Yesterday I was talking to a few other PCVs about various ways we feel we've changed over the past year. The most pronounced thing for me, I think, is an increase in patience.
Now, I liked to think that I was a fairly patient person, by American standards, before living here. But this new development is not the American, take-a-deep-breath-and-dont-freak-out-patience. We're not talking about controlling one's frustration when things go wrong. We're talking an actual lack of frustration.
Bush taxi broke down? Well, Leah, what did you expect? You'll get there when you get there.
They're out of (insert food item here) at the restaurant? Guess I'll make some rice.
Power went out during the last 5 minutes of a very exciting new movie? And?
(Literally this has happened more times than I can count. The mark of a seasoned volunteer is that s/he will hardly react at all. The newest PCVs might express disappointment. The rest of us either sit there to see if it will come back on any time soon, or wordlessly get up to do something else. )
I wouldn't think this at all remarkable except that when things like this happen I honestly don't feel disapointed when things go wrong, or at least not more than a very fleeting twinge.
Nigeriens (well, muslims in general, really) use the expression "inshallah" ALL the time. "If God wills it."
"Will I see you this afternoon?"
"Inshallah"
"Will you have fixed the internet by this evening?"
"Inshallah"
"I'm going to Konni tomorrow, inshallah"
"It will rain today, inshallah"
When things don't go as planned or desired, the typical response is, "Well, God didn't will that." There is this constant unstated "Whatcha gonna do?" And I've gotten the feeling that the concept of "dissapointment" as we know it wouldn't really translate. If, for example, you were to ask one of my villagers how they felt about the bush taxi breaking down, there's a good chance they would say, "Feel? What do you mean? It happened. God willed it." They would just shrug it off and move on.
"Zamun duniya, sai hankuri" is a common proverb that basically translates to, "that's life, be patient."
For someone who, by virtue of living in the States, is frankly, accustomed to a VERY different philosophy (think "God helps those who help themselves") and significantly more reliability when it comes to things like transportation, what products a store/restaurant have in stock, regular access to functional technology, etc. this degree of fatalism can be incredibly frustrating.
("Can you fix that?"
"Inshallah"
"No! It's a YES or NO question. Can. You. Fix. It? )
But, I have to admit, its rubbing off on me a bit...
This is not to say that if there is any possible action that I can take to move towards the desired end I won't take it. I will fight tooth and nail and do everything in my power to get there, because I am very much an American and happen to love the proactive-to-the-extreme aspect of our culture.
However...
It does mean that almost nothing will shock or frustrate me at this point. And once I realize that there's nothing I can do, I will, like my villagers, shrug my shoulders and sit and wait to see what happens.
I had thought this before, and talked about it just yesterday, but had it really put to the test last night. I have been planning my trip home for this summer for months, booked my ticket back in May, have been counting down FOR EVER, had filled out all the required paperwork, printed out my boarding pass, was packed and ready. The Peace Corps shuttle picked me and one other PCV, who was also heading home for the first time in a year, up at 9:30 pm to go to the airport last night.
And yet, here I am, 12 hours later, still in Niamey, at the Peace Corps office updating my blog.
What happened, you ask?
We went through lots and lots of security. We boarded the plane. We settled into our seats. And then we heard the announcement.
"We're very sorry, but this flight has been cancelled."
Surely, I must have misheard that? Delayed... sure. Rescheduled, maybe. But cancelled? Go home, that's all folks? To quote a former host-mother, c'est pas possible!
But, alas, they did mean cancelled. Well... sort of. More like, delayed indefinately, I suppose. There was a problem with the engine (I keep telling myself to be grateful that they realized this whilst on the ground... this is good advice, but I'm having a hard time summoning that particular emotion) and they are fixing it. We were all sent home or to hotels, after they took down all of our phone numbers, and were told that they will contact us as soon as they've fixed the problem and are able to take off. So here I am, waiting patiently.
