In the month of October, I asked for your help funding a project to train select educators/ tradesmen in Life Skills and launch youth clubs. And... you did it! Thanks to you, I was able to raise the full $5007 and, in the month of November, execute the trainings in Life Skills which constitute the first phase of the project! YOU ARE AWESOME. Thank you!!!
Also, the trainings went very well! Superintendents, high school principals, vice principals and select teachers from five school in and around Tsévié (my site) met for three days of training. We focused on techniques for teaching Life Skills and challenges for affecting behaviour change in youth; gender sensitivity and strategies for attending to the differing needs of boys and girls; men as partners and girl-friendly environments; actioning planning and project implementation/ evaluation.
Now each of the five high schools has launched Life Skills classes or clubs that will touch hundreds of students and affect the tenth grade curriculum for the rest of the school year...
One of my schools is out in the bush - it was founded just two years ago and to visit, I had to bike through somebody's cornfield on a path, at times, not much wider than a foot.
Another one of the high schools invited me to their weekly flag-raising ceremony. I got up soon after 5 am to be able get ready and bike there before 6:40 am. After the ceremony the principal asked me to say a few words before the entire student body. I asked how many students I was looking at - eleven hundred.
At one of the two schools in Tsévié, I went class to class to greet participating tenth grade students. When I asked how they liked their first lesson (which their teachers had given them earlier in the week) they whooped and hollered that it was EXCELLENTE! FANTASTIQUE! FORMIDABLE!
The second part of the project is at a local guild which unites various tradesmen and women - carpenters, electricians, photographers, tailors, hair dressers and blacksmiths, to name a few. Here, a group of five young adults who had already been trained in Life Skills at an annual Peace Corps summer camp, facilitated around 10 hours of training to a select group of tradesmen. Starting on January 11, these tradesmen will begin a rotation as teachers of a weekly class on Life Skills for their apprentices. At least 50 apprentices, if not more, should be present at any given weekly Life Skills session.
In Togo, youth who abandon their formal education can become apprentices and learn a trade. The education level of these apprentices, therefore, varies a lot. Some have almost completed high school, others never finished junior high or primary school. Since the French language level of many of these young people is very low, the lessons will be conducted in local language - Ewe.
I'll put up pictures of this stuff in my next post but for now let me say, again, THANK YOU.
Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah!
P.S. Did you check out our TV special with Sandre Lee? :) Life is unfair - I still haven't been able to watch it but why should I deny you a link? click here to laugh at the Sobiloffs
13 December 2009
28 November 2009
Guest Post: Mike Sobiloff
Hello all, just a reminder that anyone kind and cool enough to visit me in West Africa is invited to write a guest post for my blog. Voila, thus, a message from my loving bro who came to visit me in BF not once but TWICE! while he studied abroad in Ghana. Love you, Michael. And merci beaucoup!
I’ve been meaning to write an entry in my sister’s blog for months now, but as things go, it took me a while to finally buckle down and do it. But I’m glad I did.
I had the fortune of visiting Belehede with two of my friends during my five-month stay in Ghana. It was a weird feeling going to a place that I had been hearing about for nearly two years at that point. Before that, Belehede was kind of an abstraction to me—in the middle of nowhere, no electricity, no running water, Burkinabe, Christina.
I think that for most of us, such is our understanding of that part of the world. And yes, all those things are true. Christina was living almost literally in the middle of nowhere. She was living with the bare minimum, in a place where no one spoke English, where most people can’t read or write, where she was the only white face for miles. Throw your Western sensibilities out the window. It’s different.
But she’s managed to do it, right? And she’s staying in Western Africa for at least another year.
Why?
How?
Granted, she’s a wonderful person who is resilient, headstrong and determined, but how could someone live in a place that to most of us is so completely foreign and terrifying?
Everyone wonders is she in danger? Africa is place full of guerilla war, militaristic dictatorships, wild animals and savages. Turn on the news, and you’ll hear about widespread AIDS, violent protests, vicious tribalism, and female circumcision. In movies we see blood diamonds, genocide, and 2000 pound crocodiles. Right?
Well yeah, Africa has that stuff. But that’s the thing, Africa is not a monolith, or a one-headed beast. Africa is a continent comprised of 53 different countries, and countless more distinct cultures and traditions*. But you don’t hear the good things. You hear about the war, the famine, the disease, and justifiably, it freaks you out.
But that’s the thing.
My first time in Burkina Faso, I was sitting in a gorgeous outdoor garden in Ouagadougou, watching a live band play, eating and drinking with friends from Ghana, Burkina, and America. I was there with my Reporting Africa class, covering a bi-annual pan-African film festival in Ouaga. At that point, I had seen a lot of movies, toured around the city, and spent rare quality time with my sister. I couldn’t have been happier. So I called home.
I had figured something out at that point, that few Westerns have the good fortune to ever realize—our way of life here in America is just one of many. So, I assured my parents that living in Africa doesn’t require you to give up everything you have and know. It is different, absolutely, but that’s what ends up being so wonderful about it. Because in my experience, different doesn’t usually mean worse, but whether we are willing to admit it or not, I think that too many people assume that it does.
From early on, we are told that America is the greatest country in the world. We have freedom, we have a working government—we’re civilized, privileged, better. But how do you quantify good and bad? I don’t think you can or should, but we tend to act like the world is a binary place. Africa is poor. America is wealthy. Africa is wild. America is cultured. Africa is backwards. America is a template that all other countries should try to emulate.
I disagree. The reason that I was so happy during my time abroad was that Africa is different. There is something delightful about becoming African, so to speak. Things that seem like such a big deal here suddenly become less important. You slow down, and buy what you eat that day. You meet everyone. And though it may seem like a different world on the surface, there is so much that you aren’t seeing.
So, my point is that yes, she’s safe. Safer than you could probably imagine. And how is Christina able to spend so much time away from home? I think she’s of the attitude that anywhere is home if you have the capacity to love it. She’s made Burkina Faso and Togo her homes. For me, Ghana feels like home. I have friends there that I’ll know for a lifetime. The sights, the smells, the noises are all comforting and inviting to me. The people, though culturally and economically different from us, are essentially the same. The things I do with my friends in New York are more-or-less what I do with my friends in Ghana. We play music. We watch movies. We talk about girls and wingman for each other. We stay up an extra hour at 3 am after a long night of drinking, because at 4 we can get something to eat.
So you find your niche. I was surprised, studying at the University of Ghana to find that I liked the students in my drumming class more than those in my journalism class. What I’m hoping to convey is that I shouldn’t have been surprised. I can’t stand most of the journalism kids at NYU**, but I’ve always hung out with musicians. That’s what everyone in America should understand—that from afar, you’re rarely seeing the whole picture.
Think about it. Right now, you have many different perceptions of the African continent. Where did you get them from? Chances are, you can’t say specifically. The news, I guess. Movies, yeah. Africa might come up in a conversation. Christina’s blog, hopefully. For me that’s problematic. I was surprised that I liked the musicians more, because I hadn’t imagined that I could relate to Ghanaians the way I do to Americans. And why would I? Our perception of that part of the world is shaped pretty much entirely by things that we think we know, because nobody tells us otherwise.
But people are people, and people are what make places what they are. Christina is surrounded by wonderful people, and not just the other Peace Corps volunteers, or the Burkinabe who she worked directly with, but the vendors, the mothers, the children, whoever. We owe it to them to stop and reconsider what we know. And while it’s alarming to find out how much of what we know is wrong, it’s also a gift.
The happiest I’ve been in three and a half years of college was a period of five months in Ghana. That isn’t to say that I haven’t been happy in college, but I was really happy in Ghana. Leaving was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But I’ll go back, hopefully many times over the course of my life, because I now understand the value of having a few homes. There is a lot standing in the way of the continent that I love so much, and it is up to us—those who are lucky enough to be exposed to the other side—to make sure that Africa is not forgotten. Because though we do not see the repercussions of centuries of rampant and violent imperialism day to day, those repercussions are vast. And the people that face them are not savages who don’t understand how to integrate into the civilized Western world. They are people. People who have gone to great lengths to take care of Christina and me. They are family, they are friends, they are you and me.
*Think of it this way. When referring to France, you say France. If you’re talking about anniversary of the Berlin wall falling, it’s in Germany. But how many times have you said something like “My friend/relative/coworker Christina is in Africa right now,” or “I donate money every month to children in Africa.” She’s in Burkina Faso or Togo, and those kids could be anywhere. It may seem like I’m splitting hairs, but that kind of language homogenizes Africans, making it easier for policy makers to distort our understanding of Africa, while robbing individual cultures of their identities. (I realize that throughout this post, I will repeatedly say “Africa” instead of naming a specific country. In those instances, I am either deliberately referring to Africa as a whole, or to “Africa” as we perceive it)
**I didn’t hate or even dislike the people in my journalism class in Ghana. I liked them a lot actually. But I found that I related to the musicians, dancers and actors more. The journalism folks were kind of nerdy.
I’ve been meaning to write an entry in my sister’s blog for months now, but as things go, it took me a while to finally buckle down and do it. But I’m glad I did.
I had the fortune of visiting Belehede with two of my friends during my five-month stay in Ghana. It was a weird feeling going to a place that I had been hearing about for nearly two years at that point. Before that, Belehede was kind of an abstraction to me—in the middle of nowhere, no electricity, no running water, Burkinabe, Christina.
I think that for most of us, such is our understanding of that part of the world. And yes, all those things are true. Christina was living almost literally in the middle of nowhere. She was living with the bare minimum, in a place where no one spoke English, where most people can’t read or write, where she was the only white face for miles. Throw your Western sensibilities out the window. It’s different.
But she’s managed to do it, right? And she’s staying in Western Africa for at least another year.
Why?
How?
Granted, she’s a wonderful person who is resilient, headstrong and determined, but how could someone live in a place that to most of us is so completely foreign and terrifying?
Everyone wonders is she in danger? Africa is place full of guerilla war, militaristic dictatorships, wild animals and savages. Turn on the news, and you’ll hear about widespread AIDS, violent protests, vicious tribalism, and female circumcision. In movies we see blood diamonds, genocide, and 2000 pound crocodiles. Right?
Well yeah, Africa has that stuff. But that’s the thing, Africa is not a monolith, or a one-headed beast. Africa is a continent comprised of 53 different countries, and countless more distinct cultures and traditions*. But you don’t hear the good things. You hear about the war, the famine, the disease, and justifiably, it freaks you out.
But that’s the thing.
My first time in Burkina Faso, I was sitting in a gorgeous outdoor garden in Ouagadougou, watching a live band play, eating and drinking with friends from Ghana, Burkina, and America. I was there with my Reporting Africa class, covering a bi-annual pan-African film festival in Ouaga. At that point, I had seen a lot of movies, toured around the city, and spent rare quality time with my sister. I couldn’t have been happier. So I called home.
