yesimgoingtopeacecorps

[yesimgoingtopeacecorps]

A Woman Is Not An Object or a Prize

As a female Peace Corps volunteer, there is no escaping it.

The sideways glances, the stares that last too long in your direction, the sigh you feel leaving your body when you're asked, yet again, if you are married or if you're dating anyone- and if you're not, "why not?"

There is a lot a person can get used to and become accustomed to when living in a foreign place. I am no longer phased by the fact that my toilet is simply just a hole in the ground, or that I have to wash my clothes by hand, or plans don't work out, or a three hour long car ride could end up taking me almost an entire twenty-four hours. Those are things that are easy to adapt to.

But the one thing that I will never fully adapt to? The one thing that continues to wear on me and chips away at the patience and acceptance I have built for other things in this experience? It's the feeling that no matter what, I am constantly looked at by men as an object, and I'm spoken to as if I have a buying price.

"Where is your husband?"

"Why are you not married yet?"

"My love, I love you, I want to marry you."

"Don't you want a husband? You need to start having children"

"Please, my darling, love me. We can go back to America together."

"If I was to marry you, you would be worth 1,000 cows. I would pay your father and he would be very happy."

"Hey baby, you are so sexy."

"Why are you not talking to me everyday? Is it because you do not want to be with me?"

"He is saying that because he wants to be with you, he does not mean any harm."

Let me be clear about something here, these aren't things I have heard from just Guinean man. I've heard it in all of my travels across the world. From my creepy rickshaw driver in Cambodia who picked me up from the airport, to the safari car driver in Tanzania where I worked for a summer, to my female host mother during my rural homestay in Uganda, who told me basically that “men will be men” when a drunk neighbor came by and wouldn't leave me alone. After awhile, this gross objectification starts to get to you. 

However, I think the difference for me now is that in the past, the trip always ended. I would go home and was able to surround myself again with male figures and close friends who respect me as a human being and don't look at me like I'm a walking vagina and breasts. 

I was able to build those walls up again and rebuild stronger each time, so that each new foreign experience, I started to care less about the stares, the crass comments, and the creepy actions towards me. I grew, I learned how to recognize these men and these situations, and I would brush them off or I would say something really brash and straightforward like "I want a husband someday but it won't be you." or I'd ask "Why is it necessary for me to have children?". I could say what I wanted and be as cold and detached as I needed to be if someone was making me uncomfortable or was being disgusting to me because, 9 times out of 10, I was probably never going to see them again.

I had these walls, these safeguards, and these skills I gained from over a decade of dealing with men out there who feel as if myself and other women are something that is owed to them. I came into Peace Corps with that fortress of self reliance under my belt and I was ready to take on what Guinea was going to throw at me. And let me tell you, in the last 17 months, the constant objectification has been bombarded on me.

The stares from men anytime I go anywhere, the constant comments from taxi driver asking me where my husband is (or if I want a husband, or can they be my husband?), having my photo taken without my consent, having to refuse invitations to men's homes, the persistent feeling of never fully being safe in a crowded male dominated space… the list could go on, and I know for a fact most other female volunteers I know have similar stories to share with you. It's gotten to the point where many of us just find it necessary for our sanity to straight up lie about being married or engaged to avoid further questions because, after the hundredth time of hearing "So if you are not married or engaged, you need to find someone here to marry." you stop wanting to have the argument of women's rights and choices.

But, all that said and done, those are the sort of instances and people I can deal with. Sure, they're exhausting, but I built those walls on purpose and they've kept me safe here. These sort of things exist everywhere in the world; as much as I individually do what I can to change those actions and inherited traits of these sorts of people, I try not to let them affect my life.

What exhausts me in the end, are the alarming number of men here whom I've put my trust in to not act that way towards me, and then having them betray that trust. They are the cannonballs among the pebbles being thrown in my direction and they are the ones that are wearing me down to a point of burn out.

Guinea, like almost all of the rest of the world, is a male dominated society. Unlike the culture I grew up in that has adapted and begun the journey of social equality for all, many Guinean men do not see women are their equals. It’s a culture where a bride price still exists, meaning simply that a woman literally has a monetary value assigned to her and her rights, her choices, and her body can be sold to the highest bidder. It is also a culture where, for the most part, the thoughts and feelings of the males in society are seen as the only ones that matter. But because I want to get work done, and because I want to make a difference, I grit my teeth and I grin through my gut-wretching feeling of wanting to run the opposite direction. I try to make friendships, develop work relationships, and have casual conversations with the opposite gender.

...Obviously the director of a branch of a major non-governmental organization in our area who works with my health center would be willing to work with me on helping to improve the capacity building of the community. We have so much to work on and he'd be a great work colleague. At least that's what I thought until I went to his house once on my way to my regional capital, just to chat, and he told me he wanted to "marry a beautiful American woman" and would leave his wife to do so, staring at me the whole time like a vulture waiting for his chance at the roadkill. Uncomfortable, I left and ignored his phone calls after that. He's since been moved to another posting in the lower part of the country.

...Of course this guy in my community who wants to work on organizing sessions for malaria trainings wants to just work with me because he cares about what I'm here to do… unless of course he's decided that by doing this with me, it was his way of telling me how much he loves me and wants to be with me. He said this to me over text message after a campaign that we did. When I didn't answer him and I started getting his six phone calls and fourteen text messages a day for a week, I finally had the doctor at my health center get involved and the harassment ended.

...There's no way that my friend and French tutor, a young, well educated, guy, would want anything more than my friendship and to hang out- until he asks me to dump the Peace Corps volunteer I’ve been dating so I could date him and when I said no, that I just wanted to be friends, he proceeds to stop speaking to me.

I’ll reiterate again, this sort of thing happens to women in America and all over the world; I'm aware it's not just a Guinean phenomenon of culture. But when my Peace Corps service has consisted of over ~80% of my interactions with male acquaintances always leading to me hearing a comment about my marriage status, or the 99.5% chance of me being nice to the taxi driver and then giving him my number to contact him for rides later, result in him constantly calling me asking to hang out, or, when I have at least a 1 in 2 chance of a man I'm trying to develop a professional friendship with, is thinking that working with me is eventually a way to get in my pants- you really begin to question whether you’re going to be able to make any difference at all.

So, what keeps me going on days that I feel like this? And feel like venting out about how I don't think things will ever evolve in this testosterone filled space I find myself currently apart of?

Every single day is a constant struggle to keep pushing back against these norms and keep allowing myself to trust people and let my guard down- despite being hampered with so many reasons to be jaded and shut the men out all together. But the reason I don't give up is there are men who are an exception the rule. By forming friendships with these men and having them embrace that fact that I am a human being, not an object or a prize to be won, it empowers them to teach others group them how to act and behave towards the opposite sex. It gives me hope that they will be the ones to change the ways of the next generation.

I see it in my friend Cissé, who's marriage I was a part of and who has constantly been working with me to start a girls' sports club.

I see it in my Chef de Santé, Dr. Bah, who always tells me about the importance of educating women and calls me his teacher.

I see it in my counterpart Mamadou, who has never once asked me about a husband or has ever made a pass at me in our year and a half of working together.

I finished writing this, and I went and stopped by my health center and sat down with Dr. Bah. Frustrated, I explained my feelings to him about how men act here. He said something to me that gives me hope. “Les hommes qui ne respectent pas les femmes ne sont pas des hommes bons.” The men who do not respect women are not good men.

So, because of them, and Guinean male role models like them, I keep moving forward. I keep finding ways to, cautiously and carefully, let the other gender into my life while I'm here. I keep going so that, maybe one day, men like my few Guinean male friends who respect me and respect the rights and choices of women, will no longer be the exception but will instead be the rule.

[yesimgoingtopeacecorps]

You are desperately seeking a catalyst, a sort of dramatic crescendo that will leaving you shaking, a permanent unavoidable altercation to your existence. You don’t know what or who this will manifest itself as. You aren’t entirely sure what to watch out for, although even at 20 your eyes feel tired from the long nights watching and waiting. The secret is there is no moment. No meteor will fall from the sky and land at your feet The moments, the passages of life that are truly impact full, truly full of meaning are constructed. We make life into what we want to be. You need no more catalyst than what is inside of you. If you want to change, than change. Alter your own fabric, dye your hues to meet your fancy. And if your dissatisfied, simply paint your canvas white and begin again with clearer vision I don’t know if this will help, but in my limited experience this is the truth I have found

Tiffany McNeish

art major, best friend, life saver.

www.tallasgiants.tumblr.com

(via sarahugandablog)

Found this from going through my old blog from my study abroad in Uganda... it’s as relevant today as it was then

[yesimgoingtopeacecorps]

Planting a Change

When was the last time you saw pure, unadulterated, inspiration in another human being?

