Suddenly, it's Summer 2009

And I'm blogging again.  A brief recap of my life in 100 words or less since the last post: finished my service and took the LSAT out in Ghana, was in India for a bit while applications were being processed, started law school and managed to get through 1L.  No longer a dirty Peace Corps Volunteer in Africa, I now work for a federal judge in downtown LA and wear a suit every day.  The work's great; my fellow co-externs are wonderfully irreverent and I'm learning a lot while enjoying LA for the summer.

Pictures coming soon. 

where's your vector, victor?

It's been a busy and somewhat tiring 2 weeks in the States, but a good trip nonetheless. Most of my time has been spent answering questions about Peace Corps, the endless question of "What's Africa Like?", and showing slide shows and the small collection of things from my artisans association to friends and visitors.

Before joining Peace Corps, I would listen to stories of Returned Volunteers and wonder why they were so Kafka-esque and well, let's face it...weird. Now, I know I've joined their ranks. No matter how much I've tried to stay the same, a lot of things have changed. Mainly, I just cannot be bothered with trivial things. I don't know exactly what contributed to this, but my guess is that I live amongst people who have nowhere near the amount of wealth that people in the States have and still manage to be happy and stay positive about life. During my time in NYC & LA, I couldn't help but notice just how miserable people are with their jobs, their house, where they are in their lives, and themselves. Being a few pounds overweight...yelling at the guy at Starbucks because (HELLOOO!) you ordered a Skim Mocha Latte with SOY milk, NOT fat free...having a bad day over the bastard who managed to cut you off on the freeway on your way home - these are all things that don't matter. Yet, they're things I've seen almost everyone focus on in some shape or form.

One other Americanism I completely forgot about was the ultimate need for privacy and space.
The first scenario occurred at a grocery store. I was at the checkout line and was putting my stuff on the belt. Now the person ahead of me had a good 3" between the rubber divider they place in between customers' purchases and where his purchases were sitting. Kind of like this:


I moved the guy's stuff slightly so I could stop holding the basket I had and get all the stuff onto the belt. The guy turned and glared at me and got all huffy. I thought the gentleman was being a bit unreasonable, but then the cashier ("Jerry P., Assistant Manager") looked my way and said, "I'll be with you soon, Ma'am." Sheesh.

The second scenario occurred when I ran into someone my parents know at a store and stopped to chat for a bit. I did the usual African way of greeting by asking about everything: How are you? And your dental practice? And your kids? That's good, so it's been a good year for you so far? After the 3rd question, I got a weird look from the guy, along with a "Is that all?" and decided it was best to just hurry and do what it was I needed to do in the store.

Culture shocks aside, the trip home has had it's perks. The primary one being seeing people I haven't seen in a year and a half, some for even longer bouts of time. The first few days home, I got a chance to catch up with some friends and relatives that I haven't seen in a while and have real heart-to-heart conversations. It was fantastic catching up with those select few and it's made me consider putting aside those plans for a third year extension with Peace Corps or that job offer in Niger with an NGO dealing with food security. It's time to come home: October 2007 is my current plan. And please don't ask the question of what I'll be doing after Peace Corps. First, I need to get back to the States and re-orient myself.

Observe the difference from what you normally are acquainted with:

Traditional hut from the village of Tiebele, Burkina Faso




Not your typical yacht.




Sunning oneself on the patio in the backyard. Except there's intense manual labor involved.




Market women selling calabashes and handmade mats in Djibo.



America was weird enough the first time around.

guess who's back?

The past month or so was kind of an emotional rollercoaster. After my return from medevac in Senegal, I partook in a second Ramadan/Eid celebration in Djibo, which happened to fall on the same day I had arrived last year. It’s amazing what can change in a year. PETA, the goat I had bought back in September, was one of the main dishes for the community feast. Everyone seemed to be thrilled with the African complet I had tailored for the occasion (luckily no one pointed out the fact that I looked approximately 14 years old in it).

On the outset, not much looked different from last year’s celebration. I had gotten to site about 5 days before, and so didn’t really know what was going on and didn’t really celebrate with the community, since we were still strangers to one another. Looking back on old journal entries, those strangers quickly accepted me into their community, took care of me, my mom and aunt when they came to visit, and regard me as one of their own. Those strangers are now part of my extended family.

This realization was what brought on the emotional rollercoaster. Had I moved to another city in the States, where I knew no one, who’s to say I would have run across people as loving and hospitable as I have here? In the States, I would have at least had the advantage of knowing the local language, but I somehow doubt if I had been dropped in the middle of somewhere like Wichita, Kansas, where I would stick out like a sore thumb (much like I do here in Djibo), I would have had the same experience.

I have under a year left of service in Burkina Faso and I’m at a crossroads. I put a lot on hold before coming out here – job prospects, graduate school, my family, a serious relationship – and I still think about all those things. Yet, I’m nervous and even a bit wary of my re-integration back into the world I know. Where I come from, people have money, but are not generous with their hearts; they are well traveled, but never take the time to look past the subtleties offered to tourists and really understand people; they are familiar with time saving devices, but cannot take the time to ask you – really ask you – how you’re doing, how your work is, and how the family is.

My parents have shown unconditional support for something that they themselves were not familiar with in the beginning, and all my friends have been great in keeping in touch with emails, letters, and even Facebook messages. I think I’m lucky to have such support. As happy as I am to be able to see these people again, I’m scared of the big, scary thing called the USA.