I had figured something out at that point, that few Westerns have the good fortune to ever realize—our way of life here in America is just one of many. So, I assured my parents that living in Africa doesn’t require you to give up everything you have and know. It is different, absolutely, but that’s what ends up being so wonderful about it. Because in my experience, different doesn’t usually mean worse, but whether we are willing to admit it or not, I think that too many people assume that it does.
From early on, we are told that America is the greatest country in the world. We have freedom, we have a working government—we’re civilized, privileged, better. But how do you quantify good and bad? I don’t think you can or should, but we tend to act like the world is a binary place. Africa is poor. America is wealthy. Africa is wild. America is cultured. Africa is backwards. America is a template that all other countries should try to emulate.
I disagree. The reason that I was so happy during my time abroad was that Africa is different. There is something delightful about becoming African, so to speak. Things that seem like such a big deal here suddenly become less important. You slow down, and buy what you eat that day. You meet everyone. And though it may seem like a different world on the surface, there is so much that you aren’t seeing.
So, my point is that yes, she’s safe. Safer than you could probably imagine. And how is Christina able to spend so much time away from home? I think she’s of the attitude that anywhere is home if you have the capacity to love it. She’s made Burkina Faso and Togo her homes. For me, Ghana feels like home. I have friends there that I’ll know for a lifetime. The sights, the smells, the noises are all comforting and inviting to me. The people, though culturally and economically different from us, are essentially the same. The things I do with my friends in New York are more-or-less what I do with my friends in Ghana. We play music. We watch movies. We talk about girls and wingman for each other. We stay up an extra hour at 3 am after a long night of drinking, because at 4 we can get something to eat.
So you find your niche. I was surprised, studying at the University of Ghana to find that I liked the students in my drumming class more than those in my journalism class. What I’m hoping to convey is that I shouldn’t have been surprised. I can’t stand most of the journalism kids at NYU**, but I’ve always hung out with musicians. That’s what everyone in America should understand—that from afar, you’re rarely seeing the whole picture.
Think about it. Right now, you have many different perceptions of the African continent. Where did you get them from? Chances are, you can’t say specifically. The news, I guess. Movies, yeah. Africa might come up in a conversation. Christina’s blog, hopefully. For me that’s problematic. I was surprised that I liked the musicians more, because I hadn’t imagined that I could relate to Ghanaians the way I do to Americans. And why would I? Our perception of that part of the world is shaped pretty much entirely by things that we think we know, because nobody tells us otherwise.
But people are people, and people are what make places what they are. Christina is surrounded by wonderful people, and not just the other Peace Corps volunteers, or the Burkinabe who she worked directly with, but the vendors, the mothers, the children, whoever. We owe it to them to stop and reconsider what we know. And while it’s alarming to find out how much of what we know is wrong, it’s also a gift.
The happiest I’ve been in three and a half years of college was a period of five months in Ghana. That isn’t to say that I haven’t been happy in college, but I was really happy in Ghana. Leaving was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But I’ll go back, hopefully many times over the course of my life, because I now understand the value of having a few homes. There is a lot standing in the way of the continent that I love so much, and it is up to us—those who are lucky enough to be exposed to the other side—to make sure that Africa is not forgotten. Because though we do not see the repercussions of centuries of rampant and violent imperialism day to day, those repercussions are vast. And the people that face them are not savages who don’t understand how to integrate into the civilized Western world. They are people. People who have gone to great lengths to take care of Christina and me. They are family, they are friends, they are you and me.
*Think of it this way. When referring to France, you say France. If you’re talking about anniversary of the Berlin wall falling, it’s in Germany. But how many times have you said something like “My friend/relative/coworker Christina is in Africa right now,” or “I donate money every month to children in Africa.” She’s in Burkina Faso or Togo, and those kids could be anywhere. It may seem like I’m splitting hairs, but that kind of language homogenizes Africans, making it easier for policy makers to distort our understanding of Africa, while robbing individual cultures of their identities. (I realize that throughout this post, I will repeatedly say “Africa” instead of naming a specific country. In those instances, I am either deliberately referring to Africa as a whole, or to “Africa” as we perceive it)
**I didn’t hate or even dislike the people in my journalism class in Ghana. I liked them a lot actually. But I found that I related to the musicians, dancers and actors more. The journalism folks were kind of nerdy.
13 November 2009
Goldie Locks gives up artificial color (for now)
America is too much.
I was home for the month of October and it was a fantastic trip. I was lucky to be able to see many friends and family, eat too much good food* and travel around to get the most out of every minute. Did anyone read that book – Eat, Pray, Love? I'm not recommending it. The themes of the book are: fretting, feasting, feeling and falling in love. Bleeeg. So I read this book probably a year ago and today am “fretting” and “feeling” confused: why can I relate to that stuff?
Because America is too much. I went home to America to do the following things: eat, drink, purchase and dress up. In that book this woman had a crisis and then took a year-long, three-part trip traveling to Italy (to indulge), India (to introspect) and then to Indones... well who cares? Here's how I'll sum it up: binge, purge, recover. Does that sound familiar to any of you girls? Any of you people in America? Have we not, as America women, not all gone through periods of such? WHY?
I went to Best Buy to get a cheap laptop and my camera fixed. There was only one problem with it – the screen was broken. When I asked the guy for help about fixing it I swear he did a double take – like he was stretching to the depths of his memory to recall the last time someone asked him such a question. -Did you buy the camera here? -I don't know. -Is it old? -No, I don't think so – it looked like new when I took it from my Dad two and a half years ago. -So its over a year old? You can't fix it. We don't carry any of those old parts. -So you cannot fix it even though it works like brand new except this one, isolated, broken part? -Well I could check with the geek gang for you...? You know where this story goes: it would cost just about as much if not more to fix the old camera as to buy a new one.
I DON'T WANT TO BUY A NEW CAMERA. I want to fix my OLD ONE. But I won't. Is this my fault?? That I'm eventually going to chuck an almost-perfectly good piece of electronic equipment simply because its a) cheaper to buy a new one, b) impossible to recycle it via Best Buy, c) complicated to figure out where the heck to bring it to and maybe not even worth it once I factor in the distance I'll have to drive, alone, in a gas-guzzling car borrowed from my parents to the end location? I DON'T WANT TO LIVE IN AMERICA. I don't want these kinds of problems. When I'm in my parents' home, I am totally overwhelmed by the amount of STUFF. Why so much stuff? I want to change them – I want to help them purge and recover. Here, let me be in charge of collecting things for the Vietnam Vets (that's where my family donates old clothes and excess stuff). Mom, you don't need this and do you still want this? And this can't possibly fit you – let me help you with that. Of course, this is a never-ending process. I come home, metaphorically binge and purge – riding the familiar wave of American culture – then leave desperate to get back to my “normal” life. I yearn for my routine, my small house, my yoga mat...
Ever read Out of Africa? Well I do recommend this book about another woman who goes on long trip and never really comes back. Issak Dinesen, a bad-ass/ pioneering, Danish woman discovers where she really belongs in colonized Kenya and then stays for the rest of her life. Meryl Streep played her in the movie. Well I can gladly relate to this woman who came to love and understand a people and a place so different from her own. She learned the local language; she integrated. I have come to love Burkina and Togo in my own way too. In fact, I'd go as far to say that I couldn't be happier in my present situation. But a few months in Togo and I'll yearn for more comfort, more options, kickboxing classes and running routes...
West Africa is not enough.
Even last week – I got back and had to majorly readjust. What is it? What is it about all this? America is definitely too much. I left home sad to see myself go, once again, away from my loving family, and emotionally hungover from too much socializing, indulging and fun.
What is it about being in West Africa? Well, I miss things that smell sweet. I miss perfume and scented candles and body lotions that don't just attract dust, dirt, mosquitoes and insects. I miss impenetrable roofs and glass windows. I miss living without fear of accidentally sleeping with a cockroach. I miss indoor climate control and blankets. I miss warm and cold faucets, showers and machines that wash. I miss paved roads and concrete. I miss carpet and clean bare feet. I miss refrigeration. I miss seasons.
Why don't well-educated Togolese have offices with computers and the internet? Why hasn't an average Burkinabe ever read a book and never will? Why don't village girls go to school? Why is a woman second and a man first?
Why do Africans want to be fat? Why do Americans want to be thin? Why do I need makeup in America? And why is it not worth it in Burkina or Togo?
So where is best? Where is balanced and mixed and reasonable? Where can I walk with clean, bare feet; get my new-looking, old camera fixed; put on heals; take a yoga class; learn to dance; train modestly to run; pick up a local language while still using my English and French; get where I'm going on foot, bike or public transport; see a movie in a theater or go to a play; have a job with freedom and responsibility; cook good food with fresh ingredients or go out to eat; meet interesting people, see beautiful things and experience changing seasons?
Where is my oatmeal porridge not too hot and not too cold? Where is just right?
I don't know. In case you were wondering. I have absolutely no idea where I am going. In case you thought I did. But I like my natural hair color, people, and won't be changing it any time soon.
*You may or may not have heard that my family and I were filmed for an hour-long segment of a four-part TV special with Sandra Lee on holidays, homecomings, celebrations and family traditions. We were the heartwarming, homecoming part. So the first thing I did in America was change my clothes and put on makeup for the bright lights awaiting me at the departure gate of Kennedy airport. The first thing I did upon arrival to my house in New Jersey after open presents for the family was eat cheese, on camera.
I was home for the month of October and it was a fantastic trip. I was lucky to be able to see many friends and family, eat too much good food* and travel around to get the most out of every minute. Did anyone read that book – Eat, Pray, Love? I'm not recommending it. The themes of the book are: fretting, feasting, feeling and falling in love. Bleeeg. So I read this book probably a year ago and today am “fretting” and “feeling” confused: why can I relate to that stuff?
Because America is too much. I went home to America to do the following things: eat, drink, purchase and dress up. In that book this woman had a crisis and then took a year-long, three-part trip traveling to Italy (to indulge), India (to introspect) and then to Indones... well who cares? Here's how I'll sum it up: binge, purge, recover. Does that sound familiar to any of you girls? Any of you people in America? Have we not, as America women, not all gone through periods of such? WHY?
I went to Best Buy to get a cheap laptop and my camera fixed. There was only one problem with it – the screen was broken. When I asked the guy for help about fixing it I swear he did a double take – like he was stretching to the depths of his memory to recall the last time someone asked him such a question. -Did you buy the camera here? -I don't know. -Is it old? -No, I don't think so – it looked like new when I took it from my Dad two and a half years ago. -So its over a year old? You can't fix it. We don't carry any of those old parts. -So you cannot fix it even though it works like brand new except this one, isolated, broken part? -Well I could check with the geek gang for you...? You know where this story goes: it would cost just about as much if not more to fix the old camera as to buy a new one.