Oumou is 15 years old, and she already speaks better French than most people I know. In fact, the reality is, her French is so good that I can barely understand her at times. I met her a few months ago when she showed up at the library I'm working on reopening in Donghol-Touma and she asked me if she could read some books. I was in a bad mood that day and I nodded at her and went back to my work- pretty much ignored her presence; but she came back the next time I was there. She then continued to come with me, learning how to organize books with me and reading everything I gave to her- which so far has included six different books, between Nancy Drew in French and a book about the French Revolution.

I applied for a training near Conakry with the Gender and Development Committee of Peace Corps Guinea and was asked to bring an adult counterpart and a girl student for the program. I knew after meeting her I didn't need to look any farther for the student. I asked her to come with me. Nervous, she accepted and we made the long, fourteen hour car trip down south for the week. It had been 5 years since she traveled outside of our sous-prefecture of Pita.

 I'll ask you again, when was the last time you saw pure inspiration in another human being?

This week, I saw it.

Peace Corps is a hell of a lot of highs and lows, and I spend a decent amount of time questioning why the hell I am here. But this girl? Seeing her here this week, I remembered my purpose here.

The truth of the matter here is, Peace Corps volunteers in my position don't actually do a lot in the ways that you would think. For the most part, we're no longer build schools and we absolute hate the idea that people conceive of us "saving the world". We're not. 

We are here providing small chances to other human beings to potentially broaden their horizons, give them the opportunity to learn something new, and in the end, realize the potential they have had inside of themselves all along.

The role of the volunteer isn't to plant an already grown tree and hand out the mangoes as gifts to those around them. Volunteers come with the seeds of change they want to plant into a community. They teach people how to plant and care for the seedlings, and then show them how to benefit from the literal and figurative fruits of their labor. We do this so that one day those we have educated will be able to show everyone else they know how to do the same, in order to eat the red and orange beautiful fruit hanging from the branches of change.

On our last day of the training, I look over at Oumou to see her writing down information from a manual we would be bringing back to site. I explained to her that the manual would be coming back to our village and we can use it to train others together. She shook her head and explained to me that she was writing down all the questions and all the points so that she could return to Donghol-Touma and sit down with her friends and ask these questions and have them write stories about them- stories about the dangers of child marriage, about gender based violence, and about the importance of education.

I told her I wasn't sure I had heard her correctly. With a smirk and an eye roll, she repeated her French words back to me again, slowly and pointedly to make sure I grasped the weight of her words so I could translate them correctly in my brain- words she spoke light as air.

"A faami?" Do you understand? She asked, switching to her playful Pular banter with me. Without waiting for me to answer, she put pen back onto paper and kept writing.

It took me a moment to realize what had just occurred: in that moment, I witnessed the sprouting of a kernel of change. Through this training, she was given the tools and the knowledge of empowerment, and it was transforming her. Whether she realized it or not, the last three days had changed her and had allowed her begin to realize all her own potential and worth. She had started growing from it. 

And all I had done was given her access to the seeds.

[yesimgoingtopeacecorps]

Talk Less, Listen More

I've always prided myself on my speaking skills and being eloquent with my words. But in this last rotation around the sun, while trying to speak in two languages that I'm not fluent, I've found a massive shortfall in my personality- one that has been worn down and corroded by a year’s worth of unspoken words and ideas: who am I without being able to articulate my thoughts? This has caused me to think critically about how I come across to others when I can open up myself and my thoughts.

Tonight I sat down with another volunteer and good friend of mine and asked her point blank "What can I work on as a person? What do others view about me critically?"

The conversation was extensive, but I'll give you the punchline: 

Talk less, listen more.

When she told me this, I realized the truth of her words. I have spent my entire life talking about my own stories and who I am. Truthfully, I've done it in an effort to try to relate to those around me- to show that I am in solidarity with their problems or their lives. But, until tonight, I've never thought about how someone outside of my own mind sees this. It seems to take what I’m saying as if I am turning their problems into my own, and when I end up looking back at the grand picture, they're not wrong. My efforts to relate by telling people my own stories in comparison with theirs, makes it seem as if my experiences or problems are superior or more complicated to their own.

Talk less.

Listen more.

Ask more questions.

This entire two year journey is not just about the changes of my community, or my mission here, or the competence I gain in working in international development. I am here to grow and change as a person. I have gotten to the point in my life to where I understand that constructed criticism on who I am and how I conduct myself is not just a part of life- it is a gift. In order to develop as human beings, we need to be open to seeing ourselves from the lives of those around us. The quality of our experience on this earth is based on our interactions with the humans around us. 

Like any plant or tree, in order for us to thrive, we need to prune away the parts of ourselves that aren’t beneficial.

So, I urge those of you around me, who know me from all walks of life and have something to say to me that will help me improve as a person, or a thought or comment on what I can do better to improve my life or the lives of those who interact with me, send me a message and let's have a conversation.

Before you can be the change in the world, you have to be willing to be able to change yourself.

[yesimgoingtopeacecorps]

You Are Never Alone

"Guinee? As in… Guinee Conakry?" the taxi driver asks in a French accent.

"Oui" the word falls flatly off of my tongue as I stare out the window and shiver from the 50°F weather that felt like a breath of fresh air after thirteen months in West Africa.

There's a stagnant pause as he tries to finds the words to say, while I turn and look blankly at the meter, the red lights showing 31.00 euros on its dash. It feels like that number is mocking me, and I think about how that money is worth 1/5th of what I receive in a month as a Peace Corps volunteer. I shake my head to rid the thought from my brain and look back out the window. My plane has touched down in Côte d'Azur after a full day of travel from Conakry and all I want to think about is how nice it will feel to sleep in a hotel bed. 

The driver finally speaks again, a slight tone of arrogance on his lips:

"Porquoi tu vis la?"

…Why do you live there?

It's been awhile since my last blog posting. 

Over the last three months, I've spent almost no time in the village I call home and too much time traveling the 15+ hour trip back and forth from the capital to my site. In my time lapse, I have had my father visit for two weeks, I attended my first Media team meeting in Conakry, went through a break up, conducting training for two weeks for the newest group of volunteers, attending a Diversity Committee meeting- in Conakry, again, and I went to Europe for almost three weeks to meet up with Harley and Jen in Portugal and Spain and then to meet up with my Mom in France.

Call it too much on my plate, or trying to fill my time, or poor planning, or trying to escape my own fears and shortcomings. Honestly, call it whatever you want; but the reality is before I left for my vacation for Europe, I was starting to really lose sight of a real answer to the question the overpaid, judgmental, cab driver had asked me.

On my final day in Europe, I entered the airport in Nice with a heavy heart that matched the extra ten pounds I had gained over those three weeks from all the wine and cheese. I turned to my Mom as she got in line to board her flight back to the other side of the world and the dam of emotions I have hidden and ignored for the last three months finally gave way. “I love you” was all I could manage to get out before forcing myself to walk away from her. Sobbing, knowing it was going to be at least another year before I saw her.

I've found myself with the habit of stuffing my emotions away into a place devoid of time and space. In the last three months I realize I really hadn't let myself feel.. well… anything. Feeling anything and writing and talk about how broken and worn down my body and my mind felt seemed pointless, when just getting through the day here sometimes is a physical and mental challenge. I had semi-consciously forced my mind to push away the thoughts of self deprecation and unhappiness.

But in that airport, crying uncontrollably under florescent lights on a hard metal bench, next to a Prada and Louis Vuitton store, in a place I no longer felt I belonged to, the tsunami of reality hit me.  I finally had hit my breaking point.

I was alone.

For the first time in months, I finally felt truly secluded in the world. The feeling of heartache that I had pushed back against by filling my time with new faces, new countries, old friends, good food, and family had begun to seep through the façade of excitement and happiness of always having a next plan and next destination right around the corner. 

So I let go and let myself feel again. With puffy eyes, I kept my head down and took my seat on the plane back to Guinea, unsure of what was to come. 

When I arrived to my village, it was morning.

As I maneuvered my way through the rocky path to my doorway I set my luggage down and see a blur of colors coming towards me, kicking up the harmattan dust. The kids got to the finish line first. They wrapped their arms and bodies around my legs tightly as if they never wanted to let me go again. Through all the yelps and squeals of children's voices I hear the sound of Hassatou's voice, calm and collected in all the chaos and I look up. 