Some pics from Senegal:

N'Gor, the Western most point on the continent of Africa. Photo taken at sunset.


Your's truly on the pirogue en route to N'Gor. Notice the Club Med in the background. And the lifejacket. Note that these are not common occurences for me.


The train station in Dakar.


Artisan work displayed on Goree Island (off the coast from Dakar)


Goree Beach. Perfect spot for escaping the hectic life in Dakar. I'm already seriously thinking of buying a house here.


Me with a friend during the post-Ramadan Eid celebration. I know, I look 12. Don't remind me.

the youth in asia

You know what's worse than the actual process of having your wisdom teeth pulled out?
For starters, how about not speaking the same language as the man that's pulling them out.

But communication gaps aside, do you know what could be worse?
Perhaps not being knocked out and having local anesthesia applied.

No but since there was at least SOME anesthetic used, do you know what could be worse?
Seeing the entire spectacle in front of your very eyes through the oral surgeon's reflective lenses.

Right, but you saw how beautifully he sewed in those sutures - I mean, such needlework is rare! Seriously, do you know what's worse than that?
No? I'll tell you...

HAVING TO SNEEZE DURING THE WHOLE PROCESS.

Dr. Anderson Cooper (who dresses so impeccably and speaks French so fantastically) was aiding the oral surgeon and was looking at me curiously the whole time. "I didn't know if you were in pain or a state of euthanasia the whole time," he said later on. Pain or euthanasia. Go figure.

patience is a virtue

After 14 months of taking bush taxis and busses that make Greyhound look like a luxury liner, I was stoked about taking an aeroplane. I didn't even mind that the ticket was Coach - I could still sleep a lot more comfortably in my seat than I ever could on transport between Ouagadougou and Djibo. No bumpy, unpaved roads, crying children, people talking loudly into my left ear in rapid Moore, chickens stowed under the seat squawking, and delays in getting to one's destination. Well, I take that last one back. One would think that leaving for a flight means that one will relatively be, oh, I don't know, on time. Observe the following interaction, translated into English for your convenience:

Ami

(overly optimistic for Dakar):

Good morning, I'd like to check in for the flight to Dakar that leaves in 2 hours.

Ticket Agent Lady

(peers over her glasses):

In a minute.

Ami
(notices that 10 minutes have passed, & that the queue behind has begun to snake into the waiting area; politely coughs)

Ticket Agent Lady
(continues doing work on the computer)

Ami
So, um, here is my ticket...and passport.

Ticket Agent Lady
(gives withering look):
Ok. Please be patient.

Ami
(waits another 10 minutes)
And, uh, I have only one bag to check in.

Ticket Agent Lady
Ah, bon.

Ami
(notices that plane is about to leave in less than an hour; peers over the counter to see what Ticket Agent Lady is doing on her computer)

(to self)
What the hell?! She's playing Solitaire?!

Nevertheless, I made it to Dakar, albeit a few delays on the plane. The Peace Corps vehicle escorted me to my hotel and there, I watched French game shows once I gave up on finding the English channel. I met up with the Regional Medical Officer this morning to have a consultation with the oral surgeon. I couldn't help but notice how impeccably dressed this doctor was & how much he resembled CNN's Anderson Cooper. This made me all the more self-conscious over my French, not to mention the fact that I wished I had gargled after breakfast when he & the oral surgeon both peered into my mouth to discuss what work needed to be done. When the oral surgeon (a Frenchman) asked if I was pregnant before taking the x-rays, I said "non, non" a little too hurriedly and laughed awkwardly as he inserted the camera into my mouth, causing me to slightly drool. (sigh) I would give my left arm for grace & charm.

perks of being a tool for the government

A few weeks ago, I noticed that my tooth hurt and gums swelled everytime I brushed. I tried to ignore it, but it turned into an ordeal that was like that annoying song Jenny From the Block. First it hurt a little then it hurt a lot. So after having the Peace Corps Medical Officer ship some painkillers to me, I caught transport to Ouagadougou and got it checked out by a dentist, who said she would call the PC office with the results.

The verdict?




(wait for it)

"You have swollen gums due to brushing."

Duh. The question is why are my gums swelling whenever I brush? A second opinion got in some x-rays and a phone call to Peace Corps Washington.

The second verdict?
Impacted upper wisdom teeth that need to be removed.

Which means?
A trip to Dakar, Senegal, to have said teeth removed, because there aren't facilities here in Burkina to do it.

So, I fly out tomorrow at noon and return sometime next week. I'm not exactly thrilled about having my teeth yanked out, but I do enjoy being able to brush my teeth without too many consequences. On top of that, I'm pretty stoked about seeing Dakar for a few days while staying in a nice hotel that has AC & a pool (you have no idea what a huge step up that is from my normal living situations). I'll post pictures of Dakar in my next post. Perhaps I'll be in them if my face isn't too grotesquely swollen.

the woes of technology

Friends, romans, countrymen...lend me your ears;
I come to bury Facebook, not to praise it.
The inanity that creators do in praise for them;
The good is oft interred with their updates;
So let it be with Facebook.

I wanted updates while living here in Africa. I just didn't really care to know that a long lost childhood friend wrote on his/her friend's wall and then the friend replied. Or that one of my PC friends (who I really didn't know before living in the Faso) has added John So-&-So as his/her friend. Who cares? Of course, once I publish this blog, my profile will update my status saying "Ami has added to her blog!!" Really...no one should care.

Maybe we should all cancel Facebook and start stalking each other in real life. Or maybe not.