I DON'T WANT TO BUY A NEW CAMERA. I want to fix my OLD ONE. But I won't. Is this my fault?? That I'm eventually going to chuck an almost-perfectly good piece of electronic equipment simply because its a) cheaper to buy a new one, b) impossible to recycle it via Best Buy, c) complicated to figure out where the heck to bring it to and maybe not even worth it once I factor in the distance I'll have to drive, alone, in a gas-guzzling car borrowed from my parents to the end location? I DON'T WANT TO LIVE IN AMERICA. I don't want these kinds of problems. When I'm in my parents' home, I am totally overwhelmed by the amount of STUFF. Why so much stuff? I want to change them – I want to help them purge and recover. Here, let me be in charge of collecting things for the Vietnam Vets (that's where my family donates old clothes and excess stuff). Mom, you don't need this and do you still want this? And this can't possibly fit you – let me help you with that. Of course, this is a never-ending process. I come home, metaphorically binge and purge – riding the familiar wave of American culture – then leave desperate to get back to my “normal” life. I yearn for my routine, my small house, my yoga mat...
Ever read Out of Africa? Well I do recommend this book about another woman who goes on long trip and never really comes back. Issak Dinesen, a bad-ass/ pioneering, Danish woman discovers where she really belongs in colonized Kenya and then stays for the rest of her life. Meryl Streep played her in the movie. Well I can gladly relate to this woman who came to love and understand a people and a place so different from her own. She learned the local language; she integrated. I have come to love Burkina and Togo in my own way too. In fact, I'd go as far to say that I couldn't be happier in my present situation. But a few months in Togo and I'll yearn for more comfort, more options, kickboxing classes and running routes...
West Africa is not enough.
Even last week – I got back and had to majorly readjust. What is it? What is it about all this? America is definitely too much. I left home sad to see myself go, once again, away from my loving family, and emotionally hungover from too much socializing, indulging and fun.
What is it about being in West Africa? Well, I miss things that smell sweet. I miss perfume and scented candles and body lotions that don't just attract dust, dirt, mosquitoes and insects. I miss impenetrable roofs and glass windows. I miss living without fear of accidentally sleeping with a cockroach. I miss indoor climate control and blankets. I miss warm and cold faucets, showers and machines that wash. I miss paved roads and concrete. I miss carpet and clean bare feet. I miss refrigeration. I miss seasons.
Why don't well-educated Togolese have offices with computers and the internet? Why hasn't an average Burkinabe ever read a book and never will? Why don't village girls go to school? Why is a woman second and a man first?
Why do Africans want to be fat? Why do Americans want to be thin? Why do I need makeup in America? And why is it not worth it in Burkina or Togo?
So where is best? Where is balanced and mixed and reasonable? Where can I walk with clean, bare feet; get my new-looking, old camera fixed; put on heals; take a yoga class; learn to dance; train modestly to run; pick up a local language while still using my English and French; get where I'm going on foot, bike or public transport; see a movie in a theater or go to a play; have a job with freedom and responsibility; cook good food with fresh ingredients or go out to eat; meet interesting people, see beautiful things and experience changing seasons?
Where is my oatmeal porridge not too hot and not too cold? Where is just right?
I don't know. In case you were wondering. I have absolutely no idea where I am going. In case you thought I did. But I like my natural hair color, people, and won't be changing it any time soon.
*You may or may not have heard that my family and I were filmed for an hour-long segment of a four-part TV special with Sandra Lee on holidays, homecomings, celebrations and family traditions. We were the heartwarming, homecoming part. So the first thing I did in America was change my clothes and put on makeup for the bright lights awaiting me at the departure gate of Kennedy airport. The first thing I did upon arrival to my house in New Jersey after open presents for the family was eat cheese, on camera.
15 October 2009
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Lomé
I doubted my decision to do a third year in Togo. Why did I not just do it in the capital of Burkina? Ouagadougou is a cool city with great restaurants, a vibrant expat community, several movie theaters and a flowing rotation of fun volunteers/ people whom I already know... So I thought, as I sleepily watched the Togolese countryside roll by, WHY am I here?
Upon arrival to Togo's capital, Lomé, I felt a bit better. Peace Corps chauffeured me across town to catch the end of a beach party and a small group of volunteers took me out for a sloppy dinner of cheeseburgers and fries. Better...
I was struck during my first few weeks in Togo by the look of its infrastructure, as compared to Burkina. Togo has cement buildings, tourist hotels and abundant signs indicating former development projects. Burkina volunteers go to Togo on vacation to visit the beach, climb a mountain, chase butterflies and eat "awesome" street food.
But Peace Corps Volunteers love to compete about who's got it tough, tougher and the toughest. When I left Ouaga, Burkina volunteers wished me - good luck in paradise. When I arrived in Lomé, Togo volunteers stared at me - what are you doing here? Togo volunteers go to Ouaga for vacation.
In Togo the buildings are crumbling, the hotels are empty and the signs planted by the European Union are faded and old. There are noticeably more expats in Ouaga than in Lomé. In my first month in Togo I heard more stories about corruption and bribes than I witnessed in my first few months in Burkina. I was asked for a bribe when getting on the plane to America at the beginning of October. Où est mon cadeau?
Togo looks as if it was developing fast at some point, maybe 30 years ago... While traveling in Burkina I'd see expanses of mud houses and mud-brick walls sheltered with straw-thatched roofs. In Togo I see rocks and ruins speckled with trash. Discarded, black, plastic bags abound in BOTH country-sides. Maybe it is the relative abundance of rain in Togo that encourages people to avoid mud-houses. Or maybe there was money invested at some point that was not sustainable.
I heard recently that the seaport of Lomé is the deepest in West Africa. (Fact check?)* As you know, Burkina Faso is landlocked and dependent on appropriate weather to sustain its agriculture-based economy. In September more than 150,000 Burkinabé (10% of the total population) were left homeless after the Ouaga-based floods.
But enough comparing mangoes to bananas and let's return to my initial concern upon arrival to Togo - WHY am I here? Well, I came to continue working to promote girls. Togo was the first Peace Corps country to launch the Girls' Education and Empowerment program in 1999. Burkina launched their program in 2005. In Burkina, my former village will be the first community to have had three consecutive girls' education volunteers working in their community. In Togo, I am living in a small city where I am the first full-time girls' education volunteer.**
In Togo I am reaching big - actually I am hoping to train an ambitious 82 resource people including superintendents, high school principals, vice principals and teachers to affect positive behavior change in youth via "Life Skills" lessons on safe and healthy living. These partners will launch youth clubs in five high schools and one guild aiming to directly reach almost 2,000 students or apprentices and indirectly affect the community at large. If you are interested in more information, post on the blog and I will send you an email. My counterparts and I have set a fundraising goal of $5,007 to execute this year-long, pilot project. If our work is successful, my Togolese counterparts hope to expand the project to more high schools in the region. If you are interested in contributing to this work - click here and know you are awesome.
So, to answer my question, I came to Togo to do the same kind of work but at a higher level. I came to attempt another year of Peace Corps work that was sustainable. The first goal of Peace Corps is to help the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women. I know I made a positive impact on my community in Burkina Faso but how much of our work will they carry on without me? Very little to none. Here in Togo I am reaching big and aiming to train resource people to design, organize and implement their own project that they would sustain and scale up in the future if possible. Thinking bigger! Wish me luck.
*From an Associate Peace Corps Director/friend - "That's right Lome is the deepest port in West Africa. The trouble is that if you ship to Togo, and you offload to Togo, you stuff ends up in Togo. And Togo doesn't have the infrastructure to get stuff elsewhere (regionally). It is (probably) the largest used car lot in the world because cars can leave one at a time, but a container of cheese? That risks rotting waiting in front of a broken bridge en route to Ouaga. Which, tragically happened last year leaving me without cheese."
** Volunteers from other sectors have lead girls-related activities in my site, Tsévié, as secondary projects.
***Right now I am in America but in Tsévié I have access to the internet every day. Keep in touch and I will try my best to do the same on this blog.
27 September 2009
Respect
Here is a difference between American and West African culture. The Togolese and Burkinabe are collectivist; they identify with groups, think in terms of families and define themselves in relation to others around them. Americans are individualist - me, Me, ME! What do I want to do with my life? What have I done to make you respect me? Or more importantly, maybe, what HAVEN'T I done to have your respect?
West Africans respect their elders, in general, and very old people, specifically. They respect people with "salary jobs" and those above them in heirarchies. They respect government officials. They respect people with advanced educations.
As an individualist American, I think about what I want and what I do and don't mind. So first of all, I do mind being respected for the color of my skin. This is afforded at restaurants and shops, in cars and sometimes in the street and it is based on the assumption that "the white" has money (or power?) to spend.
I mind being respected because I am American, just a bit. How proud should I be for the positive image my country has apparently cultivated here? In these two former French colonies? I'm proud of my country for having a "Peace" Corps, I guess, but that's just one thing... Whites have money; Americans have money. Whites and Americans get respect. But I mind this because what have I done to earn it? My individualism is relentless. I want to know that I deserve what I've got because I've done something to get it. I want credit.
There's no I in CHRISTINA... oh wait... actually, there are two.
But here's where my thought process falls apart. I don't at all mind being respected for being a woman. Huh? Being white, being American, being a woman - I had nothing to do with any of this. I can't take any credit for the way these chips fell. But I want my womanly respect - and I can't quite feel that it has nothing to do with me.
Apart from this, why should I want respect? For being a hard worker? For having completed a university education? For being able to speak French? Hhmm. I can't say that I owe these things just to myself.
For being a firstborn? For having well-liked parents? For enjoying esteem from friends? Hhmm. Again.
I'm an American. I'm individualist. I don't want you to tell me what to do and I want to work to earn what I deserve and then, of course, to OWN it.
But there is something to thinking as a group. It may be worth admiting that every individual is defined by their interaction with and relation to the groups and the cultures surrounding them.
Don't respect me because I am white. Respect me because I manage my emotions.
Yovo? Yovo?
YOVO-YOVO-BONSOIR-CAVABIEN?-MERCIIIIIII....!!!
Don't respect me because I am American. Respect me because I would eat anything you put in front of me at least twice just to make you happy.
Green slime and sticky birdseed dough or to avec la sauce gumbo.
Don't respect my education, my sense of adventure, my ability to speak a second language - that's just the hand I was dealt and played.
J'aimerais bien parler avec vous pour ameliorer mon francais et mieux comprendre votre culture...
But do respect me as a woman. And I'll respect you as a man, or a woman or something else. We should all get one thing we care about most, shouldn't we? One identity card that trumps everything. Respect me because I'm me. Respect me because I am one of us.
