitchen with my family, having a short-haired, goat looking sheep come into view running for its life, a half naked little boy in swift pursuit, of that gobbling manioch-leaf eating, nanny berry leaving pest, makes me laugh.
Having six little kids copying my every move as I dance, do the hokey poky, jump and hop on one foot, as I twirl, do somersaults, handstands, and cartwheels, high kicks in the air, pushups, and situps, makes me laugh.
Having crayons, sheets of paper, and kids scattered all over my porch shouting with glee as I say draw a flower, a car, a tree, a motorcycle, your family, feeling their eagerness to please, watching their shaking smiles at the impossibility of drawing a person makes me laugh.
Laughter, what a feeling for my well-being.
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