Actually, not quite yet... I’ve still got over $3000 to spend.
For those of you who contributed to the Life Skills project, you’ll be glad to know that by the end of June all of your money – if I do say so myself – will have been well-spent.
Here’s a rough summary of costs to give you an idea of how we organized this year-long project:
Training of trainers (November-December): $1700
Five-six months of classes and clubs: in-kind or free
Monitoring and follow-up: in-kind or free
Mid-term evaluation (April): $500
Final evaluation (June) including gifts of mentoring books and soccer balls for the Life Skills schools: $2800
Follow-up Project Design and Management training for school inspectors (July): $900
(Actually this last item is not your money but USAID funding)
Our final event will take place on June 29 and will involve not only all of the educators and tradesmen trained to teach Life Skills but also approximately two dozen representatives from NGOs or other international organizations that work in girls’ education and empowerment, HIV/AIDS, family planning or youth. Money originally budgeted to bolster classes and clubs (which turned out to be free) will now be used to host this large-scale event. We will invite local authorities and the press. There will be food and non-alcoholic drink. Most of all there will be lofty speeches and lots of extremely late-to-arrive important men.
Why organize such a protocol headache instead of just giving out LOTS of books and girls soccer balls as gifts? Sustainability. (Here’s hoping!) This workshop will be designed to showcase our “pilot program” before potential collaborators, donors and advocates. It will provide an opportunity for the people I have worked with to connect with other organizations with similar missions and interests.
The day will include presentations on our pilot project; a short peer-educator skit performed by students; two ice-breaker/ group challenges demonstrated by select apprentices; and the main event – a two hour debate (round table discussion?) on how Life Skills educators and attending organizations can collaborate.
I am excited about the project’s end and hoping hard that the event will be great. The people I’ve worked with are enthusiastic and generous but it is difficult to maintain motivation without some outside influence. They could teach Life Skills, or not. Frankly it’s easier to have a free period.
But if we get people talking, if Peace Corps gives this town volunteer replacements, if the trainers develop relationships with Population Services International, UNDP, Plan International and UNICEF… maybe this “pilot” education project will make a long-term dent.
14 June 2010
01 April 2010
Mama Olga
The woman next door yells at her teenage sons. Her name is Olga. I call her "Mama". She owns my house and we occasionally sit and chat.
Last night Mama explained the latest ways her sons, daughter and family all drive her up the wall. The boys never listen; when she gets home from work all the dishes are dirty; the children lack humility; the daughter is too fat; and the cousins expect her to take care of the latest sick relative. I sometimes listen to her yelling and notice that she almost never calls each son's name less than twice. On the first times, I suppose they don't come.
Mama's husband died over a year ago after a long illness that robbed him of the abilities to talk and walk beyond a few steps for eleven years. She feels that she was robbed of what would have been the easiest years of her marriage. Mama is tired of illness and tired of men. She is tired of cooking for people and dealing with the attitudes of her teenagers. She is tired of working at the health clinic all day and wishes she could take a vacation to go anywhere but doesn't have the money.
Mama has a good job - hygiene assistant responsible for teaching the local population about environmental cleanliness, personal hygiene, family planning and heath maintenance. She is university educated. She can get by with a bit of English. But people have lost the respect they used to have for hygienists in her position. No one listens. She is grateful, nonetheless, for a job where she makes rounds in the community rather than sits tied to a desk. She is grateful to have at least one daughter who helps her at the house, begrudgingly, when she is home from university in Lomé. She is grateful for the grace of God. Like many Togolese, Mama is passionately Christian and proudly vocal about her beliefs in Jesus. We say grace each time before eating together and she tries to drag me off to church when I am not off to Lomé on a Sunday morning.
She gives me advice not realizing what my real Mama has long since known: I won't listen when I know I'm being told what to do. Even if she knew, it wouldn't stop her; the culture of unasked for advice is different here than in America. Advice comes free in West Africa. Mama tells me to enjoy the silence, the calm and the time alone in my life while I still can since one day I'll have "little Americans" running around, driving me crazy and refusing to be quiet or leave me alone. She seems to approve of my apparent senses of adventure and charity that have brought me all the way here to Togo. She would have liked to visit a place like America but knows that she will now never have the chance.