West Africans respect their elders, in general, and very old people, specifically. They respect people with "salary jobs" and those above them in heirarchies. They respect government officials. They respect people with advanced educations.
As an individualist American, I think about what I want and what I do and don't mind. So first of all, I do mind being respected for the color of my skin. This is afforded at restaurants and shops, in cars and sometimes in the street and it is based on the assumption that "the white" has money (or power?) to spend.
I mind being respected because I am American, just a bit. How proud should I be for the positive image my country has apparently cultivated here? In these two former French colonies? I'm proud of my country for having a "Peace" Corps, I guess, but that's just one thing... Whites have money; Americans have money. Whites and Americans get respect. But I mind this because what have I done to earn it? My individualism is relentless. I want to know that I deserve what I've got because I've done something to get it. I want credit.
There's no I in CHRISTINA... oh wait... actually, there are two.
But here's where my thought process falls apart. I don't at all mind being respected for being a woman. Huh? Being white, being American, being a woman - I had nothing to do with any of this. I can't take any credit for the way these chips fell. But I want my womanly respect - and I can't quite feel that it has nothing to do with me.
Apart from this, why should I want respect? For being a hard worker? For having completed a university education? For being able to speak French? Hhmm. I can't say that I owe these things just to myself.
For being a firstborn? For having well-liked parents? For enjoying esteem from friends? Hhmm. Again.
I'm an American. I'm individualist. I don't want you to tell me what to do and I want to work to earn what I deserve and then, of course, to OWN it.
But there is something to thinking as a group. It may be worth admiting that every individual is defined by their interaction with and relation to the groups and the cultures surrounding them.
Don't respect me because I am white. Respect me because I manage my emotions.
Yovo? Yovo?
YOVO-YOVO-BONSOIR-CAVABIEN?-MERCIIIIIII....!!!
Don't respect me because I am American. Respect me because I would eat anything you put in front of me at least twice just to make you happy.
Green slime and sticky birdseed dough or to avec la sauce gumbo.
Don't respect my education, my sense of adventure, my ability to speak a second language - that's just the hand I was dealt and played.
J'aimerais bien parler avec vous pour ameliorer mon francais et mieux comprendre votre culture...
But do respect me as a woman. And I'll respect you as a man, or a woman or something else. We should all get one thing we care about most, shouldn't we? One identity card that trumps everything. Respect me because I'm me. Respect me because I am one of us.
06 September 2009
Au Togo
I've moved! I left village, left Djibo, left Ouaga and finally left Burkina Faso. Where did I go? America? No!! Je suis allée au peitit Togo!
I am still a Peace Corps Volunteer promoting girls' education and empowerment but have now become a "third year volunteer" aka overly enthusiastic nutso who has elected to spend yet another year living on $8 a day, baths with a cup and bucket and semi-annual bouts of dysentery. So that's me - crazy Peace Corps VIP or loon depending on how you look at it - and I'll be around, blogging on West Africa through September 2010.
Here's my new contact info should you be awesome enough to use it:
Christina Sobiloff, PCV
Corps de la Paix
BP 3194, Lomé
TOGO, West Africa
cell phone: + 228 974 36 25 (I can receive texts!)
À bientôt…
I am still a Peace Corps Volunteer promoting girls' education and empowerment but have now become a "third year volunteer" aka overly enthusiastic nutso who has elected to spend yet another year living on $8 a day, baths with a cup and bucket and semi-annual bouts of dysentery. So that's me - crazy Peace Corps VIP or loon depending on how you look at it - and I'll be around, blogging on West Africa through September 2010.
Here's my new contact info should you be awesome enough to use it:
Christina Sobiloff, PCV
Corps de la Paix
BP 3194, Lomé
TOGO, West Africa
cell phone: + 228 974 36 25 (I can receive texts!)
À bientôt…
15 July 2009
World Map (Part III) - Pagne Project (Part I)
Let me start where I left off last time. Following the Ambassador's visit in December, the teachers wrote an ambitious requête or proposal for various donations to the school. They asked for: solar panels to light the classrooms at night; a computer (and electricity generator) to keep better school records; sports equipment to use in physical education with the kids; sound equipment to do theater and awareness raising activities with the community; books in French for students to read; and a partnership with an American school.
I emailed the Ambassador. She responded quickly and congratulated my community on their ambitious requests. She explained what the Embassy could and couldn't do to help: if we wanted to make a partnership with an American school or procure books in French we would have to do it on our own but for the other requests the Embassy could potentially help. She recommended that I meet with her Head Economics Officer to discuss grant options. Great.
Around this time I was also surprisingly busy: I had three fabulous friends come to visit from America and subsequently took an unexpected trip to the USA myself to see a sick grandparent. While I was home I visited the third grade classroom of my own elementary school friend who has now become "Miss Niland". I had the kids from Béléhédé write to her class once and when her class returned the favor they also sent over a large, bountiful package mostly full of books in French!! The efforts of these third grade children in Harrington Park have significantly touched the community in Béléhédé including the parents' associations, the teachers and the students themselves. These books are the foundation for -- and very first contributions to -- a school library which the community hopes to build in the future. THANK YOU.
When I met with the economics officer at the Embassy she advised applying for their "Pagne Grant". Pagnes are the patterned, brightly colored fabrics with which almost all Burkinabé clothes are made. Women wrap these cloths around their waists, busts, heads and backs where they serve as skirts, house dresses, towels, head coverings and baby-holders. Men get them made into booboos, pants, shirts and children's clothing. People twist money into their corners -- bundling in coins or bills with a strong knot -- and wrap their belongings in them when they travel. In theory people could use them to filter very dirty water by placing them over their canneries or clay pots where they cool their drinking water but I actually haven't seen anyone do that. So...
The Embassy got special pagnes printed with patterns that symbolize collaboration between Burkina Faso and the USA to give out to Burkinabé associations and Peace Corps Volunteers applying for small-medium grants. We applied for this grant requesting the equivalent of over 1,000,000 cfa ($2,000) to pay for solar panels, a computer, a generator, sound equipment and sports equipment. The Embassy decided to fund us for ALL of these requests excepting sports equipment since the Head Economics Officer herself gave me an in kind donation to walk away with after our interview. Nice!
Of course this process took a couple of months. On May 11 I picked up the pagnes and sent them off to arrive in village by May 13. There are 708 of them. Let me give you some perspective. To make a full, head to toe, long sleeves/ long skirt outfit it would take 2. If you are a baller and show up to a baptism with an above and beyond gift for the new mother you would give her 1. If you are a functionnaire and have a family you might decide to go ahead and spend the money to buy them in sets of 3. (That's how they are intended to be sold.)
From the beginning of the initiative I insisted that the people responsible for the project be women. I added (in truth) and then exaggerated (in my own interest) the fact that the Embassy prefers to grant money to female-driven associations. So we put the request in the name of our Association Meres Educatrices or the mothers' PTA. Later, the Embassy came to check out the association and met with a wider group of women from my village who were interested in the project. In the end they created a committee du gestion or a managing committee of 12 women to execute the sale of all 708 pagnes. The school director also selected one teacher to serve as the general project manager and overseer of funds. Together they opened an account in the village credit union.
Challenges: 6 of the pagnes were destroyed or went missing on transport. The Embassy gave enough pagnes to cover the costs of the equipment requested but not enough to cover unexpected costs like transporting them, etc. Rumors circulated in the village: one went that the pagnes were a gift intended to become school uniforms that the teachers had stolen and were now selling for profit.
Solutions: I called a meeting and invited the "whole community". Most people came 2-3 hours late (typical) but we had about 80 people. I told the "story" of all that had happened from the day of the Ambassador's visit on December 20 up until this very meeting six months later. I asked the project manager to give an account of the budget and all financial matters. We noted that from before the first pagne sale, the committee du gestion had decided to up the price of the pagnes by 250 cfa to cover unbugeted costs to be incurred throughout the project execution. I stressed that the people in attendance were responsible for informing their smaller communities - neighbors, families and friends about the history of this project.
The meeting dispelled rumors and testified to the fact that sales were off to a good start. We asked people to be patient and told them that this would take a long time to reach completion. At least 1/3 of the pagnes had already been sold by the day of the meeting but we noted that they probably wouldn't finish selling off until October or November following the harvest. That is the annual moment when Burkinabé start earning some money. Rainy season (during the summer months) is the time of the year when rural farmers are most broke.
I will be leaving Béléhédé on August 12 and Burkina Faso on August 21. I've learned that I'll have a replacement, his name is Charlie and he's going to be awesome! So I may give you more info about this initiative via him next year. As for myself... I was going to do a third year in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso. Unfortunately that fell through. But the good - great -- excellent (!) news is that I will still be doing a third year right next door to Burkina in TOGO.
Check it out...I can't wait to go! TOGO
TO BE CONTINUED...
P.S. My camera is broken since January so no more pictures until October. : (
I emailed the Ambassador. She responded quickly and congratulated my community on their ambitious requests. She explained what the Embassy could and couldn't do to help: if we wanted to make a partnership with an American school or procure books in French we would have to do it on our own but for the other requests the Embassy could potentially help. She recommended that I meet with her Head Economics Officer to discuss grant options. Great.
Around this time I was also surprisingly busy: I had three fabulous friends come to visit from America and subsequently took an unexpected trip to the USA myself to see a sick grandparent. While I was home I visited the third grade classroom of my own elementary school friend who has now become "Miss Niland". I had the kids from Béléhédé write to her class once and when her class returned the favor they also sent over a large, bountiful package mostly full of books in French!! The efforts of these third grade children in Harrington Park have significantly touched the community in Béléhédé including the parents' associations, the teachers and the students themselves. These books are the foundation for -- and very first contributions to -- a school library which the community hopes to build in the future. THANK YOU.
When I met with the economics officer at the Embassy she advised applying for their "Pagne Grant". Pagnes are the patterned, brightly colored fabrics with which almost all Burkinabé clothes are made. Women wrap these cloths around their waists, busts, heads and backs where they serve as skirts, house dresses, towels, head coverings and baby-holders. Men get them made into booboos, pants, shirts and children's clothing. People twist money into their corners -- bundling in coins or bills with a strong knot -- and wrap their belongings in them when they travel. In theory people could use them to filter very dirty water by placing them over their canneries or clay pots where they cool their drinking water but I actually haven't seen anyone do that. So...
The Embassy got special pagnes printed with patterns that symbolize collaboration between Burkina Faso and the USA to give out to Burkinabé associations and Peace Corps Volunteers applying for small-medium grants. We applied for this grant requesting the equivalent of over 1,000,000 cfa ($2,000) to pay for solar panels, a computer, a generator, sound equipment and sports equipment. The Embassy decided to fund us for ALL of these requests excepting sports equipment since the Head Economics Officer herself gave me an in kind donation to walk away with after our interview. Nice!