I'd be lying to say I wasn't at all disapointed by this, despite all I said above, but my emotional response was surely nothing compared to what it would have been a year ago. Yes, it's frustrating that I'm going to have a few less days at home. Yes, I would much rather be having thai food with my family tonight than rice and beans with PCVs. Yes, I would LOVE to have some clear idea of when I will finally fly out (today? tonight? tomorrow? tomorrow night??). But at this point, it is out of my hands. I contacted everyone, at AirFrance, Peace Corps, and home, that I can contact. At a large airport one might make a fuss and have them juggle all kinds of things around and get on a different flight. But this is not a large airport and there are no other fligths. That is the only plane around, at the moment, so until they fix it or send another, I've got to wait. I'll get there when I get there, or, as my villagers would say, I'll get there when God wills it.
One way or another, I'll be home soon (inshallah).
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Why I love arabic...
What we said:
“In the name of God,” the man called out to me, holding up his mango and smiling as I walked by.
“Thanks be to God,” I responded with a friendly wave.
What we meant:
Him: “Here, have some of my mango!”
Me: “No thanks, I don’t need a mango right now.”
“In the name of God,” the man called out to me, holding up his mango and smiling as I walked by.
“Thanks be to God,” I responded with a friendly wave.
What we meant:
Him: “Here, have some of my mango!”
Me: “No thanks, I don’t need a mango right now.”
Mid-Service Crisis
Readjusting to life in Niger after my first vacation wasn’t easy. Having been out of my village for several weeks meant that it took about a week of being there to really feel like I was “back in the swing of things”. Saying goodbye to Vic again wasn’t easy, although it will only be 7 months, not 10, this time around. On top of that, I’m coming up on my one year mark, just about halfway through my service, and my projects are sort of in abeyance at the moment, as I’m waiting for funding to come through for a few things. This meant that I was trying to readjust while not really having anything in particular to do on a day-to-day basis. My prayer life took a bit of a dive, to be honest (which never helps anything, you’d think I would learn that?) And to top it all off I had a few very confused weeks in which I tried to figure out what I’m going to do after Peace Corps (Grad School? Where? For what? Etc, etc.) I’m chalking it all up to a “mid-service crisis”, during which I was plagued by questions like: what am I doing with my Peace Corps service/life? Why am I here? What am I accomplishing? Etc., etc. Oh and, it was the height of “hot season” here in the hottest country in the world. Basically… May was a long month.
But now things are looking much brighter. I’m still waiting on that funding… but I honestly love being in my village. I love hanging out with my villagers, or even just walking through town and greeting people. I’ve been re-evaluating my work plan for the next few months, and while things can be slow they are moving, so that’s encouraging. And I’m going to be going home for a couple of weeks this summer (in just about a month and a half!) to see friends and family and (finally!) meet my niece (!!), which I am beyond excited about. All in all, life is good. Crisis averted.
But now things are looking much brighter. I’m still waiting on that funding… but I honestly love being in my village. I love hanging out with my villagers, or even just walking through town and greeting people. I’ve been re-evaluating my work plan for the next few months, and while things can be slow they are moving, so that’s encouraging. And I’m going to be going home for a couple of weeks this summer (in just about a month and a half!) to see friends and family and (finally!) meet my niece (!!), which I am beyond excited about. All in all, life is good. Crisis averted.
Lions and Guinea Fowl
One night at Kruger Vic and I went on a guided sunset drive with about 25 other people, most of whom were highly inebriated, middle aged, white South African women. We had stopped by the side of a river and were watching a few elephants, when our guide told us that he had just heard that there was a pride of lions in another part of the park. We took off; this is the one thing everyone was really hoping to see. When we got to the spot, there were easily 15 lions; several lionesses, lots of cubs, and a couple of adult male lions. They were all walking right down the road, just feet away from the safari-bus. It was absolutely breathtaking. There is just no way for me to do it justice here.
While that first 20 minutes or so of the ride was easily the highlight of our time in Kruger, the following three hours were slightly less thrilling (though no less entertaining). At one point we were stopped for maybe 10 minutes, watching a pair of guinea fowl while the group of women I mentioned above asked the guide questions about these birds’ eating and mating habits… I should mention that, in Niger, I am woken up almost every morning by the flock of guinea fowl that live in my neighbor’s yard, and that they are more common than chickens. Imagine being on safari in this huge, famous national park and listening to someone explain the eating habits of a chicken… Not exactly what I had in mind when we signed up, but I have to say I thought it was funny.
