Ashia. It's a beautifully pronounced word, either way you say it. You'll here it "AH-she-ah" or "AH-see-ah," depending on whether you're speaking English/Pidgin or French. The context doesn't really matter, it always seems to fit. It means, depending on who you're talking to, something along the lines of "Sorry about that," or maybe "Hang in there." Maybe even a little sarcastic "Sucks to be you." But mostly it's a genuine sentiment expressing sympathy.
So, that being said, ASHIA.
Ashia that I've neglected you. Sorry about that. Really. My reason is, unfortunately, not that I've had limited internet access or time, but rather that I've simply not made Goal 3 a priority. Peace Corps goals:
Helping the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women.
Helping promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served.
Helping promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans.
So I've been actively working on two of three. Thats 66%. It may be a D in the American system, but we're looking at 13/20 in the Cameroonian system, easily seen as passing with flying colors. That being said, Cameroonian culture dictates that if you don't CONSTANTLY (maybe even multiple times a day) update your friends and family about your whereabouts and activities, there's something wrong. So ashia.
The reality is that it's tough. Making time isn't as much of an issue as making mental space. The Peace Corps prepares you to adjust to living in a new culture, but doesn't always prepare you to live in three cultures simultaneously. To be a Peace Corps volunteer means living in three worlds at once: your American culture, the host country culture world around you, and the culture of PCVs - others like you who are trying to cope with meshing the two countries' cultures, resulting in a third culture, a creole culture with some unique aspects of its own.
So at some point in the last year of my life, the term "culture shock" stopped referring to bush taxis, palm wine, and couscous, strange to my American context, and we PCVs started using the phrase more often to describe tiled floors, air conditioning, and wifi. It began as a joke but becomes more and more true with time. It's uncomfortable, this switching back and forth between cultures, and you become close to those who know a little bit about your other contexts and can relate. The new class of trainees arrived last week, and I was beyond pleased to find that one was from the Kansas City area and had gone to Missouri State (we even had a couple of my favorite professors in common!) and another was from just the other side of Springfield! These are the people I'm going to call when I want to make Bass Pro and Silver Dollar City references, when the yankees and Californians make fun of my accent [YES, there IS a linguistic difference between WINE and WHINE], and when I just generally want to talk about home.
"C'est un question d'habitude" is one of my most commonly used new phrases. "It's a matter of getting used to it." You'd be amazed what you can get used to. You get used to doing housework with no paper towels, cleaning chemicals, vaccum cleaners. You get used to not having running water or consistent electricity or coffeeshops or bookstores. You get used to not driving. You get used to having to recharge your phone credit every few days if you get too chatty. You get used to French and to not understanding the local language. You get used to never fitting in. You get used to the marriage proposals and the sexual harrassment, to the mud and to bright sunlight. You get used to not hearing from your family for over a week at a time. You get used to seeing pictures of your friends' engagements, marriages, and babies from home. You get used to always wanting to write home but never knowing where or how to start, for fear that you've become a different person in the mean time and your friends won't have any context to understand the New You that's writing to them. And so you put it off.
But none of these new norms and habits fully sink in, The only thing I've TRULY, deeply becomed accustomed to in the past year (or perhaps I should say the last three years, for those of you who know my life a little) is being unaccustomed. A year into Peace Corps service and I'll be the first to tell you that it's difficult, yes, but it's worth it a thousand times over. For every hour I've felt homesick or uncomfortable there's been days of happiness or at least general contentment. Cameroon is a beautiful and diverse country, and I'm already proud to have experienced as much as I have here, and I know the next year is going to be every bit as good as the last.
But I also really miss you back home.
30 September 2012
There's No Place Like Home
The following entry is how I left a draft about three months ago. I'd like to say that it was lack of internet that kept me from writing the paragraph about my trimesterly report, Kola nuts, and Coca-cola, but to be honest I don't remember why I abandoned the draft, and I think I owe you every paragraph I can muster at this point. Forgive the lack of conclusion, and just keep reading the next entry.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: my life is like a film.
In village a few days ago, I crossed paths with a friend on her way home from the hospital, terribly distracted. My well-intentioned small talk was thoroughly interrupted by her announcement that her son and granddaughter had in fact woken at five that morning to the crumbling of their house around them. Yes, that's right. A house fell on them. There are no ruby red slippers for proof, but apparently I'm not in Kansas anymore.
This was not my first trip to the hospital that week, though. A several-day stint of appetitelessness and an accompanying feeling of nausea, chills, and lightheadedness left me fearful of one of those illnesses that may or may not actually be that serious, but by their tropical nature automatically register in the American mind as potentially deathly: malaria, typhoid, and what have you. I cancelled a trip to Bertoua and plans with friends. I climbed in bed at 1pm and listened through several Ben Harper albums to keep me from thinking too keenly how badly I wanted my mommy. Luckily, a bottle of Coke, 75 fcfa worth of Parle-Gs (that's 15 cents worth of graham crackers) and 18 hours in bed did the trick, and I woke up bright eyed and bushytailled. A quick visit to the hospital (clinic may be the more appropriate word) just for good measure, and Laura was back on track.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: my life is like a film.
In village a few days ago, I crossed paths with a friend on her way home from the hospital, terribly distracted. My well-intentioned small talk was thoroughly interrupted by her announcement that her son and granddaughter had in fact woken at five that morning to the crumbling of their house around them. Yes, that's right. A house fell on them. There are no ruby red slippers for proof, but apparently I'm not in Kansas anymore.
This was not my first trip to the hospital that week, though. A several-day stint of appetitelessness and an accompanying feeling of nausea, chills, and lightheadedness left me fearful of one of those illnesses that may or may not actually be that serious, but by their tropical nature automatically register in the American mind as potentially deathly: malaria, typhoid, and what have you. I cancelled a trip to Bertoua and plans with friends. I climbed in bed at 1pm and listened through several Ben Harper albums to keep me from thinking too keenly how badly I wanted my mommy. Luckily, a bottle of Coke, 75 fcfa worth of Parle-Gs (that's 15 cents worth of graham crackers) and 18 hours in bed did the trick, and I woke up bright eyed and bushytailled. A quick visit to the hospital (clinic may be the more appropriate word) just for good measure, and Laura was back on track.
06 September 2012
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