Of course this process took a couple of months. On May 11 I picked up the pagnes and sent them off to arrive in village by May 13. There are 708 of them. Let me give you some perspective. To make a full, head to toe, long sleeves/ long skirt outfit it would take 2. If you are a baller and show up to a baptism with an above and beyond gift for the new mother you would give her 1. If you are a functionnaire and have a family you might decide to go ahead and spend the money to buy them in sets of 3. (That's how they are intended to be sold.)
From the beginning of the initiative I insisted that the people responsible for the project be women. I added (in truth) and then exaggerated (in my own interest) the fact that the Embassy prefers to grant money to female-driven associations. So we put the request in the name of our Association Meres Educatrices or the mothers' PTA. Later, the Embassy came to check out the association and met with a wider group of women from my village who were interested in the project. In the end they created a committee du gestion or a managing committee of 12 women to execute the sale of all 708 pagnes. The school director also selected one teacher to serve as the general project manager and overseer of funds. Together they opened an account in the village credit union.
Challenges: 6 of the pagnes were destroyed or went missing on transport. The Embassy gave enough pagnes to cover the costs of the equipment requested but not enough to cover unexpected costs like transporting them, etc. Rumors circulated in the village: one went that the pagnes were a gift intended to become school uniforms that the teachers had stolen and were now selling for profit.
Solutions: I called a meeting and invited the "whole community". Most people came 2-3 hours late (typical) but we had about 80 people. I told the "story" of all that had happened from the day of the Ambassador's visit on December 20 up until this very meeting six months later. I asked the project manager to give an account of the budget and all financial matters. We noted that from before the first pagne sale, the committee du gestion had decided to up the price of the pagnes by 250 cfa to cover unbugeted costs to be incurred throughout the project execution. I stressed that the people in attendance were responsible for informing their smaller communities - neighbors, families and friends about the history of this project.
The meeting dispelled rumors and testified to the fact that sales were off to a good start. We asked people to be patient and told them that this would take a long time to reach completion. At least 1/3 of the pagnes had already been sold by the day of the meeting but we noted that they probably wouldn't finish selling off until October or November following the harvest. That is the annual moment when Burkinabé start earning some money. Rainy season (during the summer months) is the time of the year when rural farmers are most broke.
I will be leaving Béléhédé on August 12 and Burkina Faso on August 21. I've learned that I'll have a replacement, his name is Charlie and he's going to be awesome! So I may give you more info about this initiative via him next year. As for myself... I was going to do a third year in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso. Unfortunately that fell through. But the good - great -- excellent (!) news is that I will still be doing a third year right next door to Burkina in TOGO.
Check it out...I can't wait to go! TOGO
TO BE CONTINUED...
P.S. My camera is broken since January so no more pictures until October. : (
15 June 2009
The Princess & the Pea
I've come a long way.
When I first arrived in Burkina I had a lot of trouble sleeping. Why? Well, lots of reasons: heat, sickness, goats, baby goats, prayer-calls, cows, cockroaches, sheep, sheets, roof noises (thatched = creepy crunching and random rustling; tin = thunderous thumping and screechy scurrying) lumpy beds, hungry bed-bugs, itchy bug-bites, heat rash, and well, STRESS! So, ultimately, lack of sleep was my biggest challenge during training.
I distinctly remember the first time I cracked: It was about three weeks in and I had just fallen ill with the amoeba (although we wouldn't know it for another two weeks) and I hadn't slept for two nights. So when one friend asked me if I was feeling ok (why was he ALWAYS asking how I feel?!) I snapped: I'm freaking* FINE! -- now picture Jesse Spano from "Saved by the Bell" on the episode where she gets hooked on methamphetamines -- I'm just... soo... TIRED... sob... choke... oohh waa ha huh...
The way I remember it: when it was a reasonably late enough to go to sleep my host sister showed me to bed and shut the door. In retrospect: showed me how the door shut.
They gave me two sheets and a pillow so clearly I tucked my sheets, my mosquito net and myself into bed with sheet no. 2 draped over me. Because that's what sheets are for! In retrospect: what's with me and sheets? was I suicidal that night? or was it so genuinely hot that my brain had gone dead?
OOOOOOWWWHHHOOOOOAAAAOOOOOOOWWWWOOOOWWOOOW....
So I started to recall my research on Burkina Faso. What do I know about traditions in this country? They are Muslim, Christian and what was it - 30% Animist? Wait, did I not read somewhere that most everyone, despite their claimed religion, is an animist at heart? Could the family Tall be wailing about...ME? They are running in circles around my hut... Could this be some kind of freaky African welcoming blessing or worse - OMG - a curse??? Or maybe its a purifying ritual? But WAIT, OK -- maybe it is just an unrelated-to-me nightly household ritual. Oh God I hope not.
What do I do? Should I go outside? Should I call out something? Should I offer to participate and run the wailing circles alongside? What's culturally appropriate? No, I'm not moving. This is too wild. I've already had my door shut. But WHAT IS THIS??
When I first arrived in Burkina I had a lot of trouble sleeping. Why? Well, lots of reasons: heat, sickness, goats, baby goats, prayer-calls, cows, cockroaches, sheep, sheets, roof noises (thatched = creepy crunching and random rustling; tin = thunderous thumping and screechy scurrying) lumpy beds, hungry bed-bugs, itchy bug-bites, heat rash, and well, STRESS! So, ultimately, lack of sleep was my biggest challenge during training.
I distinctly remember the first time I cracked: It was about three weeks in and I had just fallen ill with the amoeba (although we wouldn't know it for another two weeks) and I hadn't slept for two nights. So when one friend asked me if I was feeling ok (why was he ALWAYS asking how I feel?!) I snapped: I'm freaking* FINE! -- now picture Jesse Spano from "Saved by the Bell" on the episode where she gets hooked on methamphetamines -- I'm just... soo... TIRED... sob... choke... oohh waa ha huh...
But let me rewind a bit first. Did I ever tell you about my first night in host village?
The way I remember it: when it was a reasonably late enough to go to sleep my host sister showed me to bed and shut the door. In retrospect: showed me how the door shut.
I left the door shut because clearly that was what I was supposed to do. In retrospect: NO ONE in Burkina ever sleeps inside unless it is raining. And with the door shut? Ha!
They gave me two sheets and a pillow so clearly I tucked my sheets, my mosquito net and myself into bed with sheet no. 2 draped over me. Because that's what sheets are for! In retrospect: what's with me and sheets? was I suicidal that night? or was it so genuinely hot that my brain had gone dead?
The rest of the night was a feverish bluuurr...I was losing water fast and those damn sheets were soaking wet. I kept sitting up to drink water from my nalgene until I actually had to go refill the thing. I slipped in and out of lucidity but did I ever really sleep? Then suddenly at about 11 pm or closer to midnight the wailing began.
WAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOHHHHHAAAAAAAhhhhhh... wwaaAAAAAAAAAAAaaaOOOOOOoohhhaaaaAAAAAAaaahhhhh..... WAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOWWAAAAAOOOOWWAAAAAOOOOOOOWAAAAAaaaaahhhh....
I sat straight up in bed.
AAAAAAIIIIIIIEEEEEEEOOOOOOO AAAAIIIEEEEE AIIEE AIIEEEeee aaaaaaahhh... AAAAAAIIIIIIIEEEEEEEOOOOOOO AAAAIIIEEEEE AIIEE AIIEEEeee aaaaaaahhh...
AAAAAAIIIIIIIEEEEEEEOOOOOOO AAAAIIIEEEEE AIIEE AIIEEEeee aaaaaaahhh...I even pulled the soaking sheet up to my neck. What the ....?
OOOOOOWWWHHHOOOOOAAAAOOOOOOOWWWWOOOOWWOOOW....
Then the voices starting getting closer... and louder if possible... and they were moving... wait a minute... I lept up to check the windows... (careful to illuminate my 6 foot path with a powerful flashlight)... and the voices were... OMG ... running in circles around my hut!!! AAH!!
So I started to recall my research on Burkina Faso. What do I know about traditions in this country? They are Muslim, Christian and what was it - 30% Animist? Wait, did I not read somewhere that most everyone, despite their claimed religion, is an animist at heart? Could the family Tall be wailing about...ME? They are running in circles around my hut... Could this be some kind of freaky African welcoming blessing or worse - OMG - a curse??? Or maybe its a purifying ritual? But WAIT, OK -- maybe it is just an unrelated-to-me nightly household ritual. Oh God I hope not.
What do I do? Should I go outside? Should I call out something? Should I offer to participate and run the wailing circles alongside? What's culturally appropriate? No, I'm not moving. This is too wild. I've already had my door shut. But WHAT IS THIS??
BANG! BANG! BANG!
I ran to my door which simultaneously flung open to reveal my host sister's wild, wailing face.
FAUT-PAS-AVOIR-PEUR-QUELQU'UN-EST-MORT!
which means:
YOU-MUSN'T-HAVE-FEAR-SOMEONE-IS-DEAD!
and she slammed the door in my face.
Needless to say I did not sleep much that night though I did learn the next day that the person they thought had died actually hadn't. What did I do that next morning? Who knows, I probably just went around to shake hands with everyone just like they taught me to- Good morning. How did you sleep? And your family? Your courtyard? Peace only! Peace throughout the night. Ha.
Now where do I go from here? Why didn't I write this story when it happened? I think I was a bit lost for words at the time... heck, maybe I thought it was a hallucination? It wasn't. But my sleeping troubles didn't end there. I tried staying inside with the door open, I tried moving outside into my tent with Yaneth's yoga mat, we even moved the mattress outside from time to time and hung my mosquito net from the straw hangar above. But nonetheless:
Princess Christina
I was first inspired to write this post 21 months ago after successfully (!) sleeping one night on a cement floor. The only thing between me and anything that crawled the night or lurked within the cracks of this filthy floor was a cheap woven plastic mat and a thin pagne draped over me (still with a sheet (!) man, old habits die hard/my mother would be proud.) The theme of the post was to be how very far I had come in six short months to realizing sleep under the most uncomfortable conditions. I slept on a concrete floor!
Princess Christina six months later.
At the time I felt had come to the absolute pinnacle of tough-girl sleeping. But the thing about Peace Corps is that you are always exceeding your own expectations. Where I have slept since then: on a mattress on the floor of my house; on mattresses on the floors of other people's houses; on a mattress on the floor of my porch; on my yoga mat on the floor of my house; on my yoga mat on the floor of my porch; alone outside on my cot; alone outside in a tent on a silver of a mattress, on a yoga mat and on the ground; and ON TRANSPORT.
