Distraction

I grabbed my backpack out of the shared taxi and moved to get on the bus. The taxi driver blocked my way, insisting that it wasn't worth it, that we were really leaving this time. "Unless you can tell me we are leaving right now," I replied, "I'm getting on the bus."

"Yes, we're going to leave right now"

"RIGHT now??"

The hesitation ran across his face, "we're leaving very, very soon"

"Sorry, but I must leave now," I said, pushing past him and onto the bus that was already pulling away.

Settling in my seat, I found a movie playing directly above me. A South African slapstick comedy, it wasn't my genre but the screen still drew me in. Head craned, neck bent at an awkward angle, I missed the little girl in front of me as she got out of her seat and stood in the aisle. Suddenly, my feet felt like they were getting sprayed by something -- I looked down to find the child mid-stream. I pulled my legs up to the seat, thankful that I hadn't set my bag on the ground (a rule since sitting next to a man with a plastic bag leaking fish juice. That he so kindly pointed out 1/2 hour later). Trying to mask my disgust and keep my cool with my legs in the air, I texted a friend. "TIA," I said to her. The boys across from me giggled at my position. Karma, I thought to myself. Maybe next time I'll wait with the first driver I agree to.

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I've been checking my phone manically the last couple of days. Time - email - viber - facebook - time. Just in case something changes, something goes wrong, and someone decides to tell me. Because OHMYGOD my dad is coming to visit this week. Everyone knows. I'm not sure that they all care, but I've been telling them anyways. I've tried to do some work, opened up excel files and jotted down clinics in my little notebook, only to find myself sitting back down and looking at it all an hour later, wondering what I was trying to do and why I got up in the first place. But oh look there's my smartphone, time-email-viber-facebook-time. Nothing. And it still isn't Thursday.

I'm looking forward to a fresh set of eyes, to remember what this all looks like from a new perspective. My camera will be glued to my side for his entire stay so that I remember to take photos of things I no longer consider unusual, things I no longer notice. I am looking forward to showing him what my life is like, to showing off my home (first time my dad will be staying at a place that's "mine" and he had to fly across the world to see it). Mostly I'm looking forward to hugging him. Walking home this evening, I told myself to blog, felt like writing. Instead I'm scrolling through my tabs -- it's 9:15, no new emails, no new viber messages, no new facebook messages. And it still isn't Thursday. Clearly, any productivity will have to be postponed.

Peace & Love
Elyse

On Mail and Making Friends

... Except me. I said that. I encouraged package sending while I was in Mali because, let's be honest, everyone loves to get a package. And it's that much better when you feel lonely and you're hating on your hut and you just want some gummy bears. But when getting ready to leave for Zambia, I told everyone not to bother, backed myself up with very rational excuses. My P.O. box was rarely given out, and I've gone the last 8 months content with my decision. There are grocery stores here, after all.

Until today. Sometime in March, my mom told me she'd put a small Easter package in the mail. I was perturbed. I whined about how long it would take, how difficult it would be to pick it up, how expensive it must have been.... What?! I plead temporary insanity. Today, I received said package. Nothing out of the ordinary... good candy, a small notebook, a nice smelling candle, and an Easter card that said "I love you." Reading that, munching on JellyBellys, I remembered that getting packages during my service was never really about what was inside (except for a few desperate cases), it was about reading a silly hallmark card and feeling the message, about knowing that someone went to the trouble of picking out those specific things and putting them together just. for. you. Those packages were reminders that I had people who believed in what I was doing when I didn't, reminders that I am loved. My mom, of course, knew that all along.

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It's been a very, very long while. I have a backed up list of things to write about and no reason for not writing about them. Hopefully I'll soon flood this thing with those posts. For now I'll make due with some photos. Since the last time I was on here, I hopped over the border to stand on top of the world for a few days...

Dune 7. The streak of blue on the horizon (left side) is the ocean...

On top of Big Daddy in Sossousvlei park

and made some new friends.

Later in the month, World Malaria Day happened

There were also speeches but, honestly...

the dancers were my & my camera's favorite.

Adorableness repping Mama Safenite bednets

And I saw a rainbow late at night

I've also been saying too many goodbyes. At the beginning of my time here, a friend spoke of what a Peace Corps friend of his called the beautiful sadness, or some such. When you lead a transient lifestyle, whether abroad or in your home country, you meet travelers of every kind. Tourists, backpackers, expats with intriguing scars and even more interesting stories. It's fun to find these people, exchange "this one time in ___" over a few beers. Moving through the stream of people, you are bound to find a few that you connect with on a different, indescribable level. You may have similar life goals, personal philosophies and insights, or maybe you just laugh constantly when you're together (those are my favorite). You find a kindred spark in someone else, and it's wonderful, beautiful. But, as at least one of you can't seem to just settle down, the time you have is always too brief as you each continue on where you're headed. Therein lies the sadness.