"Ko tooli Aicha. Tu me manque… tu me manque beacoup. Welcome to Donghol-Touma."

In three languages, Hassatou managed to say the words I needed to hear. The words that reminded me why I was here in the first place. It reminded me that even with all my anxiety and fears, I was, in fact, not alone.

The question came back to me:

"Why do you live there?"

I live in Guinea because I am a Peace Corps volunteer. 

I came to live here with the hope that I was going the lives of those around me just a little bit better, through sustainable long term development and impact. However, the last year has shown me something else- no matter how many lives I try to touch and how many people I work with, the biggest impact and development and change isn’t in them. The people I live among and that care for me have instead changed me. They’ve made my life better. They’ve developed, educated and changed me. They’ve impacted me.

I live here so that all that I have learned from Guinea and Guineans will prepare me for a job in the field of international work and how to break barriers and unite people so that we can start to understand one another.

I live here to cultivate an understand with Guineans, myself, and the rest of the world (including self-important taxi drivers) that in the face of all our differences- whether they be cultural, social, economic, ethnic, racial, gender, age, educational or religious- we are all cut from the same cloth. That even though our traditions may be different, or the words that come out of our mouths are foreign to one another, or the means and ways everyone lives their daily lives are nothing like are own, we are all connected in the beautiful chaos we as a species have created.  

We are all human. 

And that, although it may seem so at times, we are never alone.

[yesimgoingtopeacecorps]

Becoming Naked to Become Comfortable

There was a loud methodical beat made by the slap of clothes hitting the rocks, while suds-covered hands tossed and scrubbed away the dirt embedded in the fabric. The voices rose and fell as the words spoken mixed in with the high-pitched squeals of children arguing, a baby crying, and the flow of the water.

If you were making you way to the river, you'd already to be to tell by the symphony of noise that you were about to cross paths with a group of Guinean woman and children doing their weekly laundry ritual. Some women would just be getting started with foaming up their brightly colored fabrics to soak in plastic buckets, while other are in the end stage of the process- half naked and covered in peanut soap, ready to take advantage of the moving water of the rainy season. Such a typical scene at almost every Guinean river, creek, and stream this time of year.

In fact, after seeing this ritual enough in your life, you would probably have walked passed these people and on towards your destination, never giving these women and their naked chests and clean clothes a second thought. The only reason you would stop and take a second look would be if there was something completely out of the ordinary happening.

Something like, say, a white-skinned blonde girl, half-naked herself, sitting among these women.

I look around at Hawa and Miriama and a few of the younger girls sitting next to me, many of them topless, their beautiful bodies reflecting the jewels of water in the sun. Almost finished with my laundry, I look down at my own legs and arms, covered in dirty and mud after working in my yard all morning before I decided to come down to wash my clothes. I paused for a moment.

"Screw it." 

In one sweep, I peel off my damp shirt and sports bra and close my eyes and wait for the exclamations or surprise of the fact that the Porto had decided to get nude with them.

I have become so accustomed to the stares, the conversation directed towards me and the yelps and laughs when I do something unusual, even if it is something so usual for a Guinean. Even walking down a pathway with a backpack to the health center or asking for bread in local language makes me feel like I'm constantly a part of a television show or being studied like a specimen in a lab. Because of this, I now brace myself constantly for the reactions of any move I make. 

Exposing my breast to sunlight for the first time in over a year, in front of strictly Peul Muslim women, seemed like something that would get that sort of reaction.

Ten seconds pass, then a minute. No reaction. Not even really a stare in my direction.

Hawa and Miriama glance up towards me, laugh to themselves, and then continue to wash their feet and bodies. Finally, two of the little girls take notice, but not to stare or yell out and collapse into giggles. Instead, they come over and start touching my tattoos and begin trying to scrub them off, whispering to themselves and touching the thin lines that make up the compass of permanent on the side of my body.

Their mother, Aishatou, notices them and begins scolding them in rapid Pular, telling them to get back to washing the clothes and to leave me alone. She looks at me and smiles and touches her chest, soaking her t-shirt in the process.

"Mon corps" she says and points to me

"Ton corps"

Throwing her hands in the air with a laugh, she states "Meme chose, pas une différence" and goes back to her washing.

There are certain defining moments of realization in this Peace Corps journey, where all the small things start to finally add up and you can see them all in a much larger picture as you look back on them. The extraordinary starts becoming ordinary and the unfamiliar, familiar. I never realized this sentiment may start to go both ways for not just myself, but how I am perceived by those I have become closest to here in Guinea. I no longer am referred to as Porto but instead lovingly by the name Aicha or Aichatou Bah. People wave at me as I walk down the street and then continue with their business. They ask me where I've been when I leave, and then ask me about my work at the health center. I was in the taxi on my way home the other day and the driver kept asking me "Ko honto iwudaa?"- where are you from? And those traveling in the taxi with me kept insisting that I was from Donghol-Touma and that I was, in fact, a Guinean. When I got home, one of my host Moms takes one look at me with a massive bag on my back and asks me what I'm doing with all that stuff "You look like a tourist", she tells me in Pular, inadvertantly making the point that I'm not. This sort of belonging and feeling of acceptance into a new culture and new place, one so completely different than my American one, finally makes me feel a little less foreign and a lot more like I'm becoming part of this place.

And as I sat in the river, letting the cold water wash over my skin, my breasts soaking up the heat of the sun, I felt a feeling I hadn't felt in a long time.

I felt like I was home.

[yesimgoingtopeacecorps]

A Birth Month and Month of Rebirth

August marks my 9th month in country and it also marks a month of re-grounding and finding my focus again.

This isn’t exactly the most well-written or page turning blog post I’ve ever shared but it does give a good idea of what I’ve actually been doing here the last month and why it has been such a big one for me. 

Changes have never been an easy part of life for me. I've realized looking back that while I have been here in Guinea a lot has happened for me personally. Tiny amounts of growth that I wasn't able to notice as they were in the process, but now I've been able to find time to look back and be surprised at how much is really beginning to take shape for me.

I attended a nutrition and agriculture training in Dubreka with many of my fellow volunteers in my staging group and our counterparts. Not only was it a great time to reconnect with other people I haven't seen in a long time, but it was a beginning catalyst to a return and revival of my motivation here to get work done. My counterpart that attended the training with me, Mamadou Bah, has a background in Agriculture and runs an NGO at my site. His NGO, Organisation de Volontaires pour Le Gestion de Ressources Naturelles (OVGRN or in English, Organization of Volunteers for the Management of Natural Resources) focuses on how to create sustainable resource management in Guinea and this training also helped him see how we can tie in nutrition and nutritional training into his programs. Mamadou is easily one of the most motivated people I've ever met and this training ignited a spark in him for us to work on different project ideas we have together. Starting next week we will begin the process of our community trash clean up initiative, while using some of the recycled materials we find to create the beginnings of a community nutrition garden.

Adding to that, myself and a few other volunteers are beginning the process of organizing a week long "Test and Treat campaign" for malaria, one of the worst problems that faces Guinea and much of the developing world. We're going to go to each others villages and work with our counterparts to go out into the community and test those showing the signs of malaria and give out medication to those who have it, all while sensibilising the communities on prevention of malaria and the use of mosquito nets.

I've also taken on new responsibilities. I've become the house manager for our regional house in Labe, I worked with another volunteer to create and give a diversity and inclusion presentation to the new group of volunteers (G32), and I've been asked to help our 'Let Girls Learn' committee come up with a program for gender empowerment through soccer (or other sports). Between all of these things and the starting up of my own projects at site, I'm about to (finally) be a very busy person. 

Personally, this has been a month of self reflection. I got to celebrate my birthday- once in Conakry with my best friend Jaimie, and then at site with Megan before she left site for good to close her service. I made a list of things on my birthday that I want to accomplish in the next year of 25, including both personally goals and Peace Corps related goals. One being that I want to try to get into a real routine schedule for my life of waking up early(ish), working out, and reading more. I want to spend more time writing and reflecting on who I am and what I'm doing here. Additionally, another huge thing on my list, is confronting challenges in my life that I've been avoiding- specifically with language and learning French and Pular. It helps that my support network of people in country continues to grow and I keep finding myself meeting individuals that inspire me, make me happy, and make me want to become a better person. 

Finally, I think it helps that I have a lot of things to look forward to. All of these projects are Peace Corps related work are a huge one and I've started trying to plan out my days and weeks ahead of time. I’ll be taking the Foreign Service Office Test (FSOT) in October and have began studying for that.  Vacation wise, my Dad is coming in November and then in January I get to see my two best friends and my Mom in Europe. Some days when I'm having a really bad day, the knowledge that I get to see the four of the most important people in my life between three and six months from now really keeps me going.

