peacing out

In twelve hours I will be boarding my flight. Twenty four hours after that I will be coasting into Indiana. (As habit, I am now thinking, "God willing" in Pulaar, but hopefully I will be free of such thinking shortly.)

One souvenir I am taking back with me is the parasite Entamoeba Coli. If you Wikipedia it you will find that it is quite boring- hence that my symptoms have been similar enough to habitual disagreements with food that I haven't even noticed them.

Besides this third world souvenir, I am surely walking away with less tangible battle wounds, personal growth scars, and other I'm Growing Up stretch marks. However, at this point in time I am all self-reflected out.

This is me signing off, folks. No more blogging for me- woot woot! Thanks for reading, posting comments, sending letters. Thanks for caring about your long lost friend, sister, niece, daughter, yam-yamo. I can't wait to come home- I will see you all soon.

Amadou and ants

The BBC spits out endless news of violence and death and oh my god terrible things that instead of talking about I will listen to grimly as I sweep my floor and then flick it off when my heart is tired of caring. Ants trail into my room, sending secret messages about something that holds their interest. Can’t imagine what it could be- my Metamucil, vinegar, dried okra? Miserable food collection attracting hordes of tiny pests that I do my best to exterminate one by one as they scurry in panic mode. I once had a one-man club dedicated to saving ants. I would swoop in between my mother and her victim, carefully placing it on the front crumbling sidewalk. Pleased as the ant strutted off, saved from a possible squashing.

I wanted to cry when Amadou, the man who made the latrine doors, asked for more money. He welded the beautiful metal doors basically for free and I didn’t have enough money to increase his payment. I explained this to him, and choked over the words, Thank You. Those words are too small.

an in between person

How often does a person get to be alone like this? Alone in my work without a boss, grades, evaluation of any sort. Alone in my thoughts with no one knowing much of my personal life. No e-mail, phone calls only done by appointment, no messages or on-line texting. I am alone with my history, my English words scrawled in charcoal on my bathroom wall. Alone in Garly.

I grit my teeth during a painful car ride. I know the smell of the wheat porridge at the feeding center, and the feeling of Neene Mawdo’s dry hands as she clasps mine to say good morning. There is no witness to make this real, once I leave it. No one to stretch against under the mosquito net. No one to play euchre with during the swelling silent time between lunch and early evening prayer call. No one traveling back across the ocean next to me- exclaiming that we get cheese with dinner.

To you readers, my words about Garly only make as much sense as my words about America make to people in Garly. How do I convey the enormity of a goat slaughtering to an American who can eat a hamburger for 99 cents? How to show a Garly friend a picture of Canada without falling into the infinite abyss of things they don’t know about my luxurious life?

There is no bridge. I float between the extremes taking notes in my graph paper journal. I remember mini milkshakes and fancy dresses as my back smarts from digging at the ground. I am from the moon and have landed on Mars.

no more complaining

I am tired of complaining about the hardships of life here. In all honesty, the hardest part about being here was not the weather, work frustrations or cultural clashes. My most difficult task was overcoming myself.

The first few months in Garly simply leaving my compound was a daily battle. Greeting people zapped my energy, walking around a bit took all of my concentration. I was so preoccupied with Mariam Ba’s expectations I made a chart once, graphing her behaviors, to see if I could figure cause and effects of my own behaviors. I obsessed over villager’s opinions- making sure to smile constantly and never complain.

I felt guilty about everything. I felt like I was a leech on my host family’s resources and time- needing guidance on daily living, requiring corrections on my language. I felt bad about my sturdy shoes, the rate at which my hair grew, my splendid education. I suffered over the gift of yearly dentist appointments and the frivolous opportunities that freckled my entire existence.

An excerpt from my journal: "I feel bad that these women can't read or write. That their feet are dry and full of cracks- that they don't know what they're missing in the world- that they don't know what their lives look like to me. I just feel bad. 'Help' is complicated and I don't think I could do it anyway. It's like we're playing Presidency [a card game] and I get to be the prez every time, and I think that by being here I am being generous- that I am closing the privilege gap."

I felt, at the beginning, that my life was intrinsically better than life in Garly. I thought the USA had the answers and I was so blessed to be from there, and these people were so not fortunate to live where they did.

Then I went back to the States. I saw on the news something called Prison Idol. Child obesity and worries about global warming engulfed me. Cheap and easy food was everywhere. Not to mention cheap and easy entertainment, clothes, transportation and distraction. To live a life of balance and moderation in America is a life consciously chosen and painfully stuck to. The choices were staggering, the consumption and consumerism overwhelming.

I was jolted from a make-believe superior place and blasted back to confusion in Garly. If I don’t know who is happier, me or them, then I can’t feel bad for them. If I don’t know what is a good or bad way to develop a third world country, I can’t feel bad for doing it my way. Realizing my utter cluelessness released me from the burden of myself. I let go of the pressure I held over myself- I don’t have to know everything or do it all the right way. I have never lived this day before- perhaps I don’t yet know the best way to live it.

How I get over myself? First, I admit that I don’t know. Then I go from there.

conflict resolution

A small occurrence blew up into a month long mutual silent treatment between two women I live with. The incident was small enough, but it hinted at resentment and built up frustration that is usually dormant. Ballyl and Mariam Ba exploded into a fighting match on our front porch. The neighborhood came for the entertainment and told the women to stop yelling. I am used to raised voices but Ballyl’s eyes were bright with anger and to see Mariam Ba so riled up made my foundation here feel shaky.

As they yelled and the crowd grew around them, I jotted down vocabulary words quietly, as I picked the words out of their speech like one plucks flowers. That day I learned the verb, “to brag or show off” and it was this tendency of one of them that was the root of their disagreement.