A little later on, we stopped to watch a rabbit, while they debated loudly amongst themselves about that rabbit. One woman felt very strongly that we shouldn’t pay him any attention at all. “They’re not indigenous!!” She insisted, “the British brought them here! They’re not native to our country!” It took all of my self control not to point out the irony of an Afrikaan woman making that comment…
The rest of our time at Kruger involved wandering through the park, and we were lucky enough to come literally within feet of elephants, rhinos, giraffes, baboons, impala, etc. It was truly amazing; everything I could have hoped it to be.
While that first 20 minutes or so of the ride was easily the highlight of our time in Kruger, the following three hours were slightly less thrilling (though no less entertaining). At one point we were stopped for maybe 10 minutes, watching a pair of guinea fowl while the group of women I mentioned above asked the guide questions about these birds’ eating and mating habits… I should mention that, in Niger, I am woken up almost every morning by the flock of guinea fowl that live in my neighbor’s yard, and that they are more common than chickens. Imagine being on safari in this huge, famous national park and listening to someone explain the eating habits of a chicken… Not exactly what I had in mind when we signed up, but I have to say I thought it was funny.
A little later on, we stopped to watch a rabbit, while they debated loudly amongst themselves about that rabbit. One woman felt very strongly that we shouldn’t pay him any attention at all. “They’re not indigenous!!” She insisted, “the British brought them here! They’re not native to our country!” It took all of my self control not to point out the irony of an Afrikaan woman making that comment…
The rest of our time at Kruger involved wandering through the park, and we were lucky enough to come literally within feet of elephants, rhinos, giraffes, baboons, impala, etc. It was truly amazing; everything I could have hoped it to be.
When Monkeys Attack
Vic and I were relaxing in our bungalow at Kruger National Park in South Africa, watching The Office on his laptop, taking a break after driving around the park all morning looking for lions, elephants, rhinos, etc… when we heard a crash just outside. We both got up and went to the door to see what it was, only to find that a gang of monkeys, each maybe 2 feet tall, had broken into the fridge (why the fridge is outside, I don’t know…), thrown our onions on the ground, stolen half of our loaf of bread, and knocked over our chairs. Now, when we got there we saw some signs warning us to put all food away, because there had been problems with monkeys. But it hadn’t really occurred to me that putting the food in the fridge did not count as “putting it away”.
There was an older South African man, walking down the street, shouting at the monkeys (there were dozens of them), and trying to chase them away. They scattered within seconds and took off. “It’s because people feed them,” he told us. “They think they’re cute and then they become this serious problem for us.”
Once things had died down, we went back inside to continue watching the office. A few minutes later, we heard monkeys outside our bungalow yet again. But this time I knew how to handle it (or so I thought…). I went out stomped my feet and made a lot of noise, and took a few steps towards them, like the man had done before. There were three of them, and they all took off right away, but then apparently one of the three decided that I wasn’t actually all that intimidating. He turned around and charged straight at me. As you can probably imagine, I screamed bloody murder. I think this freaked him out a bit, because he paused long enough for me to get back through the door, close and lock it. Maybe trying to chase away the monkeys wasn’t my all-time best idea…
There was an older South African man, walking down the street, shouting at the monkeys (there were dozens of them), and trying to chase them away. They scattered within seconds and took off. “It’s because people feed them,” he told us. “They think they’re cute and then they become this serious problem for us.”
Once things had died down, we went back inside to continue watching the office. A few minutes later, we heard monkeys outside our bungalow yet again. But this time I knew how to handle it (or so I thought…). I went out stomped my feet and made a lot of noise, and took a few steps towards them, like the man had done before. There were three of them, and they all took off right away, but then apparently one of the three decided that I wasn’t actually all that intimidating. He turned around and charged straight at me. As you can probably imagine, I screamed bloody murder. I think this freaked him out a bit, because he paused long enough for me to get back through the door, close and lock it. Maybe trying to chase away the monkeys wasn’t my all-time best idea…
So... I'm kind of clumsy...