I'll end with one of my favorite quotes from writer Ned Hepburn:

 "Life wasn’t meant to be taken in large movements. The next day will inevitably arrive, you’ll sleep, and the moment will have passed. But when you have a hundred thousand small moments, you can step back and appreciate the picture a lot more than metaphorically blowing your load on some grand moment that, in all honesty, look, you’re not Bruce Fucking Springsteen, you’re not going to be able to blow everyone’s mind every single night. You’re not Romeo and/or Juliet. There’s no reason to drink the poison together in some flame-out gesture. So that leaves us with the small stuff. It’s all about the detail."

[yesimgoingtopeacecorps]

What a Time to Be Alive at Twenty-Five.

As of now, I have been on this earth for twenty-five years and let me tell you, being a quarter century old a weird age to be. 

Half the people I know are getting married, having children, and are settling down. They have their careers and their "9 to 5" jobs and five year plans. Meanwhile, the other half is still trying to figure out if this is the life they ordered and how to balance a budget or separate their laundry correctly.

I am definitely a part of the second half- especially considering I haven't used a washing machine in over 8 months and I'm currently doing all my laundry by hand. Which, by the way, I still don't do correctly according to most Guinean women.

However, I'm damn sure I wouldn't have this life any other way.

In twenty-five years I have managed to survive things I shouldn't have, avoid ruining my life as a teenager, make a hell of a lot of mistakes, play the sport that I love, throw caution into the wind, and live life to the fullest. I've visited nineteen countries, I've lived in New York city, I've worked jobs I've loved and jobs I've hated, I've made friends that will move mountains for me, I've fallen in love and had my heart broken, I've fulfilled items on my bucket list, I've worked overseas, and finally, I'm living the dream I've had since I was fifteen- I'm a Peace Corps volunteer working in West Africa.

People talk about this idea of a "quarter-life crisis" as a period of time in your twenties where you realize you have absolutely no clue what you're doing.

I did have that; I left college and within 24 hours of graduation I decided to move to New York City and live with my two best guy friends from high school, and after a few months started a job for a non-profit I had worked with in college overseas.

I thought "Wow, I'm adulting, this is it."

But two months into the job as basically a glorified assistant, and six months into failed attempts at the dating scene and affording a New York lifestyle, I had had enough. I wasn't ready for New York and I sure as hell wasn't ready to sit behind a desk. Metaphorical tail between my legs and feeling lonelier than I ever had, I made the move home, where I stayed for almost two years.

Between 22 and 24 had my run through some jobs and short-term opportunities overseas, as well as a failed Peace Corps acceptance to Ukraine when I didn't pass my medical review. I worked at three different places during the next year and a half and eventually fell in love with the restaurant life, when I was hired on the staff to open up a new place called Junction. As my experience in waitressing grew, so did my confidence in who I was and what I wanted out of life.

Finally, after officially getting accepted again to Peace Corps, this time to Guinea, I got on a plane and did a solo-backpack trip through Asia for two and a half months where I got to play with elephants, meet people from all over the world, and I learned how to love being on my own and who I was. I came back to the United States as someone who felt ready again to take on the world. I arrived back in Charlottesville last August, a few weeks before my 24th birthday, where I spent the last few months in the place I call home, doing things I love with the people I love. Then, on November 30th, I left for Peace Corps. And here I am, in Guinea.

So, was that a quarter-life crisis? I guess it's possible.

Or am having a quarter-life crisis at this very moment by choosing to work and live in a village, in a country that’s on a continent thousands of miles from home, where nobody speaks the same language as me and I don't have the same comforts of American life? Maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe instead, this is all a part of becoming a better human being and engaging in the world around me.

Don't get me wrong, this isn't to say I don’t have moments of doubt in my life here. I have mornings I wake up in Peace Corps and want to scream my lungs out or just turn over and go back sleep for a week. Or moments where nobody understands me or I want to just break down and cry. And for every terrible moment, there always seems to be a equalizing moment of overwhelming happiness and fulfillment. Honestly, sometimes my day is full of so many extreme highs and lows that I feel like I have bipolar disorder.

But would I trade any of this emotional turmoil rollercoaster for something different? Absolutely not. I am learning more about myself and the way the rest of the humanity works beyond my own American point of view.

…and I can promise you being here sure as hell beats your desk job.

My point is this: Fuck the idea of a quarter-life crisis. Being scared shitless about your future and questioning what you're doing with your life between the ages of 20 to 30 should be embraced not as a crisis, but as a sign of someone who isn't satisfied with a sedentary life. There is nothing wrong with wanting to chase dreams, or quit a job you hate, or move back home, or move someplace you've never been, or buy a plane ticket and see the world, or go back to school, or join Peace Corps, or make any other drastic change to your life.

But then again, what do I know?

I'm just a twenty-five year old, who's "quarter-life crisis" has led her to living out a life that includes following her dreams that is building her up for a successful and satisfying career, with no real regrets, and no desire to look at my decisions and say "what if I had done this differently?"

[yesimgoingtopeacecorps]

A Language of Misunderstanding

Some people pick up new languages with relative ease. The studying of the  words and phrases excites them, as their brain makes the synapses and connections of the meaning of the sounds and how it relates to their own mother tongue. They enjoy the puzzle of figuring out what someone else is saying, as foreign sounds reverberate from the mouths of those speaking and seem to get rewarding "aha!" moments from the whole process.

I am not one of those people. 

Guinea is a country of about 12 million people that use French as its official language, with "official" being the key word here. With a population that over 70% of them haven't attend school past 6th grade, most people don't know anything past a French greeting and only speak in one of the dozens of local languages, the main ones being Malinke, SouSou, and, the language at my site, Pular.

French, though not an easy language for a non-native speaker, is a romance language, methodically fairly similar to English and does share many of the same root words- so, while learning French for an average English speaker is a struggle, it's doable.

Pular on the other hand? Pular is a language that seemed to created all of the words it needed for things then decided to just complicate things all for the hell of it.

Let's take the noun "goat" for example. One goat is "mbeewa" (mm-bay-wa), while if you had more than one goat, Pular throws it's first phrase right out the damn window and suddenly, you're calling multiple "goats" na'i(naa-e). Almost every noun has different word for it's plural- and that doesn’t even touch the surface.

Verbs? To eat can either be naamugol, faggagol, or nafagol depending on where you are. But as soon as you, ya know, decide "to eat something that's hard", you use "yakkugol" or when you happen "to eat a lot in a shameful manner" it's sokkagol. The list for these examples goes on and on. And don't even get me started on sentence structure.

Don't get me wrong, this language in the brief amount that I have studied is a beautiful language and poetic in a way. But, for me,  the sheer detail of this form of communication are exhausting and dumfounding to the point I'm not sure if any Peace Corps volunteer has ever gotten to the point of being completely fluent. Some have gotten close, but even they say that there are things they still don't know or understand after two years of being immersed in it. 

Now, cue me, the Peace Corps volunteer, who arrived at my site fresh off of Pre-Service Training, with only two weeks of official French classes, six weeks of learning the basics of my local language (which I never got to practice because I didn't train in an area where it was spoken), and mental exhaustion from trying to adjust to the fact that I'm living in West Africa for 27 months. Peace Corps Guinea decided to experiment with their language training for my staging group by training mostly in local language instead of French and from a personal standpoint, it didn't work. Now instead of being okay in French comprehension, I'm pretty shitty at two foreign languages.

I've worked and studied in four African countries before this. I know how to conduct sensitizations and promote health and change, I studied and experienced cultural sensitivity and cultural differences and how to adjust and work with them. From a development standpoint, I have a pretty decent grasp on what I'm supposed to be doing. But those four countries- Uganda, Rwanda, Tanzania and Ghana all have something in common that Guinea does not: they all speak English as their official language.

And this, my friends, is where the largest challenge of my Peace Corps experience lies- I am trying to crawl my way, inch by inch, into a new world of not just cultural differences, but of an entire foreign form of communication. And I will tell you right now, it is one of the hardest things I've ever done.

"A petit, a petit." says my counterpart. "Seeda, seeda" says my neighbor. Both mean little by little and both phrases are often say it to me when I struggle through a speech or a conversation or to answer a simple question. And most of the time I laugh, shrug it off, and make a mental note to try to remember that word or phrase that was spoken, despite many of these conversations hitting my eardrums and turning into nonsensical noise in my brain.

