Moving on
-
After much thought and reflection, I have decided to move my blog over to
a new platform. I needed something that could grow with me.
All of my memories f...
11 years ago
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
There Must be an Amusement Park in Burkina, Because I’m on a Rollercoaster.
During stage, PC staff showed us a graph of PCVs emotional well-being during their two years. For the first three months, there was never a plateau or standstill on that graph—it looked like a sound wave with an ear-drum bursting frequency. And I can only confirm this emotional roller coaster that this graph portrays.
I think its best to paint a picture of the situation, because it’s the situation, not necessarily the string of events, that cause such emotional reactions. So imagine having three months in a completely foreign country. Its certainly shocking to be placed from one of the richest countries in the world to one of the poorest, but those first three months were very, very structured and very much so secured in an American bubble. Now fast forward to after training: I'm placed in a village of 2500 people, yet in many ways completely alone: the only one of my ethnicity, language, culture, personal beliefs, perspective, the list can go on. Not only am I completely alone, but I’ve gone from a jam-packed schedule to no schedule at all. And I've been given many more responsibilities than I had before: cooking, cleaning, furnishing your house, etc. I was, in a way, completely dependent on my host family, staff, and peers during stage, and I was ready for independence. But the struggle now is that there IS independence sort of but because I have no sense of direction, no idea of who is who, no idea what is where, and no real idea of what to do, I still have to rely on many people—so the independence was at first very much an illusion. And while I had no routine at all in my first week or so in village (and thus the supposed freedom to do as I please), I also did not have much control over my routine because I was at a complete loss of how to occupy my day. So all these dichotomies pulled me (and continue to pull me) in different directions.
Add on to that my role as a woman: I’m a third gender as an American woman. I can relax and drink with the men, but I identify with the women (I also cook and clean like the women). When the days go well, I feel as if I’m bonding with both genders. When days suck, I feel even more alone than I did before.
So during this incredibly fragile moment in my transition into my village, I am extremely reactionary to every change in my environment: if one too many kids yell Tubabu at me and demand a cadeaux (gift), I get angry. If I get nothing accomplished during the day because everyone is gone or out in the field, I get angry. If someone makes the tiniest comment about the low status of women, I get REALLY angry. But someones I don't get angry, I just get sad and isolate myself in my house. It really depends on the day. Every hour of every day is a different set of emotions, and it can be even more upsetting when I realize I have no control over it.
So take all these things: the physical and emotional isolation, the complete lack of structure that had been so comforting before, the opportunity of independence but the inability to attain it, the house not quite feeling like a home, the inability to communicate with people, and just plain being the “black sheep” in a small, tight knit community. Not only that, but add the fact that, since this is a village, my every action is pivotal to my acceptance and integration into the community.
All the said, I’ve found it incredibly difficult to reign in my emotions (which, unfortunately, makes me even more emotional). So when one little thing does go wrong, the factors of my environment are unable to comfort me and a start to lose it. Sometimes I’ll lose my temper, other times I’ll refuse to leave my house. And sometimes, I’ll be a little too sassy with people (typically men, since I’m probably the only woman who can stand up to them without being smacked in the face).
That being said, I had a REALLY good week, which made writing this entry fairly difficult. I found out there will be running water in my village in about three months, and I have found ample opportunities for small enterprise development--while not my "job" per say--would really help my village.
I think its best to paint a picture of the situation, because it’s the situation, not necessarily the string of events, that cause such emotional reactions. So imagine having three months in a completely foreign country. Its certainly shocking to be placed from one of the richest countries in the world to one of the poorest, but those first three months were very, very structured and very much so secured in an American bubble. Now fast forward to after training: I'm placed in a village of 2500 people, yet in many ways completely alone: the only one of my ethnicity, language, culture, personal beliefs, perspective, the list can go on. Not only am I completely alone, but I’ve gone from a jam-packed schedule to no schedule at all. And I've been given many more responsibilities than I had before: cooking, cleaning, furnishing your house, etc. I was, in a way, completely dependent on my host family, staff, and peers during stage, and I was ready for independence. But the struggle now is that there IS independence sort of but because I have no sense of direction, no idea of who is who, no idea what is where, and no real idea of what to do, I still have to rely on many people—so the independence was at first very much an illusion. And while I had no routine at all in my first week or so in village (and thus the supposed freedom to do as I please), I also did not have much control over my routine because I was at a complete loss of how to occupy my day. So all these dichotomies pulled me (and continue to pull me) in different directions.