Sifting through memories of friends that I've made and let go in the last 3 years, people I've bonded with over weeks, months, years,  I'm comforted by the idea that you never really say goodbye. You might not see each other for years, but - wandering as we do - your paths are bound to cross again. Maybe that's the beautiful part.


A few interesting things...
Even on a Peace Corps stipend, I'm still in the top 15% richest people in the world
UNICEF's new ad campaigns...
Great post by a journalist I met, Imani Cheers, on how we use cell phones in the fight against malaria in Zambia
Most importantly, making these made my week. It may not be hard-core Peace Corps, but I love having a kitchen.

Peace & Love
Elyse

20/20

Today marks one year. One year since my mother called me with rumors of gunfire in Bamako. One year since I left Feremuna and got on a bus, determined to go to my friend's birthday party in Sikasso, getting stuck in Koutiala. One year since everything changed.

I don't want to linger too long, go into too many details - I lack the words and still find myself too emotional for descriptions. Looking back, I wish I'd stayed in village those last few days when there was the chance. I wish I'd taken all of the pictures I was putting off until the end, given more gifts, given more hugs. If I'd done my big grant project - a well at the maternity - in my first year, I could've left that accomplishment, not abandoned plans. If I'd known, admitted what was happening the last time I was allowed to back (those of us in safe areas were sent home for a day before they announced the evacuation and we had to really leave), I would have spent the day visiting everyone I never seemed to visit enough. I would have stayed up all night talking with Djelicat and Drissa, would have bought them sacks of rice and beans. I would have told them all what they mean to me, how much I appreciate what they gave me. My hindsight is flawless.

I am thankful for where my life has brought me. In some ways, the coup changed my life for the better - without it, I would not have come to Zambia, wouldn't have all of these fantastic experiences that are forming the direction my life will take. Heavy price, though. I'm helping out with a training today, supervising I suppose. But my heart isn't in it, and I keep getting distracted by thoughts of my mango tree lined road. So many things can change in one year.

Peace & Love
Elyse

Make Your Own Peace

I shuffle down the side of the road, loaded down with luggage for the week. Glancing behind to see a vehicle coming, I throw out my arm and flap my hand around, hoping for a ride. Free, preferably, but I'm not picky. 8 minutes in and no takers, 2 young girls join me. One wears a black T-shirt, the statement "No one in this city has swagger like me" splashed across the front in neon prints. It's wonderful. Not as good as the kitten shirt I saw an arrogant 20-something guy strutting around in a few weeks back, but close. I refrain from trying to buy it off her, instead make it a mission to buy my own.

We stop by the bus ticket booths, painted plywood shacks, only to be told they don't have any tickets. I wave goodbye to my 14 year old escorts and continue on, eventually catching a shared taxi. The car is a hatchback with the backseat rammed into the trunk so an extra 2 seats can be put in the middle. It's... snug. 50 kilometers down the way, I'm the only passenger left so I'm traded into a minibus that manages to turn a 2 hour drive into 4 hours. I spend the ride crammed into a 3 person seat with 3 other adults, 2 of them holding children; periodically there's an unspoken agreement between myself and a neighbor to shift so that one can lean backwards while the other forwards. There isn't room for all of our shoulders against the backrest. Getting off, I take a couple of minutes to walk, enjoying the feeling of stretching my legs, before grabbing a cab to my lodge. Drained from the travel, I almost cry when I set down my bags and fall onto the bed. Because there's a working shower, I will call this a good day.

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The last couple of weeks, my attention has been absorbed by a never-ending eye infection that I had to go see an opthamologist for, getting a new roommate (and giving her said eye infection... sorry, Carrie), and a water crisis in Kalomo (explanations on that will be coming). During that time, 2 important celebrations occured: Peace Corps Week, and International Women's Day.

Peace Corps Volunteers, past and present, took a moment last week to celebrate the 2 years that helped define who they are. I found this old poster on the Peace Corps Tumblr. The words resonated within me, beat through my bloodstream and vibrated through my bones, reminding me. I am proud to be able to call myself a Peace Corps volunteer. It's a quite, understated pride. It isn't forceful, and it isn't something I need to explain or expect others to understand. What I've accomplished as a Peace Corps volunteer isn't easily put into words or numbers. It's hidden in the little moments - teaching a mother how to give her infant a food supplement, discussing proper waste management with a midwife, helping a 6th grader paint in the world, and - now - teaching a clinician how to send in data with a phone. 