Mama's job is similar to mine in that she reaches out to people beyond her organization. She says the people in her household could use advice in leading lives that are healthy and sane since they're all so disobedient and unhelpful. She says I should enjoy my time alone now, go home, get married and have little Americans.
Last night Mama explained the latest ways her sons, daughter and family all drive her up the wall. The boys never listen; when she gets home from work all the dishes are dirty; the children lack humility; the daughter is too fat; and the cousins expect her to take care of the latest sick relative. I sometimes listen to her yelling and notice that she almost never calls each son's name less than twice. On the first times, I suppose they don't come.
Mama's husband died over a year ago after a long illness that robbed him of the abilities to talk and walk beyond a few steps for eleven years. She feels that she was robbed of what would have been the easiest years of her marriage. Mama is tired of illness and tired of men. She is tired of cooking for people and dealing with the attitudes of her teenagers. She is tired of working at the health clinic all day and wishes she could take a vacation to go anywhere but doesn't have the money.
Mama has a good job - hygiene assistant responsible for teaching the local population about environmental cleanliness, personal hygiene, family planning and heath maintenance. She is university educated. She can get by with a bit of English. But people have lost the respect they used to have for hygienists in her position. No one listens. She is grateful, nonetheless, for a job where she makes rounds in the community rather than sits tied to a desk. She is grateful to have at least one daughter who helps her at the house, begrudgingly, when she is home from university in Lomé. She is grateful for the grace of God. Like many Togolese, Mama is passionately Christian and proudly vocal about her beliefs in Jesus. We say grace each time before eating together and she tries to drag me off to church when I am not off to Lomé on a Sunday morning.
She gives me advice not realizing what my real Mama has long since known: I won't listen when I know I'm being told what to do. Even if she knew, it wouldn't stop her; the culture of unasked for advice is different here than in America. Advice comes free in West Africa. Mama tells me to enjoy the silence, the calm and the time alone in my life while I still can since one day I'll have "little Americans" running around, driving me crazy and refusing to be quiet or leave me alone. She seems to approve of my apparent senses of adventure and charity that have brought me all the way here to Togo. She would have liked to visit a place like America but knows that she will now never have the chance.
Mama's job is similar to mine in that she reaches out to people beyond her organization. She says the people in her household could use advice in leading lives that are healthy and sane since they're all so disobedient and unhelpful. She says I should enjoy my time alone now, go home, get married and have little Americans.
10 March 2010
Sister Seduction
Things in this land of beans and rice are going well, at least for me. It has been a little over three months since the big training and so far my teachers are doing well! In April we will get together as a large group for the first time since November to conduct the second workshop – Mid-term Evaluation. There we will talk about Life Skills via exchanges on best practices; problems encountered; proposed solutions and techniques for behavior change.
On Thursday Togo had its presidential elections. Although we Peace Corps Volunteers are obligated to stay away from political gathers and advised to avoid gatherings of any kind during political times… I took a little spin on my bike the day of the elections and the day after to check out the mayhem. In fact, I saw nothing of interest on my mid-day rides (I should have gone first thing in the morning to catch the real voting action!) but I did take a moment to appreciate the feeling of calm before the storm.
Last time Togo held elections in 2005, violence ensued and hundreds of people were killed in protests and riots following the elections. This time around, so far, things have been relatively calm. There were allegedly grenades and guns shots on Saturday in one neighborhood of the capital but other than that we’ve heard next to nothing. So it appears that: this year’s free and unfair election will pass without serious bloodshed; the European Union election supervisors will declare the process non-transparent; nothing will change and everyone will move on.
Despite the political climate, my little world turns. I’ve been making rounds to the high schools to observe our educators teaching Life Skills. In every class, I say a few words, usually at the end of the lesson but sometimes in the beginning or middle too. After it is over, I have either a one-on-one or a small group meeting to give feedback.