So lets fast forward to just the other day - I was in my house sleeping on a thin mattress on the cot when I awoke to utter darkness and a bit too much heat. I went outside to pee only to discover that the crescent moon had set and the May stars were as visible as they EVER could be. It was also cooler outside than inside and I decided to get a thick blanket to throw over a thin mattress to put down on my termite-ridden, collapsed and rotten, wooden lounge-bed. Yes. This sorry excuse for a piece of furniture has lived the past two years outside in the elements since I value it that much. Once, when I had a Burkinabe guest, I absolutely marveled that he could lay a thin mattress on this dilapidated, disgusting ol' thing; cover it with a mosquito net and simply fall asleep! But I too took that final step just the other day. First, I adjusted the thing's position so as to see the greatest portion of the sky and then when I laid down - exhausted, cooler and more comfortable in the starry breeze than inside my house - I remembered: I never EVER thought I could fall asleep on this!
So I looked up at the stars, reflected on my progress, imagined finally writing this blog post and I never fell asleep. Later I got up and moved back inside where the original cot was waiting for me and I was glad to still think of myself as The Princess with The Pea. I was glad to know I haven't made all my progress yet. The next night I did sleep on that makeshift bed. So what is next? I have my aspirations and dreams...
HAHAHA... JUST KIDDING!! Here's what I'm really going for:
And I lived happily ever after...
* I didn't say "freaking".
26 May 2009
Just Send A Kid
Need more credit for your phone card?
just send a kid
Suddenly have guests but no sugar for the tea?
just send a kid
Want to talk to your counterpart but can't find him?
just send a kid
For a year and a half I didn't have cell phone service in village. Every time my mother would call, someone would pick up the phone and babble away in local language.
Hadjara? Hadjaraaaa? I want to speak to Hadjaraaa!? my mom would yell into the receiver in the mean time until the call-recipient finally hung up. She'd always wait and call back in 10 or 15 minutes because by that time they would have sent a kid.
During this same period, whenever someone wanted to find me for any reason - from asking me a question to informing me that the school inspector had come - they'd send a kid.
If anyone ever wants to give you something - like prepared food or freshly harvested crops - they invariably send it with a kid.
Water?
send a kid
Sand?
send a kid
Cigarettes? Hot coals? Machete?
send a kid
I was in a car in the States in January, explaining this system to my mother, when it occurred to me that at any given daytime moment in rural Burkina Faso there must be something like 20% of the child-teenage population running petty errands for adults.
Burkina Faso has one of the worst adult literacy rates in the world: about 12%. Out-of-school youth abound in small villages and so do men who drink (and purchase the materials for) tea more than once a day as well as women who buy bullion cubes one by one each time they cook a meal among other things. Everybody really does pay (or not pay) everything as they go. Potential errands are endless. So sure enough, when you look around, the to-and-fro flow of youth circulating on bikes; walking with small change; carrying plates, plastic bags, sticks, motorcycle parts, cultivating tools, animals, calabashes, babies, other small children, chickens, cakes, mangos, hay...
Just to have tea, for example, one needs the following supplies: tea leaves, sugar, water, one-two little teapots, a plate, one-three shot glasses, burning coals or wood, a fournier (where you put the burning coals or wood), mint - if available, peanuts - if one has the money and the list goes on if you consider such things as guests! One might need to send a kid to invite other relevant men to the tea party!
Women have plenty of kid-errands to orchestrate as well. Take this baby while I go away, fetch me water from the pump, carry this wedding-rice to my cousins’ across-town, go buy me some fried dough to feed my baby, go sell this fried dough I prepared (so I can buy something for my baby), bring Hadjara the plate she lent us yesterday or bring back this baby to its mother wherever she may be. It is not at all uncommon to see a child not even twice the height of an infant carrying such an infant on her back.
Just send a kid is something I have come to take completely for granted. I had to stop to think don't we do this in the States? When I get home and meet your 6 year old for the first time, you wouldn't mind if I sent him down the road to buy me a new chapstick, would you? Its not like I'm sending him for cigarettes...* oh wait. People can't do that chez nous. You couldn't even send your 15 year old for liquor or smokes. Would you have your 8 year old start the living-room fire on Christmas? Here the 1st-6th grade students supervise schoolyard bush fires where students collect and burn all the school courtyard rainy season growth and weeds. You wouldn't mind if I interrupted your 11 year old girl's homework time to have her prepare a simple meal for the family? I guess I can't. I guess if I want to speak to my neighbors down the road I can't pick up a child who I do not know on the street and ask him to deliver a verbal message or a written note. Of course a child in the States wouldn't refuse to do something, would he?
While I was home I visited a friend's third grade classroom. Her students were insatiably curious and it was great. Every littlest bit of information I provided was met with ten new questions. I felt like I couldn't talk fast enough to give them all the knowledge they wanted... Pictures and demonstrations helped. Yet when I got to the point where I described children's roles - their utter and non-negotiable submission - in Burkinabe society, the students were shocked into disbelief. You mean, a child has to do ANYTHING an adult tells them to do? Even if its not their parent? Even if they don't know the person? Even if they are busy doing something else? Even if they don't WANT to?
Yes. I explained that, in reality here, young people need to do anything anyone older tells them to do because that's just the way things work in Burkina Faso. I discussed with the students how Burkinabe children are expected to address adults. They should never look adults in the eyes when greeting them. They should never offer their hands to be shook. They should never even speak, actually, until spoken to. They should never offer their opinions and they may never ever refuse what they are told to do. Burkinabe students should address all teachers and minor authorities by approaching the adult, crossing their arms over their chests, putting their heads down, averting their eyes and mumbling preferably inaudible bonjours before shuffling away. The students were incredulous that some kids don't go to school; that many men have multiple wives; that chores can sometimes be so consuming so as to leave no time for play or even school; that children aren't paid for work; that in Burkinabe society, men rule.
These are things I've come to take for granted. Need anything? Just send a kid. So don't hold it against me if I come home and start bossing your little ones all around town. They'll listen, of course? I'm sure I'll be fine when re-entering the United States... I won't treat your boy like he's West African. But, if I tell him to do something, well of course, he'll never say no.
Will he?
*I don't smoke, fyi. I wanted to use this example though because I always see little kids running to buy men cigarettes.
just send a kid
Suddenly have guests but no sugar for the tea?
just send a kid
Want to talk to your counterpart but can't find him?
just send a kid
For a year and a half I didn't have cell phone service in village. Every time my mother would call, someone would pick up the phone and babble away in local language.
Hadjara? Hadjaraaaa? I want to speak to Hadjaraaa!? my mom would yell into the receiver in the mean time until the call-recipient finally hung up. She'd always wait and call back in 10 or 15 minutes because by that time they would have sent a kid.
During this same period, whenever someone wanted to find me for any reason - from asking me a question to informing me that the school inspector had come - they'd send a kid.
If anyone ever wants to give you something - like prepared food or freshly harvested crops - they invariably send it with a kid.
Water?
send a kid
Sand?
send a kid
Cigarettes? Hot coals? Machete?
send a kid
I was in a car in the States in January, explaining this system to my mother, when it occurred to me that at any given daytime moment in rural Burkina Faso there must be something like 20% of the child-teenage population running petty errands for adults.
Burkina Faso has one of the worst adult literacy rates in the world: about 12%. Out-of-school youth abound in small villages and so do men who drink (and purchase the materials for) tea more than once a day as well as women who buy bullion cubes one by one each time they cook a meal among other things. Everybody really does pay (or not pay) everything as they go. Potential errands are endless. So sure enough, when you look around, the to-and-fro flow of youth circulating on bikes; walking with small change; carrying plates, plastic bags, sticks, motorcycle parts, cultivating tools, animals, calabashes, babies, other small children, chickens, cakes, mangos, hay...
Just to have tea, for example, one needs the following supplies: tea leaves, sugar, water, one-two little teapots, a plate, one-three shot glasses, burning coals or wood, a fournier (where you put the burning coals or wood), mint - if available, peanuts - if one has the money and the list goes on if you consider such things as guests! One might need to send a kid to invite other relevant men to the tea party!
Women have plenty of kid-errands to orchestrate as well. Take this baby while I go away, fetch me water from the pump, carry this wedding-rice to my cousins’ across-town, go buy me some fried dough to feed my baby, go sell this fried dough I prepared (so I can buy something for my baby), bring Hadjara the plate she lent us yesterday or bring back this baby to its mother wherever she may be. It is not at all uncommon to see a child not even twice the height of an infant carrying such an infant on her back.
Just send a kid is something I have come to take completely for granted. I had to stop to think don't we do this in the States? When I get home and meet your 6 year old for the first time, you wouldn't mind if I sent him down the road to buy me a new chapstick, would you? Its not like I'm sending him for cigarettes...* oh wait. People can't do that chez nous. You couldn't even send your 15 year old for liquor or smokes. Would you have your 8 year old start the living-room fire on Christmas? Here the 1st-6th grade students supervise schoolyard bush fires where students collect and burn all the school courtyard rainy season growth and weeds. You wouldn't mind if I interrupted your 11 year old girl's homework time to have her prepare a simple meal for the family? I guess I can't. I guess if I want to speak to my neighbors down the road I can't pick up a child who I do not know on the street and ask him to deliver a verbal message or a written note. Of course a child in the States wouldn't refuse to do something, would he?
While I was home I visited a friend's third grade classroom. Her students were insatiably curious and it was great. Every littlest bit of information I provided was met with ten new questions. I felt like I couldn't talk fast enough to give them all the knowledge they wanted... Pictures and demonstrations helped. Yet when I got to the point where I described children's roles - their utter and non-negotiable submission - in Burkinabe society, the students were shocked into disbelief. You mean, a child has to do ANYTHING an adult tells them to do? Even if its not their parent? Even if they don't know the person? Even if they are busy doing something else? Even if they don't WANT to?
Yes. I explained that, in reality here, young people need to do anything anyone older tells them to do because that's just the way things work in Burkina Faso. I discussed with the students how Burkinabe children are expected to address adults. They should never look adults in the eyes when greeting them. They should never offer their hands to be shook. They should never even speak, actually, until spoken to. They should never offer their opinions and they may never ever refuse what they are told to do. Burkinabe students should address all teachers and minor authorities by approaching the adult, crossing their arms over their chests, putting their heads down, averting their eyes and mumbling preferably inaudible bonjours before shuffling away. The students were incredulous that some kids don't go to school; that many men have multiple wives; that chores can sometimes be so consuming so as to leave no time for play or even school; that children aren't paid for work; that in Burkinabe society, men rule.
These are things I've come to take for granted. Need anything? Just send a kid. So don't hold it against me if I come home and start bossing your little ones all around town. They'll listen, of course? I'm sure I'll be fine when re-entering the United States... I won't treat your boy like he's West African. But, if I tell him to do something, well of course, he'll never say no.