There are many reasons you shouldn't join Peace Corps, it's not for everybody. And I've come in contact with people who scorn what I will have soon given 3 years to, write it off as a bunch of hippies avoiding real life to party in foreign countries, a waste of money. I've learned to let these moments go, don't expect to get anything out of an argument. My numbers, when I do have any to show, are small. I have not and I am not changing the world, I am just one girl, just a drop in the ocean. Being in the Peace Corps, you get a better idea of how big the puzzle is, and how ever-so-small you are. So why do it? Because now when I meet another RPCV, it doesn't matter from where, there's a connection, there's respect. Because however small it is, you did add that drop to the ocean. You know it, and in a village no map knows the name of, there are people - however many or few - who appreciate what you've done.

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I agree with Melinda Gates (I often do) that International Women's Day can expose what still needs to be done and provide the opportunity to take action to empower women. That is why last Thursday as I got ready for bed, I set my alarm to get up and cheer on the women of Kalomo as they marched down the main street. But despite my good intentions, I woke up on Friday at 9:00 and didn't make it out of the house until afternoon. I agree with Melinda Gates that Women's Day can be a call for action, but I do also feel that it can be a celebration of women. So I celebrated by baking muffins.

Women's Day doesn't make me think of all of the great women of history, ones who've broken barriers and changed the lives of populations. Instead I think of all of the unknown women who are living out quiet lives around the world. Throughout the day last Friday, I imagined what would be happening in Feremuna, my home in Mali. The slow gathering of women dressed in complets of Women's Day fabric, the greetings, the gigantic bowls of food, and then the dancing. When the men aren't around, the women in my village can really cut a rug. A smile lingered on my lips throughout the day, thinking of the laughter in my village.

There have been many inspiring women in my life, I don't think I have the room to list them all or give them justice. Instead, I want to mention women in the last few years who've taken me in without a second thought. Without these women, I wouldn't be the woman I am today. They've taught me, among countless other things, strength.

Comfort is a woman in Belo, Cameroon. She runs her household and buys and sells food for local schools to support them. 1/2 way through our summer when we met her, Comfort saw a need in Ariel and I that neither of us knew we had. Once a week we'd go to her house -- often moody, verging on rude, and emotionally exhausted. We were drained, had nothing else to give. But we'd sit on her couch and she'd make us omlettes with fries. It was always just what I needed. Sometimes we chatted, but throughout the time we knew her, Comfort asked nothing of us, just wanted to give us some support. She's taught me, inspired me to be more generous.

Salimata is the first wife (of 4) in the family I lived with during homestay (my first few months) in Mali. She was the one who woke me up to make sure I got to school in time, oversaw my meals (and made sure it was all food a toubab's stomach could handle), made sure I bathed. Malians don't really hug, but she did, and she was good at it. She took me with her when she went out every so often - I think just to make sure I got out of the house enough. One of these trips was to a women's literacy class she was taking. 25 older women crammed in children's benches, carefully practicing the alphabet in their notebooks. On the day I left homestay, she painstakingly wrote down her name and phone number on a small piece of paper, then smiled at it, almost in wonder at her own handwriting. It was a beautiful moment. Salimata taught me to be more outspoken, gave me the understanding of how fortunate I am for my education.

Djelikat is my bamuso, my Malian mother. As a woman in rural Mali, she isn't in the best situation. She's constantly working, the home couldn't function without her, but she's considered beneath men. Her life is hard, will not ever become easy, but she doesn't ever quit. Djelikat has bad teeth. Like, really bad teeth. Her smile quickly became beautiful to me, but all of my visitors noticed her teeth. One day I brought a coconut home from market, and we were splitting it up after dinner. She took her little portion and shaved it on a plastic grater while I looked on, slightly confused. Seeing my face, she pointed to her mouth, grinning. "For my teeth!" she told me, "can't eat this with my teeth!" Then she laughed. Not awkward, fill-the-space western laughter, but a real laugh. Djelikat taught me to enjoy the little things, encouraged me to laugh at everything - including myself - whenever possible.

I don't know if I've told you this, but my mom is the shit. She came to Mali, she's coming to Zambia, and she supports me in all of my crazy ideas. 26 letters aren't enough to explain her, and there's no snapshot story to capture what she has given me and taught me in the last 24 years. She's worked hard and come a long way, and she gets to do something she's passionate about. She inspires me to strive for that passion. She's taught me to be thankful. She encourages me, inspires me to work hard and follow my dreams. She's my rock.

And because we're talking about mothers,

Peace & Love

Elyse