In the French system feedback is generally more direct – much less praise and much more critique. The grading system is x/20 where a decent and passing grade is 12/20 and 10/20 is not good but also not failure. As an American can you imagine getting 60% on a test and thinking that this was decent? So needless to say, my feedback sessions are usually a pleasure for everyone. True to my American form I start with a heck of a lot of praise, I think that went very well… I appreciated that you did this… I’m glad that this came across like that… and by the time I get to the actual criticisms they are so buried in fluff that everyone walks away feeling great about the session!
I don’t know about the effectiveness of my technique but the bottom line is this: I can’t teach teachers how to teach. I try never to forget this. My role has been that of a catalyst, an organizer, a monitor and most importantly perhaps, a heartfelt support. I want these people to want to advance in this work. I want them to feel that they are making change, doing good and accomplishing their small part.
I also want them to quantify their work and figure out how to reach up – in a society where everything comes from the top to the bottom – and touch their superiors through periodic reporting and relevant facts. This is the hardest part. How do you measure behavior change? How do you quantify self confidence? Who is monitoring students’ ability to communicate? Who can evaluate their interactions in private groups? Relationship management and decision making skills are all about teaching these kids to own and shape their futures. There is no easy answer on how to measure all this although the ongoing discussion is vibrant.
Before I started my observation visits – I stopped by each class or group just to introduce myself. Invariably the principal or vice principal would give me a lofty and/or comical introduction…
Here we have Christina Sobiloff the representative for Peace Corps America!
Here we have the white woman I told you about, Life Sills project organisatrice!
Here we have Madame Christina, an American who can speak French!
Here we have Miss Christina, a beautiful woman … look at her kids!
Here we have an American, who will seduce you with her accent in French!
Here we have Sister Christina who is basically a nun!
You may be wondering how I was basically called a seductress and a nun all in the space of one week. I ask myself the same thing. But I recall the words of one of my primary counterparts after the director for the Girls’ Education and Empowerment program gave a speech: she’s seductive, he said, to describe how compelling was the delivery of her message. An American would not have used my counterpart’s word to describe the appeal of the presentation. Seduction and sex would have nothing to do with it. I’m also not sure that is exactly what he meant. But if the intelligent and dynamic director of my program seduces her audience, that’s exactly what I want to do too. Next time, I’ll hope it is with my words and not my accent.
Finally, I’ve tried to explain to the one high school principal who insists on calling me Sister Christina, that I am NOT a nun and there is no need to call me Sister. Nonetheless, he persists. At least in his school the boys aren’t shouting out that they love me, no, surely those young boys understand that I am eternally and faithfully married to God.
On Thursday Togo had its presidential elections. Although we Peace Corps Volunteers are obligated to stay away from political gathers and advised to avoid gatherings of any kind during political times… I took a little spin on my bike the day of the elections and the day after to check out the mayhem. In fact, I saw nothing of interest on my mid-day rides (I should have gone first thing in the morning to catch the real voting action!) but I did take a moment to appreciate the feeling of calm before the storm.
Last time Togo held elections in 2005, violence ensued and hundreds of people were killed in protests and riots following the elections. This time around, so far, things have been relatively calm. There were allegedly grenades and guns shots on Saturday in one neighborhood of the capital but other than that we’ve heard next to nothing. So it appears that: this year’s free and unfair election will pass without serious bloodshed; the European Union election supervisors will declare the process non-transparent; nothing will change and everyone will move on.
Despite the political climate, my little world turns. I’ve been making rounds to the high schools to observe our educators teaching Life Skills. In every class, I say a few words, usually at the end of the lesson but sometimes in the beginning or middle too. After it is over, I have either a one-on-one or a small group meeting to give feedback.
In the French system feedback is generally more direct – much less praise and much more critique. The grading system is x/20 where a decent and passing grade is 12/20 and 10/20 is not good but also not failure. As an American can you imagine getting 60% on a test and thinking that this was decent? So needless to say, my feedback sessions are usually a pleasure for everyone. True to my American form I start with a heck of a lot of praise, I think that went very well… I appreciated that you did this… I’m glad that this came across like that… and by the time I get to the actual criticisms they are so buried in fluff that everyone walks away feeling great about the session!