Will he?
*I don't smoke, fyi. I wanted to use this example though because I always see little kids running to buy men cigarettes.
04 April 2009
World Map (Part II)
By the end of November, we had stopped drawing. I had gotten so little support from the teachers -- whom I had originally envisioned as partners on this project -- that I decided to schedule the painting of the map during the school vacation. In between working a volunteer training at the beginning of December and my plans for vacation at the end of the month. I had ten days in village to get this done.
I was leaving on Tuesday. It was Thursday and we hadn't starting painting yet. I was praying that my "group leaders" would show up the next afternoon as promised... but after spending almost 2 months sketching this map, the outlook was frankly not good that we'd finish painting in just a few days. On Thursday evening around 5pm, I took a jog out to "the hill" where I could get cell phone service. I wanted to check my messages. Just before heading home I decided to send a quick hello to my neighbor, David.
Hey David! What's up? You planning to head to Djibo this week...? He called immediately upon receiving my message. Christina, the American Ambassador is coming to mine and your village. -WHAT!? WHEN? I didn't hear about this... -The day after tomorrow. She's definitely stopping by my village but if you haven't heard anything then... I don't know. -She is coming to your place on Saturday? And mine too most likely? $#@!.
The next morning (Friday) I got up early to start making phone calls to confirm this. Nobody had any answers until I finally got a hold of the PC Burkina Country Director, himself. Doug, is it true? Is Ambassador Jackson coming to visit me tomorrow? -Yes. And I will be with her in a hour so I will call you then so you can talk directly. Finally I spoke to the Ambassador herself and explained that my community was about to finish a project that she, in fact, funded. I asked if she'd be willing to paint the US in a ceremony the next day and she agreed, of course.
At this point it was about 10:30am the day before the Ambassador's visit and I was the only one that knew about it. So I did something I don't normally do - I got on my bike and rode around village. The American Ambassador is coming! Yes, the number one American in Burkina Faso is coming to Belehede! Tomorrow! Come to the school tonight, we must organize a proper WELCOME... By painting HER map!!!
Hehe. So it was pure dumb luck. The Ambassador was coming and suddenly parents were utterly motivated
to get to work. We started painting that night (Friday) and then all planned to get to the school first thing the next morning to wait for the Ambassador and in the mean time, paint. I got on my soap box too - The Ambassador is a WOMAN. And I am a WOMAN here to promote GIRLS' education. I do NOT want to see 200 men and 10 women at the ceremony tomorrow. Go home and tell your wives, daughters, sisters and girls to COME OUT tomorrow morning!
Like I said, I was soo lucky... Probably 50 people wound up cycling through as painters while I shouted out orders naming countries and dictating what color went where. Women definitely showed up in mass and all in all we probably had around 200 spectators while we worked and waited. However, one notably cool thing happened during this time but I'll give a little bit of background info first...
The president of the Committee for Village Development had been helping a lot since the evening before (see picture). In and
of itself this was nice because he is an important figure in the village. But I was feeling a bit of reservation about the fact that he and two or three other men had painted so much when I had been hoping to incorporate more women and girls. The men here are more confident and practiced at advocating for themselves. When the president finished painting one country he immediately demanded my attention and made sure he got another assignment right away. The women, on the other hand, needed to be pushed to paint. Even when they were eager for a new country assignment, they would generally wait to be noticed rather than push to be heard.
All in all I was grateful for the eager enthusiasm of the president and a handful of other men but had felt some regret about the women's relative reservation. By Saturday morning, however, I had so much on my plate that I couldn't worry about it anymore. So I didn't. But here is the really cool thing: after getting started that morning, when we really got into it and started to draw the crowd... the president took charge of the situation. He was just as aggressive as the night before if not more so in demanding colors and countries to go with them... But I realized that he had stopped painting himself. He had created a line -- a constantly renewing line of woman who had not had an opportunity to paint. Bring me women! Who needs to paint? And every order I gave him went directly to them, translated to local language.
The Am
bassador showed up with her husband. We made short speeches - myself, the parents associations' presidents, two village reps and the Ambassador herself. She painted the US. She painted her home state of Wyoming and invited me to paint New Jersey.* The villagers offered her "memories" of Belehede which were fresh with wet paint. Ambassador Jackson, be careful-with-that-calabash-itsgotWETpaint!! Phew.
In the end we finished almost all of it that day. What was left a few people worked on over the next two days (Sunday and Monday) and my counterpart even did some touching up while I was away on Christmas vacation. All that remained to do when I left was label the countries, paint Burkina and add symbols for Peace Corps and Belehede. Also we planned to build a hangar to protect it from sun and rain. We tentatively scheduled all this for the end of the school year because finally I had earned teachers' support. They complemented the map. They called it good work. They thanked me for bringing the American Ambassador to visit. For the first time since I met him, the new school director addressed me by my local name, Hadjara. He had laughed the first time I told him the name adding, oh no no that does not stick.
Following
the big day the director and other teachers got together to write a request for supplies from the Embassy. They came up with an ambitious and impressive request for six major things: solar panels for the school to light the classrooms at night and hold study halls; a computer (plus generator) for the school to keep better, more complete records; sound equipment to do theater and awareness-raising meetings on the importance of girls' education; sports equipment including a volleyball net and balls to teach girls volleyball in school; books in French to start a school library and a partnership with an American school. Following this request was the first time the school director spoke to me with respect adding, we are counting on you.
So a few days after the map was essentially done I had a new challenge in my hands... how to raise approximately 1,000,000 cfa ($2,000 US).
To be continued...
*So this map includes all the countries of the world plus Wyoming, New Jersey and Belehede.
The challenge would be to mobilize the community quickly and thoroughly enough to finish painting. I called the parents to the school to "correct" their children's work. There were still a lot of m
istakes on the sketch and it was actually only about 80% done. I wanted them to get acquainted with the drawing instructions and confirm that they too could understand how the process worked. I wanted to create group leaders for the day(s) when we decided to paint. I wound up trying to meet with parents 3 or 4 times at the beginning of the week and actually succeeding once. We got some good work done and at least 5 parents demonstrated a solid understanding of the process. Of course one of these parents left town the next day and missed all the rest of the work...
istakes on the sketch and it was actually only about 80% done. I wanted them to get acquainted with the drawing instructions and confirm that they too could understand how the process worked. I wanted to create group leaders for the day(s) when we decided to paint. I wound up trying to meet with parents 3 or 4 times at the beginning of the week and actually succeeding once. We got some good work done and at least 5 parents demonstrated a solid understanding of the process. Of course one of these parents left town the next day and missed all the rest of the work...I was leaving on Tuesday. It was Thursday and we hadn't starting painting yet. I was praying that my "group leaders" would show up the next afternoon as promised... but after spending almost 2 months sketching this map, the outlook was frankly not good that we'd finish painting in just a few days. On Thursday evening around 5pm, I took a jog out to "the hill" where I could get cell phone service. I wanted to check my messages. Just before heading home I decided to send a quick hello to my neighbor, David.
Hey David! What's up? You planning to head to Djibo this week...? He called immediately upon receiving my message. Christina, the American Ambassador is coming to mine and your village. -WHAT!? WHEN? I didn't hear about this... -The day after tomorrow. She's definitely stopping by my village but if you haven't heard anything then... I don't know. -She is coming to your place on Saturday? And mine too most likely? $#@!.
The next morning (Friday) I got up early to start making phone calls to confirm this. Nobody had any answers until I finally got a hold of the PC Burkina Country Director, himself. Doug, is it true? Is Ambassador Jackson coming to visit me tomorrow? -Yes. And I will be with her in a hour so I will call you then so you can talk directly. Finally I spoke to the Ambassador herself and explained that my community was about to finish a project that she, in fact, funded. I asked if she'd be willing to paint the US in a ceremony the next day and she agreed, of course.
At this point it was about 10:30am the day before the Ambassador's visit and I was the only one that knew about it. So I did something I don't normally do - I got on my bike and rode around village. The American Ambassador is coming! Yes, the number one American in Burkina Faso is coming to Belehede! Tomorrow! Come to the school tonight, we must organize a proper WELCOME... By painting HER map!!!
Hehe. So it was pure dumb luck. The Ambassador was coming and suddenly parents were utterly motivated
to get to work. We started painting that night (Friday) and then all planned to get to the school first thing the next morning to wait for the Ambassador and in the mean time, paint. I got on my soap box too - The Ambassador is a WOMAN. And I am a WOMAN here to promote GIRLS' education. I do NOT want to see 200 men and 10 women at the ceremony tomorrow. Go home and tell your wives, daughters, sisters and girls to COME OUT tomorrow morning!
Like I said, I was soo lucky... Probably 50 people wound up cycling through as painters while I shouted out orders naming countries and dictating what color went where. Women definitely showed up in mass and all in all we probably had around 200 spectators while we worked and waited. However, one notably cool thing happened during this time but I'll give a little bit of background info first...
The president of the Committee for Village Development had been helping a lot since the evening before (see picture). In and
of itself this was nice because he is an important figure in the village. But I was feeling a bit of reservation about the fact that he and two or three other men had painted so much when I had been hoping to incorporate more women and girls. The men here are more confident and practiced at advocating for themselves. When the president finished painting one country he immediately demanded my attention and made sure he got another assignment right away. The women, on the other hand, needed to be pushed to paint. Even when they were eager for a new country assignment, they would generally wait to be noticed rather than push to be heard.All in all I was grateful for the eager enthusiasm of the president and a handful of other men but had felt some regret about the women's relative reservation. By Saturday morning, however, I had so much on my plate that I couldn't worry about it anymore. So I didn't. But here is the really cool thing: after getting started that morning, when we really got into it and started to draw the crowd... the president took charge of the situation. He was just as aggressive as the night before if not more so in demanding colors and countries to go with them... But I realized that he had stopped painting himself. He had created a line -- a constantly renewing line of woman who had not had an opportunity to paint. Bring me women! Who needs to paint? And every order I gave him went directly to them, translated to local language.
The Am
bassador showed up with her husband. We made short speeches - myself, the parents associations' presidents, two village reps and the Ambassador herself. She painted the US. She painted her home state of Wyoming and invited me to paint New Jersey.* The villagers offered her "memories" of Belehede which were fresh with wet paint. Ambassador Jackson, be careful-with-that-calabash-itsgotWETpaint!! Phew.
In the end we finished almost all of it that day. What was left a few people worked on over the next two days (Sunday and Monday) and my counterpart even did some touching up while I was away on Christmas vacation. All that remained to do when I left was label the countries, paint Burkina and add symbols for Peace Corps and Belehede. Also we planned to build a hangar to protect it from sun and rain. We tentatively scheduled all this for the end of the school year because finally I had earned teachers' support. They complemented the map. They called it good work. They thanked me for bringing the American Ambassador to visit. For the first time since I met him, the new school director addressed me by my local name, Hadjara. He had laughed the first time I told him the name adding, oh no no that does not stick.