They did not speak for over a month. Two grown women- mothers! They communicated through curt messages sent through the kids. They ignored the Ramadan tradition of forgiving and reconciliation- didn’t participate in the celebration’s lengthy greetings centered on such spirits.

This month of uncomfortable lunches (one bowl, two fighters= no fun) got me reflecting on my elementary school experience with conflict resolution. I used to visit schools’ after-school programs to teach about peer mediation. By the time I was twelve I embraced tendencies like listening to other people’s sides of a story, refraining from hitting and calling names. I was flabbergasted at the lack of problem solving demonstrated in Garly, and by women who were old enough to be my mothers!

But just when I feel superior, I am humbled. I look at my funny clothes and my job building shitters and I think, “Who are YOU, crazy girl with a baby’s vocabulary, to think you know better?”

Maybe this works for them. What do I know.

unwanted (and detested) attention

My friend Neda is a magnetically beautiful person. Something about her face arrests the eyes. Maybe one looks for a flaw in the symmetry- eyes roam her face in search of a flaw to grab on. To no avail. Neda is accustomed to being stared at, admired, observed. The disarming amount of attention a white person draws in West Africa slides right off Neda’s consciousness. She expresses no rage over incessant greeting, no frustration at wide silent eyes intently observing the foreigner’s every move.

I, on the other hand, am average in just about every way. My height (a minor physical attribute) is the only way in which I exceed the norm. My history, family and self is average enough to never have commanded or received exceptional attention.

Until I brought my white skin to Africa. Simply being white here implies many wonderful, exciting, sparkly things. I am a manifestation of the West; liberal behavior, wealth, health. My otherness, my tantalizing foreignness is palpable in my every action. My mobility and money glaringly bright. No wonder everyone stares. I don’t blame them for their fascination- I do not detest the people for their interest.

But I really hate the staring. I feel a deep rage being the object of such wide eyes, such ceaseless awareness. I hate being observed, analyzed. Every action is taken in, every purchase memorized and reported. I am constantly monitoring myself, keeping control over the frustration that boils beneath my surface.

We say it is like we are clowns. Imagine if a clown were to move next door to you. Even if they wore normal clothes, the painted white face (big nose, funny shoes, the list goes on) would be unmistakable. Who could blame a clown’s neighbor for peeking over the fence to report that the clown is watering his flowers? Or, wouldn’t it be interesting to know what a clown cooked for dinner, how they sat in a chair, brushed their hair? Considering myself to be a clown is sometimes the only way to avoid exploding with annoyance on my unwanted audience. If you don’t like being watched, I remind myself, remember you placed yourself in the ring.

Enough of the internal Don’t Hate Them battle. I can’t wait to return to a place where it is the gorgeous Nedas who occupy people’s eyes.

The Nedas who carry the burden of being fascinating.

nouakchott encore

With three days left in Mauritania, I am coasting through the hours in comfortable Nouakchott. Some things that are still special here that in a month's time will be old hat, status quo:
a diet coke
warm shower
air conditioning
elevators
wearing sneakers
crunchy apple as a snack
movies in english
a mixed salad for lunch (complete with cucumbers and cheese!)
the internet
americans!

And the things I will probably never see or do again:
a salon that specializes in rubbing ones body down in a steamy and wet open room
taxis with dragging bumpers, destroyed seat cushions and no headlights
apple soda pop
speaking snatches of multiple languages in one store (greeting in French, bartering in Pulaar with stander-by as translator, Thank you in Hassaniya.)
considering toilet paper a (unnecessary) luxury
exchanging money on the black market- shadow corners or middle of a crowd, usually
men selling underwear, sunglasses and plastic toys on one hand-carried contraption
knowing the time based on prayer calls
walking amid beggars, mounds of fruit, fish guts and garbage without missing a beat in my errands or conversation
scorching, unbearable, dangerous heat (at least I never want to see this again)

H-E-Double-Hockeysticks

One need only compare my work tendencies in America to the work habits of Garly to get a sense of the inner struggle I battled for two years. Throughout my service I didn't dare delve into all of my emotional struggles at the time of hardship. My survival mode was in high gear and that didn't include the option of self pity.

So, below is a sketch of my work pattern in America during college. Realize this was a self-created world in which I lived pretty much exactly as I wanted.

-I did not pull a single all-nighter.
-I planned meetings and appointments weeks in advance and thrived in a super-organized environment.
-I hated procastinating or cramming for tests.
-I considered group projects to be slow and annoying. I often delegated and avoided actual collaboration during tedious paper-writing, Power Point presentation making, etc. (I recognized the worth of teamwork but cared more about efficiency.)
-I never said, “I don’t have time,” but used the more accurate, “That isn’t my priority right now.” I didn’t like excuses because I felt we were all choosing our actions therefore completing our work on time, or not, based entirely on what we wished.

Below is a list of Garly’s work habits. Note the fireworks type clash.

-Work took place largely at the last minute. People finished their specific jobs right before a meeting, simply to avoid being singled out.
-Nothing was ever done immediately. Work times were not set for “today” but for “the day after tomorrow in the evening.”
-My village work depended solely on group collaboration, teamwork, etc. Work days required rounding up people and dealing with endless reasons as to why they couldn’t make it or excuses as to low quality work.
-Something was always coming up- celebrations, weather complications, field work. A sense of powerlessness pervaded everything. “God knows, God willing, it’s in God’s hands,” talk certainly didn’t get things moving.

In a nutshell, for a person who thrives on action, efficiency and reliability, it’s a wonder such a slow paced work environment with little self-accountability didn’t drive me completely insane.

Or maybe it did, and you can be the judge of that in just a few weeks.