I don’t know about the effectiveness of my technique but the bottom line is this: I can’t teach teachers how to teach. I try never to forget this. My role has been that of a catalyst, an organizer, a monitor and most importantly perhaps, a heartfelt support. I want these people to want to advance in this work. I want them to feel that they are making change, doing good and accomplishing their small part.
I also want them to quantify their work and figure out how to reach up – in a society where everything comes from the top to the bottom – and touch their superiors through periodic reporting and relevant facts. This is the hardest part. How do you measure behavior change? How do you quantify self confidence? Who is monitoring students’ ability to communicate? Who can evaluate their interactions in private groups? Relationship management and decision making skills are all about teaching these kids to own and shape their futures. There is no easy answer on how to measure all this although the ongoing discussion is vibrant.
Before I started my observation visits – I stopped by each class or group just to introduce myself. Invariably the principal or vice principal would give me a lofty and/or comical introduction…
Here we have Christina Sobiloff the representative for Peace Corps America!
Here we have the white woman I told you about, Life Sills project organisatrice!
Here we have Madame Christina, an American who can speak French!
Here we have Miss Christina, a beautiful woman … look at her kids!
Here we have an American, who will seduce you with her accent in French!
Here we have Sister Christina who is basically a nun!
You may be wondering how I was basically called a seductress and a nun all in the space of one week. I ask myself the same thing. But I recall the words of one of my primary counterparts after the director for the Girls’ Education and Empowerment program gave a speech: she’s seductive, he said, to describe how compelling was the delivery of her message. An American would not have used my counterpart’s word to describe the appeal of the presentation. Seduction and sex would have nothing to do with it. I’m also not sure that is exactly what he meant. But if the intelligent and dynamic director of my program seduces her audience, that’s exactly what I want to do too. Next time, I’ll hope it is with my words and not my accent.
Finally, I’ve tried to explain to the one high school principal who insists on calling me Sister Christina, that I am NOT a nun and there is no need to call me Sister. Nonetheless, he persists. At least in his school the boys aren’t shouting out that they love me, no, surely those young boys understand that I am eternally and faithfully married to God.
17 February 2010
Dog Tired
What’s the difference between a sick day in West Africa and one in the States?
Twelve colleagues, direct from the workplace, visiting you at home.
That’s right. On Monday I wasn’t feeling well so I called in sick to my morning meeting at the guild. A classic 12-hour stomach bug induced by expired lentils and too much moldy jam – yes embarrassing – but in retrospect, true.
So I lay on the couch, tried not to move, and hoped the electricity would hold out at least for the morning. Of course I should have seen it coming. I should have put on a bra; I should have washed my face and I should have brushed my teeth. But nausea is a great equalizer and the effort of moving from the bed to the couch was enough for the first hour of the morning. Pouring a glass of water to sip was about it for the second.
Of course, around sometime before noon the first two guests came a knocking.
I’m coming… uh yes, hi. How are you. How was the session this morning? Yes I don’t feel great but its fine. You are here to visit, how nice. At this point I sat down in the one weensy corner of shade, on the ground. Sooo, should I get you a chair. Yes? Right. Wait, you say there are more? POURQUOI??? (Out loud, whoops!)
So at this point the effort of standing back up and slipping through the approximately two feet of direct sunlight before heading inside toward the chairs, of course, induced vomiting. Lovely. Just in time for the guests. Two more arrived. Then four more again. Oh hello, how are you all. You came to visit. I’m fine. Really. Now I ran out of chairs and the second thing the president of the guild said to me upon arrival went something like, What?? But there is sunlight here? But… No shade. Where. How. We must go inside. HOW??
OK, fine. Grab the chairs and come in the house that’s fine. Then my counterpart who always graces me with French and never tries to befuddle me in local language goes for the traditional greeting of we are come to visit you, oh sick friend, to give you the encouragement, courage and human company necessary to heal, don’t worry, God will forever hold you in the palm of His magnanimous, beneficent hand so let us pray. And I’ll pray too right after I throw away that moldy jam those expired lentils.