Add on to that my role as a woman: I’m a third gender as an American woman. I can relax and drink with the men, but I identify with the women (I also cook and clean like the women). When the days go well, I feel as if I’m bonding with both genders. When days suck, I feel even more alone than I did before.
So during this incredibly fragile moment in my transition into my village, I am extremely reactionary to every change in my environment: if one too many kids yell Tubabu at me and demand a cadeaux (gift), I get angry. If I get nothing accomplished during the day because everyone is gone or out in the field, I get angry. If someone makes the tiniest comment about the low status of women, I get REALLY angry. But someones I don't get angry, I just get sad and isolate myself in my house. It really depends on the day. Every hour of every day is a different set of emotions, and it can be even more upsetting when I realize I have no control over it.
So take all these things: the physical and emotional isolation, the complete lack of structure that had been so comforting before, the opportunity of independence but the inability to attain it, the house not quite feeling like a home, the inability to communicate with people, and just plain being the “black sheep” in a small, tight knit community. Not only that, but add the fact that, since this is a village, my every action is pivotal to my acceptance and integration into the community.
All the said, I’ve found it incredibly difficult to reign in my emotions (which, unfortunately, makes me even more emotional). So when one little thing does go wrong, the factors of my environment are unable to comfort me and a start to lose it. Sometimes I’ll lose my temper, other times I’ll refuse to leave my house. And sometimes, I’ll be a little too sassy with people (typically men, since I’m probably the only woman who can stand up to them without being smacked in the face).
That being said, I had a REALLY good week, which made writing this entry fairly difficult. I found out there will be running water in my village in about three months, and I have found ample opportunities for small enterprise development--while not my "job" per say--would really help my village.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Oh yeah, my job
But first, let me entice you with my new puppy, Buddah:
Buddah is about 6 weeks old--I got him a week ago, only to feel like a single parent with postpartum since he arrived. When hes not peeing, pooping, eating and whining, hes sleeping--he hardly bares and calming quality I hoped him to have when I got him. But I know in time it will pay off--a gaurd dog, a garbage disposal, and a cuddle/playmate all in one!
So I realize I’ve spent a lot of time talking about the culture and lifestyle of my village and my slow (very slow…) integration into the community, but I’ve done very little talking about what my job entails. For the first three months (until mid-March) I am not to do anything that my “real” job entails. The first three months is the “Etude de Milleu,” in which I am to spend my time—not only integrating into my community, which is paramount for the success of my next two years—but to perform various studies with my community to determine its needs (particularly health needs) and effective strategies to fulfill those needs and ensure their sustainability—even after I’m gone. Being that this is a village without the technological advances many Western countries have made to enable continuous, regular and stable livelihood throughout the whole year, this is a village (like most in Burkina and other African countries) whose inhabitants’ lives are incredibly interconnected with the seasons, crop production, religious holidays, money--everything.
So, now that I’ve been here for a full three weeks (I can’t believe it!) what have I learned? Well, there is one CSPS in my village, and that CSPS is not only the rural health clinic for my village, but for 6 other satellite villages—the closest being 13K away and the farthest being 25-30K away. The CSPS is composed of an infirmary (a room with a few small beds) a maternity (one birthing table)and a couple offices for medicine and consultations. Most CSPS clinics have pharmacies as well—mine does not; so if someone needs medicine, it might be at the CSPS—otherwise they would have to go to another CSPS or to the district hospital. There is one Major, my counterpart, who is the doctor and head of the CSPS; there is one infirmary nurse, one birthing nurse, and one assistant. These four people are responsible for the 2500 people in my village and the other hundreds of people that inhabit the other 6 satellite villagers. The clinic is closed every Sunday. Everyone takes a 3 hour siesta (called a repose here) from noon to three. There is no electricity and no running water. There is a solar panel, but I’m not quite sure of its purpose, because the refrigerator that holds vaccines runs off of a propane tank.