Lots of people get stitches at some point in their life… and now I am one them. Most people probably don’t wait until the first time they are in a country in which they do not speak the language AT ALL, but that’s how things went. Day two in Mozambique, I, with infinite grace, cracked my head open on the window in our hotel room while getting ready for bed, and ended up getting my very first stitches.
I panicked the moment it happened, and even more so when I took my hand from my head and saw the blood. Again more so when Vic suggested that I might need stitches. I’m not getting stitches, I thought stubbornly. I’m just not.
Thank God Vic kept his head. He remained so amazingly calm through the whole thing, and I’m fairly sure that was the only reason I didn’t totally fall to pieces. He called his PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer), who referred us to a clinic. When we got there, Vic translated everything (good thing he’s a health volunteer and knew all the right vocab!). I put up a bit of a fight when I realized they were planning to shave a part of my head before stitching me up. (It is somewhat humbling to know that I am vain enough so that in under those circumstances the thing I was most upset by was the thought of them shaving my hair…) The experience of needing to make medical decisions with such a language barrier was truly frightening, and I kept thinking what it must be like in the States for immigrants who need to go in to the emergency room… Those kinds of things are scary enough when you do understand what’s going on. Vic was great about making sure the doctor was really careful about everything and that I understood what they were going to do every step of the way. The doctor, for his part, was incredibly patient and really kind. He didn’t really speak English at all, but kept saying, “Pain? Pain? Sorry…” Peace Corps took care of payment and everything, and all we had to do was sign our names before leaving the clinic, so that made things pretty easy…
And within two hours of when I hit my head we were back at the hotel, and I had decided that the whole thing was hilarious. Not until then did Vic show the slightest symptom of being stressed, but once I started laughing, he took a deep breath and finally allowed his face to show some of the anxiety he’d been feeling.
The next day we went to see Vic’s PCMO. She took a look at my stitches, gave me a whole lot of things to keep it clean, some pain killers, and a stitches removal kit (yes, a stitches removal kit). About a week later, in between SCUBA lessons, Vic took my stitches out for me. And that was that. What a way to start a vacation, eh?
I panicked the moment it happened, and even more so when I took my hand from my head and saw the blood. Again more so when Vic suggested that I might need stitches. I’m not getting stitches, I thought stubbornly. I’m just not.
Thank God Vic kept his head. He remained so amazingly calm through the whole thing, and I’m fairly sure that was the only reason I didn’t totally fall to pieces. He called his PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer), who referred us to a clinic. When we got there, Vic translated everything (good thing he’s a health volunteer and knew all the right vocab!). I put up a bit of a fight when I realized they were planning to shave a part of my head before stitching me up. (It is somewhat humbling to know that I am vain enough so that in under those circumstances the thing I was most upset by was the thought of them shaving my hair…) The experience of needing to make medical decisions with such a language barrier was truly frightening, and I kept thinking what it must be like in the States for immigrants who need to go in to the emergency room… Those kinds of things are scary enough when you do understand what’s going on. Vic was great about making sure the doctor was really careful about everything and that I understood what they were going to do every step of the way. The doctor, for his part, was incredibly patient and really kind. He didn’t really speak English at all, but kept saying, “Pain? Pain? Sorry…” Peace Corps took care of payment and everything, and all we had to do was sign our names before leaving the clinic, so that made things pretty easy…
And within two hours of when I hit my head we were back at the hotel, and I had decided that the whole thing was hilarious. Not until then did Vic show the slightest symptom of being stressed, but once I started laughing, he took a deep breath and finally allowed his face to show some of the anxiety he’d been feeling.
The next day we went to see Vic’s PCMO. She took a look at my stitches, gave me a whole lot of things to keep it clean, some pain killers, and a stitches removal kit (yes, a stitches removal kit). About a week later, in between SCUBA lessons, Vic took my stitches out for me. And that was that. What a way to start a vacation, eh?
Culture Shock
“It looks like California!”
“Leah, no, it doesn’t.”