But some days, I come home almost in tears, wondering if I really am going to do what I set out to do here. Yesterday, I tried to explain to a woman who came into the health center with a very infected cut on her foot that she should help heal it by soaking it in hot water and wrapping it up to reduce the swelling. This woman didn't speak a word of French and just stared blankly at me, while I made gestured and used my limited use of Pular in vain. When one of the health workers came in to clean the wound and wrap it, I asked him in broken French to tell her what I had said and I was met with somewhat the same stare with a mixture of amusement as he responded in French "I'm sorry, I'm not sure I understand". When I did finally get the point across, the cultural language stepped in and he basically said to me "I could tell her that, but I don't think she would do it."

Part of the foundation of who I am is being able to express myself vocally. I want to explain how I'm feeling to people, to teach people about nutrition and proper health care, to give community members the tools and knowledge to empower themselves, to show my health center that I know what I'm talking about, and ultimately, prove to everyone that I have knowledge and that I'm here for a reason. But most days, I feel separated from this world by a concrete wall, armed with only a rusty nail and hammer to try to chisel away at it, while shouting words into the air that aren't pronounced correctly.

Until then, I'll sit here with my French study guide and Pular phrases in hand, and hope that someday soon I'll be able to explain these feelings to the Guineans I live with, instead of in a blog post to the rest of the world.

[yesimgoingtopeacecorps]

What It Means to Take the Road Never Traveled

“Mido falaa didi pilaasi ka yeeso”

I want two seats in the front.

The syndicate at the taxi gare nods at me and hands me the two tickets, while every single other Guinean person around me is looking at me like I have something on my face. As I do everyday, I pretend to not notice the blank stares, while I feel their eyes burning holes into my rat’s nest of blonde hair atop my head. I sit myself in steaming front seat of the car and doze until we’re ready to leave and find myself reminiscing on my long drives through winding Virginia roads, where I was never reliant on anyone else to get me to where I wanted to be.

Whoever came up with the popular phrase “it’s not the destination, it’s the journey” clearly has never ridden public transportation in sub-Saharan Africa.

I’ve been in a lot of frustrating travel situations in my life: subways in New York breaking down for hours, delayed flights, late trains, expensive Uber rides, Washington D.C. traffic- but none of those will ever compare to the “adventure” that is journeying through Guinea.

As a Peace Corps volunteer, we’re legally forbidden to use motos. The next best option is a “bush taxi”, usually in the form of a twenty-year old Peugot station wagon or Renault car with broken windows, dead batteries, and stickers of Christiano Ronaldo religiously lining the inside of the interior.

Four seated sedans suddenly transform into “seis place” cars, stuffing two people in the front seat and four in the back, while station wagons manage to cram in at least eight people in the car with the addition of two or three small children riding on their mothers’ laps. If there aren’t any seats left, it’s not uncommon to see two or three people sitting on top of the hundreds of pounds of luggage, bidons of gasoline, and sacks of housewares on the roof, while the travel holds on for dear life and hopes that they don’t fall asleep and tumble onto the side of the road during the middle of the voyage.

The journey back to Donghol-Touma for me tends to always be an interesting one. Taxis headed out here from the closest town, Pita, usually leave the station by 10:00am at the latest, so I find myself leaving our regional capital, Labe, by 7:30am, to make the hour ride to Pita in the hopes that I get a seat or two (two meaning one regular seat, usually in the front) in the car that’s making it’s way back home.

The distance between Pita and Donghol-Touma is 21 miles- the exact distance from my house in Charlottesville to my best friend Jake’s family’s house on the other side of town, a trip that on a good day takes me thirty minutes tops because of the 70MPH speed limit on 1-64.

But 21 miles in Guinea? That’s a whole different ballgame. Usually the trip to my village takes about two to three hours. Most recently it took me six.

I got to the gare at 10:00am, ready to get back to the place I’ve come to know and love. The taxis ready to go and we all pile in like clowns in a car at the circus. The driver asks me once again, if I’m going to Doucki, the famous hiking spot on the route to Donghol-Touma. Once again, I tell him no and prepare to plug in my headphones and tune out the rattling sound of the engine.

Twenty minutes in.

The driver realizes that two of the people in the car hadn’t actually paid for their seats. We stop. An argument begins. Instead of the logical thing- which would be having the passengers either pay or get out of the car- we turn back around and goes back to Pita, where we sit for another thirty minutes for them to sort it out. Frustrated, I get out to pee and come back to find the car loaded up again to leave, yelling “Honto Porto?” Where is the foreign girl?

One hour in.

A moto drives up with an angry taxi syndicate yelling at the driver. He cuts him off and reaches into the car and tries to take the drivers keys. The yelling is followed by pushing and loud phone calls. The syndicate sits on top of the car and waits. I climb out through the drivers seat and sit on a rock on the side of the road, listening to a podcast about reconciliation.

Two hours in.

We climb back into the car and slowly head towards Donghol-Touma. I close my eyes and wonder how badly sunburned my arm is going to be from hanging out the window most of the trip. The car stops and the driver cuts the engine, and sighs. He climbs out and opens the hood and proceeds to pour water all over the engine. And then we sit. And we wait.

Three and four hours in.

I want to tell you that this whole thing only happened once, but that would be too good to be true. We repeated the whole “turning off the car, sighing, pouring water on the engine, and jump starting the battery by rolling down a hill” process four times. Suddenly a trip that should have taken two hours to get home now has put me at four hours and thirty minutes… and we still had five or six kilometers to go. With each stop, the sky behind us was blackening with the same anger that I could feel radiating from myself and the other passengers in the car. I check the broken rear view mirror and see the lightning flashing steadily behind us.

Five hours in.

At the bottom of the large and last hill before home, the driver stops- not to restart the car, but to start chatting with his friend on the side of the road and unload half of the baggage tied on top.

I had had enough.

Wordlessly, I peel myself out of the broken down car, leaving my bag behind on the roof and begin to walk the 3km towards home. Halfway up the hill, the driver finally notices my absence.

“Eh! Allah! Where are you going! Come back here!”

I turn on my heel and look at him, trying to avoid the placid frustration and anguish from spilling out into a scream out at this Guinean man.

In my usual mix of Pular and French, I say my monotone and short response back, as the sky cracks open and pours its contents onto the red ground. I was going to get soaked, but at this point, I didn’t give a shit. I just wanted to get home.

"I’m going to walk. I’ll see you in Donghol-Touma.“

I beat the taxi there by fifteen minutes.

[yesimgoingtopeacecorps]

The Guinean Peace Corps Guide to Packing

This list obviously isn’t perfect, but I’m sure if you’ve stumbled onto this blog post you’re looking for a good Peace Corps packing list, especially if you’ve just been accepted to Guinea and you’re getting ready to leave. I’m currently in my 6th month of living in Guinea and I’ve received a few things from home along the way.

Just as a reminder, you’re technically only allowed two large suitcases, at 50lbs each for the trip. However, I knew some people who paid extra for another bag, and, looking back, I should have just done that. It would have saved me and a lot of people at home money on the expensive overseas shipping to Conakry.

Things I packed:

Clothes

a note about clothes, try to get things that are quick dry or make for an active lifestyle. You will be washing your clothes by hand and you’ll want things that are very easy to clean, don’t show dirt, and don’t hold smells. I suggest Lululemon, Athleta, Patagonia, and those kind of brands. You can find cheaper and discounted clothes online at backcountry.com and Sierra Trading Post (also a great place to find any of the camping or hiking gear listed on here). You  can also check out TJMaxx and Marshalls. Also, you’re going to get clothes made here and people are always leaving stuff “up for grabs” at the regional houses, so don’t pack too much clothes wise.

For girls, I will say, error on the side of caution when it comes to shorts, skirts, and tops. You can always cut things or have them tailored but where I live is pretty conservative and as much as I hate it, I wouldn’t be caught dead walking out of my house in a thin strap tank top.