You would think this would cause complete chaos: if all the doctors in your community did this, there would be lines of people bleeding and crying and in labor and waiting for hours to see the doctor when he or she was available. That’s not so much the problem here, rather, it’s the exact opposite. Instead of a massive line pouring out the door to see the doctor (especially given the high rates of malaria, meningitis, upper respiratory infections, STIs, HIV and AIDS, and diarrhea), the four nurses here spend a lot of their time outside the CSPS, waiting for someone to show up. I go to the CSPS most mornings before the repo, and in the 3 to 4 hours I’m there I see no more than 4 people there at a time—maybe 7 or 8 people total during that time span. Perhaps its a bit more when its vaccination day. But none the less, when there are 2500 people in my village (so not even including satellite villages), and when the birth rate is much, much higher here than in the US, and when there is only 40 some babies recorded as having vaccinations for the year 2008, something is seriously wrong. I biked 13K and back to the closest satellite village for their vaccine day—maybe 15 mothers showed. If motivation is low to begin with, add an hour plus bike ride and no other real means of transport and you have a bunch of people who just aren’t willing to seek medical attention when they may really need it.
And what only complicates the problem is the livelihood of the villagers: they’re nearly all farmers, so they’re constantly planting, cultivating, harvesting, or selling their produce on the side of the road or in the marche. And if a rainy season doesn’t produce a healthy crop—that means less money, more work, and less time and money to spend on one’s health.
So what am I to do? Not only is it important for me to address specific health problems within the community (water, sanitation, STIs, diarrhea, infection, malnutrition, etc.), but I need to be able to get the message out to as many people as possible—probably the most important people being the ones who don’t go to the CSPS in the first place.
It most certainly seems like a very complex, complicated problem that an etude is necessary for. But just as my integration into the community is foundational to a successful two years, the community’s participation and active involvement in the etude is foundational to a successful future.
Buddah is about 6 weeks old--I got him a week ago, only to feel like a single parent with postpartum since he arrived. When hes not peeing, pooping, eating and whining, hes sleeping--he hardly bares and calming quality I hoped him to have when I got him. But I know in time it will pay off--a gaurd dog, a garbage disposal, and a cuddle/playmate all in one!
So I realize I’ve spent a lot of time talking about the culture and lifestyle of my village and my slow (very slow…) integration into the community, but I’ve done very little talking about what my job entails. For the first three months (until mid-March) I am not to do anything that my “real” job entails. The first three months is the “Etude de Milleu,” in which I am to spend my time—not only integrating into my community, which is paramount for the success of my next two years—but to perform various studies with my community to determine its needs (particularly health needs) and effective strategies to fulfill those needs and ensure their sustainability—even after I’m gone. Being that this is a village without the technological advances many Western countries have made to enable continuous, regular and stable livelihood throughout the whole year, this is a village (like most in Burkina and other African countries) whose inhabitants’ lives are incredibly interconnected with the seasons, crop production, religious holidays, money--everything.
So, now that I’ve been here for a full three weeks (I can’t believe it!) what have I learned? Well, there is one CSPS in my village, and that CSPS is not only the rural health clinic for my village, but for 6 other satellite villages—the closest being 13K away and the farthest being 25-30K away. The CSPS is composed of an infirmary (a room with a few small beds) a maternity (one birthing table)and a couple offices for medicine and consultations. Most CSPS clinics have pharmacies as well—mine does not; so if someone needs medicine, it might be at the CSPS—otherwise they would have to go to another CSPS or to the district hospital. There is one Major, my counterpart, who is the doctor and head of the CSPS; there is one infirmary nurse, one birthing nurse, and one assistant. These four people are responsible for the 2500 people in my village and the other hundreds of people that inhabit the other 6 satellite villagers. The clinic is closed every Sunday. Everyone takes a 3 hour siesta (called a repose here) from noon to three. There is no electricity and no running water. There is a solar panel, but I’m not quite sure of its purpose, because the refrigerator that holds vaccines runs off of a propane tank.