And OK – maybe he didn’t say all this in Ewe and said something else more like Goodmorning. How did you wake up? How are things in your home? But I’ll hear what I want to when my usually wonderful counterpart refuses to communicate in a language that he speaks perfectly and that I understand. AND when, meanwhile, he is leading the troops in a tradition SOO far from AMERICAN that I want to ask all twelve people have you MET me? Who thought this was a GOOD idea?
And anyway, that first thing is totally what they WOULD have said if that had thought of it before hand…
People are very Christian here in Togo. First thing every day my host family listens to church from about 5:30 to 7:00 in the morning except on Sundays when they actually go there and afford me a precious few hours free of depressing, unharmonious chanting bleating from their staticky radio. On weekdays, if I’m still around the house, from about 7:00 onwards in the morning another neighbor takes over Christian radio duty and plays more depressing chants until the sun really starts to get hot.
Luckily I experienced it all yesterday morning when I had my sick day. Thankfully, by late afternoon I felt MUCH better. Well enough to make some margarine pasta and eat it so yeah!
That evening, after a boring day alone I decided to hang with the host family for a bit and maybe even try eating again. We got to talking about the family dog. His name, I recently learned, is Ideal. In six months I have never once touched this animal essentially living in my courtyard and dog lovers please don’t take this the wrong way. NO ONE touches this dog or most other dogs in Togo, Burkina, etc. unless the plan is to kick it or apparently… I’ll come back to that.
Well, one other time recently Mama and I got to talking about this dog and she explained to me that really, she loves the thing. He’s the perfect kind of dog because he does his rightful job of guarding the home and barking like crazy upon seeing any intruders (including me – the confusing white member of the family – often enough). We got to talking about him again last night while I recalled our last conversation about Ideal.
He smells. He is dirty and smells very bad but we can’t wash him because if we try to touch him he will bite.
Oh, well, you know. You’ll figure it out.
No he is too dirty I am thinking of getting rid of him.
But no, last time we talked you said he was a good dog! You love him, no?
Yes he is a good dog but he is too dirty now and I think I will sell him and get a new dog.
But who will buy someone’s old guard dog anyhow? Won’t they have the same problems as you?
No of course not, we will sell him to another ethnicity – there are some that will buy and eat dogs.
Aah. Ok. (pause) So why don’t you just eat him yourselves?
Our ethnicity does NOT eat dogs!
Twelve colleagues, direct from the workplace, visiting you at home.
That’s right. On Monday I wasn’t feeling well so I called in sick to my morning meeting at the guild. A classic 12-hour stomach bug induced by expired lentils and too much moldy jam – yes embarrassing – but in retrospect, true.
So I lay on the couch, tried not to move, and hoped the electricity would hold out at least for the morning. Of course I should have seen it coming. I should have put on a bra; I should have washed my face and I should have brushed my teeth. But nausea is a great equalizer and the effort of moving from the bed to the couch was enough for the first hour of the morning. Pouring a glass of water to sip was about it for the second.
Of course, around sometime before noon the first two guests came a knocking.
I’m coming… uh yes, hi. How are you. How was the session this morning? Yes I don’t feel great but its fine. You are here to visit, how nice. At this point I sat down in the one weensy corner of shade, on the ground. Sooo, should I get you a chair. Yes? Right. Wait, you say there are more? POURQUOI??? (Out loud, whoops!)
So at this point the effort of standing back up and slipping through the approximately two feet of direct sunlight before heading inside toward the chairs, of course, induced vomiting. Lovely. Just in time for the guests. Two more arrived. Then four more again. Oh hello, how are you all. You came to visit. I’m fine. Really. Now I ran out of chairs and the second thing the president of the guild said to me upon arrival went something like, What?? But there is sunlight here? But… No shade. Where. How. We must go inside. HOW??