  3 pairs of pants that youcould wear in an office setting but also wear hiking (try Athleta for these)

1 pair of hiking or durable pants that you don’t mine messing up- I use mine to garden

1 pair of black leggings

2 pairs of running/workout leggings

3 pairs of shorts (try to  make them longer/knee length)

2 pairs of compression     shorts/spandex

1 pair of jeans

5 or 6 nice shirts (at least one long sleeved one, I promise there are places that it does get cold here)

2 or 3 tank tops

5 casual t-shirts/workout shirts

2 skirts (well past the knee and flowly)

3 day dresses

1 or 2 nice dresses (but not heavy or thick, the place where you train for three months is very hot)

10 pairs of underwear (check out ExOfficio for great travel underwear)

6 sports bras

2 or 3 regular bras

2 or 3 pairs of hiking/thick socks

7 pairs of regular running socks

1 pair of Chacos or tevas (I live in these shoes)

1 pair of running shoes

Hiking boots or closed toed shoes with a very good grip (the only real tourist thing to do in Guinea is hiking and you will definitely use them. I also use mine when gardening)

1 or 2 bathing suits (these are hard to find in Guinea)

1 good durable raincoat

1 lightweight jacket

1 sweatshirt

1 sweater/cardigan

Other wearables:

A good hat

Cheap sunglasses (you can buy more here and I’ve already broken three pairs)

Two scarves

HAIR TIES

Non-valuable jewelry if you  like that sort of thing

A good backpack

A small foldable bag for market days

A purse

A small cross-body purse

 Electronics:

INSURANCE INSURANCE INSURANCE     (Clements Worldwide is the one I use. It was $150 for a year but it saved     my life when I got robbed during training and was reimbursed almost $2,000     for the stuff stolen

My Macbook

A kindle or tablet- I use     mine every day

An iPod (I also brought my     old iPod touch in the case that I got robbed… it was definitely a smart     move)

A smartphone (MAKE SURE YOU     CAN REMOVE THE SIM CARD AND PUT IN A DIFFERENT CARRIERS SIM… I had a lot     of friends have issues with that because they were tied to Sprint or     another carrier that had the phone locked)

A lifeproof or otterbox case     for the phone

A rechargeable external     battery

A solar battery charger for     phones (I recommend DragonX brand)

2 Luci Lights (look it up,     it’s a solar light)

2 headlamps

4 power adapters/converters

A surge protector- trust me,     my iPhone died my first month because there was a power surge and it fried     my phone

Multiple charging cables for     anything USB related

Three pairs of good earbud     headphones

An external hardrive (2TB)     (mine has hundreds of movies, tv shows, and workout episodes on it. I     highly recommend this)

A digital watch

  Home and Kitchen

Scrubba Wash Bag (look it up,     in my opinion it makes doing laundry here a lot easier)

Duct Tape (if you forget     everything else, remember to bring duct tape)

Electrical tape

Can opener- trust me on this     one

Garlic press

A few good kitchen knives

Thin, plastic cutting boards

Three quick dry towels

Compressable pillow (I     recommend ThermaRest brand)

An all purpose tool

Toiletries

Shampoo and conditioner     (Seriously, you will want this. I ran out of both during training and     there was no place to buy either of them where we were. You can also try     LUSH bars, solid shampoo and conditioners, expensive but worth it.)

Dr. Bronner’s All Purpose     Soap

Toothbrusth and toothpaste

Facial toner and cleaner

Face wash

Hairbrush

Lotion

Sunscreen (you are given some     but I’ve found it clogs the pores in my face)

Basic makeup: eyeliner,     mascara, lipstick, coverup, blush, and a small thing of eyeshadow.

Tweezers

Your favorite nailpolish

Headbands

Deodorant

Razors

Nail clippers

File

Alcohol wipes or a small     bottle of alcohol or hydrogen peroxide.. Peace Corps doesn’t issue this     and this has definitely saved me from infections a few times

Medical tape

For girls, Diva Cups (they will save you from using the crappy tampons medical gives us and keep you from having to buy pads, which are expensive)

Baby powder

Hairbrush

Mini bottles of travel hand sanitizer

Mouthwash

A few toothbrushes and a toothbrush top

 Other Gear

A really good pocket knife

A few pens

Colored markers or crayons

A mini stapler

Rubberbands

A portable mini safe (I use mine here and just wrap it around the table leg. I keep all my extra money, my passports, and my credit cards in there.)

A mini sewing kit

At least two Nalgene water bottles

Liquid chalk markers (are cool for writing things on your walls and for using in the classroom)

Hair cutting scissors (multiple uses and of course, for cutting your hair)

Tape measurer

Wooden clothespins

  Things I wish I brought:

My Birkenstocks or my Rainbow     flipflops

A nice travel yoga mat

A nicer pair of dressy  sandals

More packets of dried food (knorr pasta sides, etc.)

Cliff bars, energy bars, etc.

Tuna packets (you can find sardines here but tuna is almost 3 dollars a can)

Workout gear

More photos of my family and friends

A small projector (I got one brought over for me and cost me 85USD. It’s perfect for movie nights and doing presentations)

Lots of charging cables

A small and light extension cord

Small fan (you can also get decent ones here when you get ready to move to site, but not having one during training was brutal)

Essential oils (can be used to do all sorts of things, especially when it comes to repelling bugs)

A good set of twin sized bed sheets. (SHEETS ARE EXPENSIVE and the sheets here not always that comfortable. Dig up your bedsheets from freshman year of college and bring them along)

 Here’s a list of things you can totally live without, but are nice to have:

 For the Cook in You:

Rennet tablets (for cheese     making- a project I’m still learning how to prefect)

A scoby to use to start making your own kombucha

Lots and lots of spices (you can buy them here but they’re expensive)

Measuring cups and measuring spoons

A small KitchenAid type  handmixer and blender

A mini mortar and pestle

Beeswax

Cheesecloth

Small bottle of Truffle oil

Peanut butter

Lots of water flavoring or     Gatorade packets

Oatmeal packets, dried food     packets

Dried cheese powder (cheese     isn’t a thing here and you’ll miss it more than you realize)

Bottle opener and wine opener

Any snacks you can think of     that you can eat without preparation (training is rough when it comes to     food verity, I legit ate a can of green peas once because all I wanted was     something besides rice and sauce)

 For the Workout Fanatic:

Soccer ball (I had a deflated     one sent to me, just add it to a care package list you won’t want to take     this with you)

Soccer cleats

Soccer socks

Resistance bands

Yoga mat

Arm band for iPod or phone     for music

 For the Gardener:

A good pair of gardening     gloves

Packets of all kinds of seeds

A small hand shovel and small     hand rake

  For the Hiker and Camper:

A hammock with a mosquito net     or a small tent

Carabineer clips

An ultralight sleeping pad

Compressable pillow (I     recommend ThermaRest brand)

Moleskin for blisters

A dry bag to store your stuff     when it rains

A steripen for water

 For the Future Pet Owner:

*I got a kitten in Guinea and it was the first thing I did when I got to site. If you’re preparing to get yourself a furry friend, here’s a number of things you’ll want because buying anything pet related in country is super expensive

Cat or dog collar

Flea collar or medication

Small toys for them

Deworming medication

 Things you can leave at home or could buy in Guinea:

High-heels. Trust me on this. You will never wear them (except maybe at Swear-In, but if you want there     are places to find cheap heels here.) Save the space in your bag.

Most kitchen utensils (but I  would suggest bringing at least one fork and one spoon)

A lot of books- theres lots     of them here at the regional houses and if you bring a kindle or tablet,     you can buy more or trade kindle books with other volunteers

A portable camping shower     (you’ll get use to bucket baths and trying to set it up was much more     effort than it was worth.)

A hair straightener and mini     blow dryer. (You won’t use them)

 That’s all I’ve got for you! I hope this list helps and if anyone has any questions, feel free to contact me or shoot me a message!

  Sarah

[yesimgoingtopeacecorps]

The Queen of Fouta

Queen [kween]: (noun) a woman, or something personified as a woman, that is foremost or preeminent in any respect

She walks ahead, singing a song to herself in Pular Her thin figure glides through the rocky terrain as if it were mango puree She stops to look out at the landscape, taking in her reign Her entire realm, from a village on top of the mountain Eyes full of kindness and wisdom, she turns to me “C’est jolie, no?” Mamadou Nassirivu Bah, Queen of Donghol-Touma.

When I first met Nassirivu on the day of our counterpart workshop back in January, I didn’t know what to think. She stands at almost six feet tall and towered over many of the other Guinean men in the room, with a majestic air to her.

I was intimidated.

She was quiet at first and, between my horrible French and Pular and her few words in English, we had nothing to talk about. She seemed bored with me. I remember looking around and silently and anxiously wondering what I was going to do if this woman was just brings me to the community, dropping me off and I never see her again.

Well, it’s five months later, and I’ve realized that I’ve never met anyone like her.

Nassirivu is in her fifties and had her first child at twenty, a rare case in a country when the rate of marriage and pregnancy trends towards girls under the age of sixteen. She said it was because she wanted to wait. She laughs when she tells me the story, her eyes glittering: her husband, who she hasn’t seen in almost two years because he works in Senegal, had no choice but to agree because she was stubborn.