Following
the big day the director and other teachers got together to write a request for supplies from the Embassy. They came up with an ambitious and impressive request for six major things: solar panels for the school to light the classrooms at night and hold study halls; a computer (plus generator) for the school to keep better, more complete records; sound equipment to do theater and awareness-raising meetings on the importance of girls' education; sports equipment including a volleyball net and balls to teach girls volleyball in school; books in French to start a school library and a partnership with an American school. Following this request was the first time the school director spoke to me with respect adding, we are counting on you.
So a few days after the map was essentially done I had a new challenge in my hands... how to raise approximately 1,000,000 cfa ($2,000 US).
To be continued...
*So this map includes all the countries of the world plus Wyoming, New Jersey and Belehede.
16 March 2009
Things that make you go hmm
The other day I stopped by the maternité or in other words the place where women go to have babies. Five women had given birth on this day and four were already resting. The room where women rest after childbirth has five mattresses and three bed frames. The extra two mattresses go on the floor and don't have mosquito nets, unfortunately. The extra floor space in this room quickly gets filled with sitting mats brought by women relatives who sit around with the new mothers for the duration of their stay.
This facility serves the whole of Béléhédé plus its satellite villages, and lets stay that should be about 4000 people. However, the families who live 8, 10 and 15k away generally don't send women to the maternité to give birth. So, at any given time there is at least one new mother, one new baby, and three female relatives in this room. More often, there are five new mothers, five new babies and fifteen female relatives in this "resting" room. Recently the midwife helped deliver ten babies in one day/night with 10 different mothers.
Additionally, visitors are more than welcome. When I visit the new mothers, for example, I am encouraged to touch and/ or hold all the new babies. Obviously there are no incubators here. There are no mouth covers or doctor scrubs either. Out back, women cook over a wood fire to feed the new mothers and the diet consists of millet toh with sauce, as usual, and corn or millet flour porridge.
I walked out this on this particular day after politely declining to touch the newborns. I saw the fifth women who had just given birth (on the way) sitting on the floor waiting for the midwife to finish up with the baby. The midwife unceremoniously invited me into the room along with my friend Poitiba while she was at work. I was inches away as she tied the umbilical cord into a knot and snipped. The women laughed at me, she has never seen this before? Ha, look at her face!
When the new mother got up there was blood on the concrete floor outside the room where she had been sitting. The midwife passed off the baby to the relative. We left the mother and the midwife alone to do their post-birth exam. We saw that a rooster had sauntered into the waiting area and was heading straight for the resting room. He had relieved himself on the floor at the entrance to the clinic. No more than one or two minutes had passed when I saw the new mother leaving the midwife to go take her place on a mat just as the rooster wandered in towards the new mothers, new babies and all the lady relatives. Meanwhile Poitiba swept the rooster crap across the entrance-way and out the door.
Nobody but me seemed to mind the rooster.
This facility serves the whole of Béléhédé plus its satellite villages, and lets stay that should be about 4000 people. However, the families who live 8, 10 and 15k away generally don't send women to the maternité to give birth. So, at any given time there is at least one new mother, one new baby, and three female relatives in this room. More often, there are five new mothers, five new babies and fifteen female relatives in this "resting" room. Recently the midwife helped deliver ten babies in one day/night with 10 different mothers.
Additionally, visitors are more than welcome. When I visit the new mothers, for example, I am encouraged to touch and/ or hold all the new babies. Obviously there are no incubators here. There are no mouth covers or doctor scrubs either. Out back, women cook over a wood fire to feed the new mothers and the diet consists of millet toh with sauce, as usual, and corn or millet flour porridge.
I walked out this on this particular day after politely declining to touch the newborns. I saw the fifth women who had just given birth (on the way) sitting on the floor waiting for the midwife to finish up with the baby. The midwife unceremoniously invited me into the room along with my friend Poitiba while she was at work. I was inches away as she tied the umbilical cord into a knot and snipped. The women laughed at me, she has never seen this before? Ha, look at her face!
When the new mother got up there was blood on the concrete floor outside the room where she had been sitting. The midwife passed off the baby to the relative. We left the mother and the midwife alone to do their post-birth exam. We saw that a rooster had sauntered into the waiting area and was heading straight for the resting room. He had relieved himself on the floor at the entrance to the clinic. No more than one or two minutes had passed when I saw the new mother leaving the midwife to go take her place on a mat just as the rooster wandered in towards the new mothers, new babies and all the lady relatives. Meanwhile Poitiba swept the rooster crap across the entrance-way and out the door.
Nobody but me seemed to mind the rooster.
24 January 2009
World Map Project (Part I)
I started this project in September. The objective was to create a space for, then draw, then paint, then label a map of the entire world on some public space in Belehede. When I pitched the idea to the parents, they loved it and gave their full support (see 1st & 2nd photos). We decided to use the outside school wall (see 2nd photo) and make the map 4 x 2 meters, (i.e. big).
I suggested that we could fund it - I would pay for the base paints and colors while the parents would pay for cement, sand and labor. They easily agreed. Later, I applied at the last minute for a grant from the American Embassy and got it, so that was great.
My original idea was to work closely with the teachers. Last year we had 6, this year there are 7 with only two returning. The new director let me explain the project to the group in October at the beginning of the school year. In this meeting I was hoping to get ideas on how to involve as many students as possible. I wanted to create a tentative schedule. I wanted creative feedback on how to make this work.
I explained that the best case scenario would be if we worked intensively with kids from grades 6 to 4 while somehow involving the three younger classes as well...
They asked questions about kids making mistakes - I explained that we would draw in pencil. They talked amongst themselves while I was taking - I alternatively paused and waited or intensified my voice and hand gestures. They wanted to wait and see how things went - I wanted feedback on the tentative plan: to have the 6th/5th grades draw and the 4th/ 3rds paint.
Well, by the end of the meeting we had decided that I would start working with the 6th graders at an unspecified time, one day, of the next week. On verra -we'll see. The new director (and the others teachers) make it pretty clear that students were NOT going to be able to do this. Are you a map maker? the director asked me. Otherwise, he was incredulous that the kids could/ should/ would be made to do this. You, band of good-for-nothings! - I've observed - is the director's favorite way to address the kids.
I had printed off a handbook from the Peace Corps website. Anyone could do this project in their own home if they wanted to since the directions are actually that straightforward and simple. All you would need is a ruler, a pencil and some paints. After creating the cement rectangle and painting it several times until it was light blue like the ocean - my counterpart and I draw a grid with 56 squares across and 28 down. Then we divided the rectangle again into 18 big sections. Section one, for example, starts with square 1-1 and goes to square 1-10 across and 1-12 down. One page in the handbook corresponds to section one and from there you see what needs to be drawn in square 3-8 or square 4-12, for example.
As the project moved along very slowly throughout the second half of October and into November I would come to the school early every morning to work with a different group of 6th grade students (about 65 total). They would usually show up at some point before classes so we were able to work pretty much every day. Still, they had a very hard time grasping the concepts. They did not intuitively understand the grid. They also had trouble scaling images up. I had to explain 
a few things everyday: the picture on the wall is bigger than the picture on the paper so every shape you draw needs to be bigger than the shape you're copying. Look at where the line starts. Is it the upper left-hand corner, the upper-right, the lower-right/left, or in one of the middles? Look at each square as if it were divided in four sections - in which section are you supposed to draw the shape?
Some kids weren't able to grasp any of the concepts - locating squares on the grid, copying lines and shapes, scaling up from the smaller images, connecting forms from one section to another, even moving from drawing in one square to drawing in another. Some kids couldn't even seem to make a shape. Others, though, eventually got the gist. They could be left to draw and make mistakes for a few minutes before I came over to check and correct them. One student, however, rose above all the others and frankly saved the never-ending "day". He was not from the village but actually the brother of the 1st grade teacher and therefore a very well-educated "city-kid". Sanou and his sister come from Bobo-Dialassou, the second largest and arguably most developed city in Burkina Faso. This child wound up drawing most (if not all) of Africa as well as much of South America. He was truly the only student who really understand how to draw the map and I told him he could come anytime he wanted to. Is it unbelievable that there wasn't even one village kid educated enough to honestly get it?In any case, as I mentioned, progress was SLOW. Before we had finished even one continent, a teacher or the director would ask a question like, oh so you're not done yet? or, oh so you didn't work this morning? There was one day about a month after we had started when I picked up a pencil and took over for a few minutes. I drew a few lines myself to get the section done quickly. The director saw me and asked oh, so now its you who draws everything?
I worked exclusively with the 6th grade for the first month because they are the oldest school kids and for goodness sake there are 65 of them with only a handful understanding the process of drawing! When we finally got about 70% drawn (more than a month into working everyday on it) I felt I could move on to another grade. Even if we draw two squares every day of the next week, at this point we could feasibly and move onto the painting phase.
Enough is enough! The 5th grade has about 100 kids. We decided I would call one or two groups of 10 kids everyday for about a week. Every student would get one chance (and one only!) to participate. If she did not volunteer to draw something, too bad. If he did not show up, too late. Otherwise, since I did not expect much progress at this point, I also planned to do some quick geography lessons. What is this a picture of? Where is Africa? How many continents are there? Which ways are north, south, east and west? Most kids did not recognize the world map. Most could not point out Africa. Many couldn't name north, south, east and west. Some knew north in respect to Belehede (its that way!) but could not translate it to a map even if I explained, south is the opposite of north (that way and that way!) and on the map this is north so which way is south? Some of the biggest deficiencies in education here are the abilities to think critically and creatively. Many kids had trouble realizing that the picture in my right hand and the picture in my left were one in the same: a world map.
At this phase, there were not many surprises. Some of the 5th graders did indeed succeed in drawing something. That was great. But most just got a quick lesson. Others never showed up. But the biggest change for me was that at every session, the 5th grade teacher showed up. For the first time in over a month I finally had a Burkinabe educator at my side filling in the gaps of my lesson or my explications in French. While I had had the school director mentioning the shortcomings of my project periodically over the last two months - you are going to have to go over everything again; you'll have to make the lines darker; you must correct all those mistakes - finally one teacher was participating.
I decided to end the drawing phase with the 5th grade and wait until the school (and the teachers) went on break to start the painting of the map. Honestly, they had had two months of chances to "buy in" to the project: to make productive suggestions, to offer their students or class time, or to participate. The kind support of the one teacher cast into relief the apathy of the others. So I left village to celebrate Thanksgiving and announced to the parents and the community: Get ready because when I get back you and I, the old and the young, the women and the men and the kids will PAINT!
To be continued...
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