You would think this would cause complete chaos: if all the doctors in your community did this, there would be lines of people bleeding and crying and in labor and waiting for hours to see the doctor when he or she was available. That’s not so much the problem here, rather, it’s the exact opposite. Instead of a massive line pouring out the door to see the doctor (especially given the high rates of malaria, meningitis, upper respiratory infections, STIs, HIV and AIDS, and diarrhea), the four nurses here spend a lot of their time outside the CSPS, waiting for someone to show up. I go to the CSPS most mornings before the repo, and in the 3 to 4 hours I’m there I see no more than 4 people there at a time—maybe 7 or 8 people total during that time span. Perhaps its a bit more when its vaccination day. But none the less, when there are 2500 people in my village (so not even including satellite villages), and when the birth rate is much, much higher here than in the US, and when there is only 40 some babies recorded as having vaccinations for the year 2008, something is seriously wrong. I biked 13K and back to the closest satellite village for their vaccine day—maybe 15 mothers showed. If motivation is low to begin with, add an hour plus bike ride and no other real means of transport and you have a bunch of people who just aren’t willing to seek medical attention when they may really need it.
And what only complicates the problem is the livelihood of the villagers: they’re nearly all farmers, so they’re constantly planting, cultivating, harvesting, or selling their produce on the side of the road or in the marche. And if a rainy season doesn’t produce a healthy crop—that means less money, more work, and less time and money to spend on one’s health.
So what am I to do? Not only is it important for me to address specific health problems within the community (water, sanitation, STIs, diarrhea, infection, malnutrition, etc.), but I need to be able to get the message out to as many people as possible—probably the most important people being the ones who don’t go to the CSPS in the first place.
It most certainly seems like a very complex, complicated problem that an etude is necessary for. But just as my integration into the community is foundational to a successful two years, the community’s participation and active involvement in the etude is foundational to a successful future.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Tubabu is the New Nasara
Well what can I say about my first week at site? It honestly has felt like one very long Mefloquin dream (Mefloquin is the anti malaria medication I have to take, which can have a tendancy to give people very bizarre, intense dreams). After spending two days in Banfora buying necessities for my house, I rode in a Peace Corps van with all my belongings 15K away to my new home for the next two years. I pulled up to a massive welcoming party, with villagers, dancing, and bylophone playing galore. It was so touching, having so many people put such time and energy into my arrival without even knowing me. But I have certainly felt like a member of this community the minute I jumped in the dance circle.
No lies here: my house is ginormous: one large 10 x 20 living room that connects to a hall way with an indoor bathing room and four 8 x 10 rooms. This is a house meant for a large family, not me. And with the limited budget I had for furnishings, its looking pretty desolate. I've already commissioned some furniture to be made and I've spoken with some people to have my walls cleaned and painted, so it will feel like home in no time at all. I must say though, I'm feeling pretty cocky that my first house out of college is (comparatively) a mansion—just don't tell anyone there's no electricity or running water!
So what have I been up to for the first week? The timing has made for a very interesting first week, as there was a fete for the New Year as well as a marriage. So there has been lots of dolo drinking (dolo is locally brewed beer) by everyone (children included), lots of bylophone playing (there is a group here that has even toured through Europe!), and lots of dancing (everyone wants to see the awkward white woman dance, which has been unfortunate for me…). Because I'm living in the chief's compound, the chief's son—who may actually be the chief now since the chief is dead—has taken me EVERYWHERE. It has been incredibly helpful in many ways: meeting the important people in the village, knowing the ins and outs, learning how to greet everyone (half my day is spent greeting people), and just knowing my way around in general. I'd also say that, being associated with the chiefs son, I have a kind of immunity and protection here. However, because I spend nearly every waking moment with the chiefs son, I think by day 3 everyone was convinced that I am his new wife. I also feel as if I still have very little independence here, but I know that with time that will change.