Her presence alone demands respect, and she receives it, no questions asked. I’ve watched her yell at someone in front of a crowd on market day because he said something disrespectful to me in local language.

She is fiercely proud of her community, but she’s just as fiercely adamant about taking on the health challenges that the people face here. I’ve gone on multiple sensibilisations with her, acting only as her assistant, while she explains to children, women, and men everything ranging from the importance of early breastfeeding to the cause of shingles.

And most importantly, she is believes in me and what I’m doing here. She wants to learn from me just as much as she wants to teach me about this place. Weekly, we sit down and she teaches me Pular phrases and I teach her English words. I watch as her finger touches each and every letter of the words, sounding them out until she gets them right.

It’s Wednesday. As I take a deep breath and walk out the door to face the circus that is market day, I walk towards Nassirivu’s market staff, as I do every Wednesday. Getting closer, I squint in the sun and what I see makes me want to smile and cry out of happiness. There she is, sitting in her stall, giving a sensibilisation on the importance of hygiene in preventing parasites. About ten vendors and friends are gathered around, watching her and more continue to stop by to see what all the fuss and clucking is about. I stand, watching in awe before making my way over to take a seat on an adjacent bench. She says a quick hello to me, squeezes my arm, and gets back to business explaining the photos in the flipbook to wide eyes and silent mouths. I sit too, and watch her highness do what she does best.

The market ladies return to their stalls, chattering on about the information they just acquired. She carefully and quietly writes down the numbers of people she has just sensitized onto an information sheet giving to her by the Health Center. Finally, she turns to me.

“Aicha, ça va?”

I smile and behold the fascinating and powerful Guinean woman in front of me that I have the privilege of working with for the next two years.

“Ça va bien Nassirivu.”

[yesimgoingtopeacecorps]

Her Name Is Miriama

It’s Wednesday.

Wednesdays in Donghol-Touma mean market day, where many of the sous-prefecture’s 26,000 residents descend on Donghol-Touma center and buy their produce and food for the week. Taxis arrive, and Guinean women climb out of the cars, zipped up from head-to-toe in their best outfits to socialize and sell their wares.

Wednesdays are also the busiest days for the health center, where those who have ignored their intestinal issues, toothaches, and fever for the past week decide to make the trip on the only day of the week where it’s easy to catch a ride in a run-down Peugot from 1998 to the Centre de Sante.

It’s also the “official” day for pregnant women and new mothers to come in for their prenatal consultations and vaccinations for their newborns.

Most of these days, I spend the morning shopping for my weekly groceries and try to avoid the numerous questions of “Himo mari moodi?” to which I respond, exhausted and defiantly, “Oui, mido mari moodi. Mi falaaka moodi Guinee” Yes, for the love of God, I have a husband, and no, I don’t want a Guinean husband.

After 11:00am, I arrive at the health center and assist with everything from the consultations, to giving sensibilisations on birth control behind closed doors, to holding the hands of a child wincing in pain over the stitches being administered to her smashed finger. These afternoons are a blur and usually I wouldn’t be able to tell you the names of anyone who I helped with, let alone recognize their faces.

Except Miriama.

I opened the door to the “lab” room to see a bored looking woman getting ready to get a shot and when she turned to me I stopped. There was Miriama. As she turned and saw me, her belly large but well hidden by her beautiful outfit, she spoke. “Bonjour Aicha”.

Two weeks ago, I went around with my counterparts and conducted sensibilisation on the importance of prenatal consultations and regular checkups during pregnancy. I had met Miriama and at the time, meek and shy, she seemed unconvinced. She had gotten pregnant for the first time at fourteen, right after she had gotten married to her husband. She had two children and was carrying her third, cradled quietly in her belly. She was twenty-two. She had only attended school until she was eight-years old.  When we tried to show her the pictures on the chart I had brought of the different things that go into a prenatal consultation, she couldn’t explain it. I realized at this point that being able to interpret a photo and explain it is something that is taught at a young age, and she never had done this sort of thing.

I wasn’t sure how to go forward. After a long talk with her and her friend and an explanation from my counterpart on the importance of prenatal consultations, I left this confused and overwhelmed girl with small words: “If you come in for a prenatal consultation, I will be there and I will sit with you and help you with it.”

She absentmindedly nodded, her mind seeming to have already forgotten my words, and went back to shelling her peanuts.

But here she was. I looked at her and had to stop myself from hugging her. I swelled up with love for this woman. Maybe I’m wrong, but something I had said stuck with her that day. She had made the conscious decision to come in for her first prenatal consultation. I dropped everything else I was doing and sat with her through the entire consultation, telling the nurse to explain things very slowly and clearly in Pular and pointing to the spots that she was referring to in the conversation.

It was an average day. The world didn’t stop spinning. Nobody was there to see this happen. At the end of the day she went home, none the wiser that she had made a lasting impact on me.

I walked out of the health center that afternoon feeling different. Yes, I am still frustrated by a lot of things and there are still huge moments of my day where I want to walk away. But as I made the short journey home, the cars leaving a trail of dust that settled on the discarded mangos in the dirt, I finally felt as if I was beginning to make the change I came here to make.

I learned recently in my community assessment reporting that “Donghol” of Donghol-Touma means “on top of the mountain” and at the end of this past market day, this Peace Corps volunteer felt as if she was living on top of the mountain, looking down at the endless possibilities.

[yesimgoingtopeacecorps]

If you’re going through hell, keep going.

Peace Corps is two years.

Well… to be exact, it’s 27 months. Three of those months are spent doing pre-service training. The remaining 24 months are when you are actually at your site location as a volunteer. A sworn-under-oath-US Government employee-serving overseas- Peace Corps volunteer. I still have trouble wrapping my head around that part.

I pride myself on doing a good job of making the outside world believe that my time here is a crazy and amazing adventure. And some days it is just that: a wild journey through the eyes of a healthy, twenty-something, determined American girl. Peace Corps is what I’ve wanted since I can remember and this is the kind of work I want to be doing; on the continent I’ve come to adore, respect, and love.

One of the things they stress to us in those first three months of training is that, during your service, there are going to be a decent amount of great days, quite a lot of average days, and sprinkled there will be some really horrible days- days where you feel like the world is against you and you’ll think about how all it would take is making one phone call and you’d be on a plane back home.

Yesterday, I had one of those really horrible days.  

There was nothing extremely unique about this day- nobody rubbed me wrong way and I didn’t do something foolish. Funny thing is, I didn’t even leave the house. Yet, it was honestly the worst twenty-four hours I’ve had since getting here.

It started out as a very average morning. I woke up, ate my breakfast, fed my kitten, and worked on my community assessment report, due during our In Service Training coming up in May.

Maybe it was the two cups of strong coffee that gave me the shakes and gave me nausea. 

Maybe it was the hot sun and migraine I could feel forming behind my eyes.

Maybe it was the frustration I was feeling about being here and the pending loom of this assessment due, with questions I didn’t know how to ask in French. 

Maybe it was the homesickness I was feeling that had been building up, with the knowledge I won’t see my Mom and Dad and best friends for at least another seven months.

Or maybe it was all of those things, a soupy, lukewarm gross mess of “maybes” that had been slowly building up inside.

For one reason or another, it hit me: I wanted out.

As a Peace Corps volunteer, and for me, it’s pretty normal to feel twenty different emotions in the day- sometimes these are all within a span of an hour or minutes: fear of failure, anxiety, nostalgic, happiness, sadness, disgust, frustration, admiration, love, excitement, etc., etc., etc.

Yesterday, I felt all of these feelings, repeating and toppling on top of each other in a vicious cycle of emotional turmoil. I could sense a panic attack building up, a feeling I hadn’t felt since before I left the United States.

I was fed up.

Fed up with trying to learn two languages at the same time and not being able to communicate what I want to say, especially when I’m tired.

Fed up with marriage proposals and being looked at as an object of desire and piece of meat because of my gender and my nationality.

Fed up with having to interact with people when I go to market day, when all I want is to buy my damn groceries and go home.

Fed up with washing my clothes by hand for hours and trying to keep my house clean.

Fed up with feeling alone.

The list goes on and on.

5:00pm came fast. I sighed and looked at my phone to check the time. After about two hours of trying to take a nap and relax through the heart-palpitations and coffee throbbing through my veins, I finally got up and went to help Megan, my site mate, give our doctor at the health center computer lessons. I had to break myself out of the funk.

On our walk home later, Megan said to me “the sun will rise again tomorrow”.