Okay, Mozambique is not California, but after 10 months in Niger, to me, it looked it. There are big streets (with street lights!), skyscrapers, palm trees, coastal views, and even a few mansions (over where the president and ambassadors live… to be fair, that’s a pretty nice neighborhood in Niamey, as well…). There’s a movie theater, ethnic restaurants, trendy bars. None of the buildings appeared to be made out of mud brick. It was warm and mildly humid. I just kept thinking, “California!”
In reality Mozambique is a very poor country, with an alarmingly high AIDS rate, and if someone had come there straight from America, I’m sure no parallel between Maputo and CA would have been drawn. But I’ve been living on the cusp of the Sahara, and Niamey has precisely one skyscraper and very few paved roads. I’ve been told that it is the last remaining capital city that allows livestock to roam the streets, so there are goats, sheep, cattle, everywhere you look. The fact that I could so easily have confused this “third-world” country with one of the wealthiest parts of the United States might give you some idea of how underdeveloped Niger actually is…
I spent a good portion of our time in Moz making exclamations that all went along the same lines. “OH MY GOSH!! YOU HAVE (insert something I hadn’t seen in months…mostly food related)!!!” Hopefully Vic didn’t find this too obnoxious…
And then there were the cultural differences…
“Is this okay?” I asked as we walked down the street, holding hands.
“Yeah, kid, its fine.”
“Are you sure??”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“Seriously???”
I couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea that PDA in any form could be acceptable. Holding hands in public?! Oh, the shame. Oh, the scandal. Girls walking down the street with their shoulders and knees showing?! I blushed every time they walked by… But then, this is not a Muslim country. There are different rules. And the higher level of infrastructure is, I’m sure, directly related to how much more tourism Mozambique gets than Niger, which has its pros and its cons. Still, despite these glaring scenic and cultural differences, there is a certain level of commonality of experience amongst PCVs, and maybe especially PCVs in Africa. The joys and frustrations of living and trying to work in another culture, learning another language, sticking out everywhere you go…While our experiences are obviously very different, where it counts we still are able to understand each other.
“Leah, no, it doesn’t.”
Okay, Mozambique is not California, but after 10 months in Niger, to me, it looked it. There are big streets (with street lights!), skyscrapers, palm trees, coastal views, and even a few mansions (over where the president and ambassadors live… to be fair, that’s a pretty nice neighborhood in Niamey, as well…). There’s a movie theater, ethnic restaurants, trendy bars. None of the buildings appeared to be made out of mud brick. It was warm and mildly humid. I just kept thinking, “California!”
In reality Mozambique is a very poor country, with an alarmingly high AIDS rate, and if someone had come there straight from America, I’m sure no parallel between Maputo and CA would have been drawn. But I’ve been living on the cusp of the Sahara, and Niamey has precisely one skyscraper and very few paved roads. I’ve been told that it is the last remaining capital city that allows livestock to roam the streets, so there are goats, sheep, cattle, everywhere you look. The fact that I could so easily have confused this “third-world” country with one of the wealthiest parts of the United States might give you some idea of how underdeveloped Niger actually is…
I spent a good portion of our time in Moz making exclamations that all went along the same lines. “OH MY GOSH!! YOU HAVE (insert something I hadn’t seen in months…mostly food related)!!!” Hopefully Vic didn’t find this too obnoxious…
And then there were the cultural differences…
“Is this okay?” I asked as we walked down the street, holding hands.
“Yeah, kid, its fine.”
“Are you sure??”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“Seriously???”
I couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea that PDA in any form could be acceptable. Holding hands in public?! Oh, the shame. Oh, the scandal. Girls walking down the street with their shoulders and knees showing?! I blushed every time they walked by… But then, this is not a Muslim country. There are different rules. And the higher level of infrastructure is, I’m sure, directly related to how much more tourism Mozambique gets than Niger, which has its pros and its cons. Still, despite these glaring scenic and cultural differences, there is a certain level of commonality of experience amongst PCVs, and maybe especially PCVs in Africa. The joys and frustrations of living and trying to work in another culture, learning another language, sticking out everywhere you go…While our experiences are obviously very different, where it counts we still are able to understand each other.
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