So what else is there to say about my new village? Well, I've eaten papaya every day since I've been here. Everywhere I go I see massive mango trees. There is also pineapple, oranges and banana here. There is a village only 1 K away (I have to cross a massive gorge to get there, which is a beautiful site) that has electricity, which means I can have cold drinks and yogurt and charge my phone whenever I want! I am told I will be getting a puppy very soon, and I've decided to name him Marley (as alluring as Lieutenant Puppykins was, I don't think the people in my village could pronounce that). My name here is either Ama or Amada because "Amanda" is much too complicated. My name is also Tubabu to the children, which means foreigner. It is still beyond comprehension to me that the chiefs son has a Mercedes benz. I have spent more time in dolo bars than at the CSPS (on the chief's son's account), and I'm starting to wonder if I could conduct my sensibilizations at the bar in order to reach more people.
I can already tell that I'm going to miss the people here so much after my two years, and I can already tell how much I'm going to love it here. But I must continue to tell myself for these first several months that is a process. Its not easy now and its going to be challenging in many ways, but that is a necessary, crucial part of the process. This struggle is vital to my growth and my immersion into this community, and the most I can do right now is welcome the struggle and have the patience to endure.
No lies here: my house is ginormous: one large 10 x 20 living room that connects to a hall way with an indoor bathing room and four 8 x 10 rooms. This is a house meant for a large family, not me. And with the limited budget I had for furnishings, its looking pretty desolate. I've already commissioned some furniture to be made and I've spoken with some people to have my walls cleaned and painted, so it will feel like home in no time at all. I must say though, I'm feeling pretty cocky that my first house out of college is (comparatively) a mansion—just don't tell anyone there's no electricity or running water!
So what have I been up to for the first week? The timing has made for a very interesting first week, as there was a fete for the New Year as well as a marriage. So there has been lots of dolo drinking (dolo is locally brewed beer) by everyone (children included), lots of bylophone playing (there is a group here that has even toured through Europe!), and lots of dancing (everyone wants to see the awkward white woman dance, which has been unfortunate for me…). Because I'm living in the chief's compound, the chief's son—who may actually be the chief now since the chief is dead—has taken me EVERYWHERE. It has been incredibly helpful in many ways: meeting the important people in the village, knowing the ins and outs, learning how to greet everyone (half my day is spent greeting people), and just knowing my way around in general. I'd also say that, being associated with the chiefs son, I have a kind of immunity and protection here. However, because I spend nearly every waking moment with the chiefs son, I think by day 3 everyone was convinced that I am his new wife. I also feel as if I still have very little independence here, but I know that with time that will change.
So what else is there to say about my new village? Well, I've eaten papaya every day since I've been here. Everywhere I go I see massive mango trees. There is also pineapple, oranges and banana here. There is a village only 1 K away (I have to cross a massive gorge to get there, which is a beautiful site) that has electricity, which means I can have cold drinks and yogurt and charge my phone whenever I want! I am told I will be getting a puppy very soon, and I've decided to name him Marley (as alluring as Lieutenant Puppykins was, I don't think the people in my village could pronounce that). My name here is either Ama or Amada because "Amanda" is much too complicated. My name is also Tubabu to the children, which means foreigner. It is still beyond comprehension to me that the chiefs son has a Mercedes benz. I have spent more time in dolo bars than at the CSPS (on the chief's son's account), and I'm starting to wonder if I could conduct my sensibilizations at the bar in order to reach more people.
I can already tell that I'm going to miss the people here so much after my two years, and I can already tell how much I'm going to love it here. But I must continue to tell myself for these first several months that is a process. Its not easy now and its going to be challenging in many ways, but that is a necessary, crucial part of the process. This struggle is vital to my growth and my immersion into this community, and the most I can do right now is welcome the struggle and have the patience to endure.
Opening a present from Mom and Dad on Christmas :) thanks Mom and Dad!
[expect more photos, unfortunately this is all you can get at the moment because my connection is terribly slow!]
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