And it did.

This morning I woke up and went to my health center and met with Mamadou Bah, a man who runs one of the major local NGO’s here in Donghol-Touma. My French was actually coming out correctly today and I was actually understanding what he was saying back to me. After a short discussion, we decided to hold a mosquito net sensitization next Saturday at the health center for pregnant women and new mothers.

Spirits lifted, I went with him to the central government offices and met with some different local officials and talked about what I’m doing here, and I actually was able to get information I needed for my Community Assessment. At the end, the director looked at me and told me my French was fantastic and I should be proud of how much I’ve accomplished since coming here.

Later in the afternoon I went around home visits with my counterpart, Nassirivu, who I’ve aptly nicknamed “The Queen of Donghol-Touma��. She gets things done and is a force to be reckoned with. People like her are what make this worth it and they’re what make being here possible. Us and one of our “Sage Femmes”, Djenabou, set off and spent five hours walking around and meeting with families and women to discuss HIV, the importance of visiting the health centers during pregnancy, and inviting people to my sensibilization on mosquito net use and malaria for next Saturday. I finally was able to contribute to these sensibilizations and conversations, and actually was understanding a good amount of what was being said around me. Eventually we headed back home, a bag full of gifted mangoes, oranges, and carrots.

As we walked back, my coworkers spoke in rapid Pular to one another. Tired, I fell silent and let my mind wander. Broken from my train of thought, Djenabou looked at me and asked “What are you thinking about?”

“Amerique?” Nassirivu guessed with a smile.

I laughed and shook my head. “No, I’m thinking about how happy I am to be working here with you two.” in a mixture of Pular and French that I have become so accustomed to.

Nassirivu squeeze my arm “moi aussi” she said back at me.

Peace Corps isn’t a walk in the park. Some aspects of it will get easier, like the language, while others will get harder, like missing home. But as Megan said, “the sun will rise tomorrow.”

“Most of life is hell. It’s filled with failure and loss. People disappoint you. Dreams don’t work out. Innocent journalists die. And the best moments in life, when everything comes together, are few and fleeting. But you will never get to the next great moment if you don’t keep going. So, that’s what I do. I keep going.”

I have this quote written above my bed, and I read it now every morning when I wake up and every night when I go to bed. It’s from an old TV show that Sigourney Weaver starred in, who’s name escapes me. The show absolutely tanked and didn’t even finish out a full season. But this quote, though not upbeat or exactly motivational, does inspire resilience in me. It reminds me to remember that when you’re going through hell, keep going…

…. Even if it’s on a road never traveled.

[yesimgoingtopeacecorps]

Tu Joue Ballon?

“You’re the first person that has come and told them that it’s not only okay to play, but that it’s good for them to play”

I looked at the faces of the young Guinean girls in front of me. None of them had made fun of my extremely butchered Pular language or my horrific French accent when I asked them the questions. My language teacher, Issa, had come with me, but insisted that before we go, I translate the questions I had into French and then into Pular. So there I was, attempting to ask the question that nobody had ever asked these girls: “As a girl here in Guinea, how has soccer changed your life?”

Currently, I’m in language week in the city of Labe. I was walking back, sweating heavily, from the central market and I looked over at the soccer field near the regional house where volunteers stay when in Labe, and I do a double take: there is a girl walking over to the field and she’s dressed in soccer gear. I yelled at her and she jumps: “Hey!” she turns and looks at me “Tu Joue futbol?” She nodded and gestured over to her teammates, all fifteen of them, sitting in the shade getting ready for practice. My jaw dropped. I spent months before coming to Peace Corps wanting to find a way somehow replicate something similar to my work in Ghana, and right before my eyes, I saw an opportunity.

I walked away with my friends and then stopped.

I had to go back.

I ran over to these girls and their coach and they just stared at me, probably thinking to themselves “what the hell is this sweaty white girl, in her sandals, dirty shirt doing here?”

With a side eye, the coach agreed that I could come to practice the next day.

As so I went.

And I played.

And I felt it: the feeling I had in Ghana, the feeling I had on the field at Randolph Macon, and the feeling I’ve felt every moment I’ve stepped onto a soccer field since I was five years old- freedom.

Today, I went and after interviewing the girls and the coach, I explained to them what I want to do over the next to years. I told them once a month, I’d love to come and see them while I’m here Labe for regional visits and talk to them about gender empowerment, health issues woman face, things that they can do to improve the situation for women in their country, and finally, I want to help them set goals and dreams for themselves. Finally, before we played, I asked the simple question: “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Doctor”

“Journalist”

“Lawyer”

“Professional Player”

“Engineer”

“Soldier”

The answers poured out and they said them to me with such meaning in their voices and such intensity behind their eyes, I could tell it was something they had thought about long and hard. I could feel these young individuals, reaching out like flowers at sunrise, just seeking to grow in earnest.

I looked at them and saw myself in their eyes, and saw these girls, girls that had been consistently told that they can’t, or shouldn’t achieve their dreams. That they’re lives are better served in the home. That they need to know their place and accept it, subserviently. And yet, when I asked that question, I saw defiance. I saw the look I needed to see to know that this all wasn’t going to be in vain. That these girls were as serious as me, and yet perhaps never before had they really thought it possible; there was a tangible moment of “this is it-ness.”

“I can’t promise you sports gear, I can’t promise you any finances” I said, no longer looking at Issa, my teacher and translator, but at them, “but I can promise you I am going to do everything in my power to give you advice and empower you to achieve your dreams. And that’s all I can offer.”

After that, we played- and for that moment, I once again felt the freedom of the game. 

Freedom- and motivation.

[yesimgoingtopeacecorps]

Welcome to The Next Two Years

[yesimgoingtopeacecorps]

The One Where Sarah Left Her Window Unlocked

I’ve been trying to find the words for what happened to me on Thursday night.

Around 3:00am, my life was put into a momentary tailspin. I crashed and burned out of a deep sleep to wake up and see a figure climbing out of my window and away into the night. The screen had been cut and in my intruders escape, he knocked over a teacup on my desk and the sound of it hit my eardrums was like a bomb in the silence of the night.

I yelled at him to stop, obviously in vain, and jumped out of bed and stood in shock at my open wound of a window. Before this man had entered, he had methodically moved everything on my desk aside so that he could climb in. When I went to look for my phone it was gone- along with my iPad and my backpack. Which means, while I slept in just a t-shirt, this person had come next to me, undone my mosquito net, took my phone that was inches from my face, took my iPad, and grabbed my backpack before he made he escape.

I felt violated

I felt angry

I felt scared

But most of all, I felt pretty stupid.

I had always been annoyed with my host family for coming in before I went to sleep and telling me to lock my window, thinking that the “thick” mesh screen would stop someone from breaking into my room and invading my life. Clearly, I was wrong. After a few “oh my god”s, I opened my door to see my host mother, staring at me with concern. That was all it took for me to start crying. She went and woke my father and the rest of the family as they stared at the damage that was done. 

I went and knocked on my friend’s Amanda door, who fortunately lives in the same compound area as me and stunned, she handed me her phone as I called Peace Corps to explain to them what had happened. Our program director apologized countless times and explained to me that they would be there in the morning to take the next steps of action. Meanwhile, my host brother and host father went out into the night for hours seeing if they could find the person responsible.  

The next twenty-four hours were a blur of visits to the gendarme, talking and retelling my story over and over again- and a few sideway glances with questions such as “So… why was your window unlocked?” in French.

“La nuit est chaude” is all I could answer.

The night is hot.

A terrible excuse for jeopardizing my safety.

Peace Corps, my host family, and my community have gone above and beyond in their response to what has happened to me. 

My host family could have easily said “we told you so” for not locking my window, but instead there was never even a thought about blaming me. My host Dad has called me twice since then to just say hello and tell me “bonne courage”, which translates to “good luck”; his way of simply saying, “We are here for you”. My host brother cried and hugged me when he had heard this had happened. As a foreigner, living in their home, they owe me nothing- and yet, despite this event, I still feel safe walking into my room and sleeping there at night because of the love and care these people have for me.

Our country safety and security office sat with me all day yesterday, going to two difference police stations between where my training site is and the police station in Conakry and then taking me to buy a new phone, a new SIM card, and some groceries. Peace Corps is behind me. And my fellow volunteers are behind me.

I’m okay.

Shaken, yes, but okay.

I refuse to let one person’s awful actions to me color the way that I see this world.

This is just a road bump on the story of what Peace Corps will be for me. At least now I’ll be a little more careful.

Two weeks until swear in.