OK, fine. Grab the chairs and come in the house that’s fine. Then my counterpart who always graces me with French and never tries to befuddle me in local language goes for the traditional greeting of we are come to visit you, oh sick friend, to give you the encouragement, courage and human company necessary to heal, don’t worry, God will forever hold you in the palm of His magnanimous, beneficent hand so let us pray. And I’ll pray too right after I throw away that moldy jam those expired lentils.
And OK – maybe he didn’t say all this in Ewe and said something else more like Goodmorning. How did you wake up? How are things in your home? But I’ll hear what I want to when my usually wonderful counterpart refuses to communicate in a language that he speaks perfectly and that I understand. AND when, meanwhile, he is leading the troops in a tradition SOO far from AMERICAN that I want to ask all twelve people have you MET me? Who thought this was a GOOD idea?
And anyway, that first thing is totally what they WOULD have said if that had thought of it before hand…
People are very Christian here in Togo. First thing every day my host family listens to church from about 5:30 to 7:00 in the morning except on Sundays when they actually go there and afford me a precious few hours free of depressing, unharmonious chanting bleating from their staticky radio. On weekdays, if I’m still around the house, from about 7:00 onwards in the morning another neighbor takes over Christian radio duty and plays more depressing chants until the sun really starts to get hot.
Luckily I experienced it all yesterday morning when I had my sick day. Thankfully, by late afternoon I felt MUCH better. Well enough to make some margarine pasta and eat it so yeah!
That evening, after a boring day alone I decided to hang with the host family for a bit and maybe even try eating again. We got to talking about the family dog. His name, I recently learned, is Ideal. In six months I have never once touched this animal essentially living in my courtyard and dog lovers please don’t take this the wrong way. NO ONE touches this dog or most other dogs in Togo, Burkina, etc. unless the plan is to kick it or apparently… I’ll come back to that.
Well, one other time recently Mama and I got to talking about this dog and she explained to me that really, she loves the thing. He’s the perfect kind of dog because he does his rightful job of guarding the home and barking like crazy upon seeing any intruders (including me – the confusing white member of the family – often enough). We got to talking about him again last night while I recalled our last conversation about Ideal.
He smells. He is dirty and smells very bad but we can’t wash him because if we try to touch him he will bite.
Oh, well, you know. You’ll figure it out.
No he is too dirty I am thinking of getting rid of him.
But no, last time we talked you said he was a good dog! You love him, no?
Yes he is a good dog but he is too dirty now and I think I will sell him and get a new dog.
But who will buy someone’s old guard dog anyhow? Won’t they have the same problems as you?
No of course not, we will sell him to another ethnicity – there are some that will buy and eat dogs.
Aah. Ok. (pause) So why don’t you just eat him yourselves?
Our ethnicity does NOT eat dogs!
06 January 2010
Training of Trainers Photos
AT GUILD - Training tradesmen to teach Life Skills
PC Togo Country Director & Director for Girls' Education visit
Group challenge - Flip the Boat
Group challenge - Bring Water to the Village
"Family Photo"
AT HIGH SCHOOL - Training school inspectors, principals, vice principals & teachers to facilitate Life Skills lessons
Role playing - Rita and Lucy
Talking to the group
Group challenge - The Human Knot
Working on an action plan
Chief school inspector, me & group Gbatope
Icebreaker - Find the Leader
Group work
Introducing closing ceremony
Chief school inspector & Peace Corps Director of Girls' Education
"Family Photo"
PC Togo Country Director & Director for Girls' Education visit
Group challenge - Flip the Boat
Group challenge - Bring Water to the Village
"Family Photo"
AT HIGH SCHOOL - Training school inspectors, principals, vice principals & teachers to facilitate Life Skills lessons
Role playing - Rita and Lucy
Talking to the group
Group challenge - The Human Knot
Working on an action plan
Chief school inspector, me & group Gbatope
Icebreaker - Find the Leader
Group work
Introducing closing ceremony
Chief school inspector & Peace Corps Director of Girls' Education
"Family Photo"
13 December 2009
Click there to laugh at the Sobiloffs --->
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
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
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".
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