You know you're a Peace Corps Volunteer in Salone when...

You know you’re a PCV in Salone when…

I’m beginning a list of all the ways I could finish that sentence. For example, you know you’re PCV in Salone when you don’t look twice at the man balancing half a bed frame on his motorcycle. You know you’re a PCV in Salone when you’re not surprised that the car you’re about to climb into already has eight people inside (two in the driver’s seat, two in the passenger’s seat, five in the back, but if eight can fit so can nine.) You know you’re a PCV in Salone when walking down the dirt path to the market and not stopping to greet everyone you pass along the way seems unthinkably rude. You know you’re a PCV in Salone when you are accustomed to children chanting your Mende name like a never-ending song. You know you’re a PCV in Salone when you reject at least one marriage proposal a week.  You know you’re a PCV in Salone when the chiefs arrive with masked devils and parade you through the village for a special welcoming ceremony in your honor.

When I learned that I was to be introduced to the community  with this special ceremony, my eyes grew wide in terror. On one hand, I knew the ceremony was a tremendous honor and I genuinely appreciated the gesture. On the other hand, I knew the ceremony was going to be a culmination of all the things I don’t like about being a volunteer: the praise for work I haven’t yet accomplished, the celebrity-style attention, the five hour long speeches…. “Don’t be afraid of the devils, okay?” my neighbor tells me. Of course, I didn’t know how to explain that the devils were the least of my concern.

Two days before the ceremony, my principal announced that some of the students needed to give a presentation at the ceremony. “What sort of presentation?” I asked, realizing the unspoken assumption that planning the presentation was my responsibility.

“Anything is fine. You can discuss it with them.”

Okay.

My JSS III students said that they wanted to perform the Merchant of Venice since we have been studying the play in class. I agreed to this plan, and quickly wrote out a script of the keys events in standard English and assigned parts to several students. We spent the next day practicing the play. After my students had mastered their lines, they told me they would help me write a speech in Mende to thank the townspeople during the ceremony. I’ll be honest, my students did a better job learning their lines in English than I did of learning my lines in Mende!

As things turned out, the ceremony was not nearly as terrible as I had anticipated. Yes, I had to be paraded through the village like a puppet, sat on a stage in the Court Barrie for everyone to watch, and draped in traditional African clothes that had been specially made for the occasion, but I learned to get beyond my discomfort and appreciate the kindness and enthusiasm of my community. As for The Merchant of Venice, I couldn’t have been happier with how the play turned out. My students performed their lines perfectly. Shylock’s enthusiasm to kill Antonio with my borrowed kitchen knife was an especially big hit that brought on the laughs of the crowd…  Afterwards, people kept talking about how well Kankaylay students spoke English, which I take as a major success!

It might also be fair to say that you know you're a PCV in Salone, when the best part of your day is someone complementing your students. Or maybe that's just me . . .

Just another trip to the village well

The sun burns hot against my skin as I head home from school. I’m amazed by how much nicer it feels to sit in the shade of a mango tree than to walk along the sun scorched paved road. At home, I drop my bag on the floor and grab the handle of my blue rubber bucket to head to the water pump.

 Along the way, I pass some children dressed in the blue and white uniforms that students at Community Secondary School wear. Not that I have anything against students at Community, but I’m naturally biased towards my own students and Kankaylay. 

 “You’re going to get water?” One Community boy asks me in Mende. 

 “Yes,” I say, and they all laugh. I’m not sure if they think that my going to the pump to get water like every other person in the village is funny or if they’re laughing at my attempts to speak Mende. (My twelve year old Mende teacher would have been angry that I didn’t utilize the phrase he taught me for such occasions – ‘Why are you laughing at me?’) Either way, I’m not overly concerned by the fact that people find me amusing. 

 After I fill my bucket, a woman at the pump goes to help me lift it up onto my head. Before she can do so, a boy from my JSS II class comes running over. “No Miss Kenley, let me,” he says taking the bucket onto his own head. 

 “Okay,” I agree, knowing that no one is ever going to believe that I want to learn to carry water on my head. 

 “I passed those Community boys and they said they saw you with a bucket, so I came here right away to help,” my student explains in Krio. “Anytime you want water call me, okay?”

 I can’t help but think for the most part I’m right to prefer my own students at Kankaylay to any others. After all, I didn’t see any Community students racing to tote water for me!

The Debate

“What topic do you want to debate?” I asked my JSS III students. Blank stares.

“Do you want me to pick for you?”

“Yes Ma!” fifteen voices chorus. I found that “Yes Ma” more discouraging than the dark overcrowded classrooms, the racked chalkboards, or the noise from multiple classes being held in a single room. I had just finished lecturing my JSS III students (who range in age from 15 to 20) on the importance of thinking for themselves, but as soon as I ask for their opinion, they look at me like I’m crazy. If trying to force independent thought makes you insane, then their assumptions about me are correct.

“Okay, I’ll pick the topic, but remember, the point of debating is to convince people that your own opinion is correct. I can’t give you the answers when we debate. You can’t assume I’m right just because I’m your teacher. I want to know what you think.” 

I told them that they would debate whether money or education is more important. We reviewed what - according to Salone’s national teaching syllabus - is the proper procedure for a debate, then we began to outline the points of the argument. At first the students were hesitant to give their opinions, but finally one boy, Mohamed, told me money was better than education.

“Okay. Why?”

“It is the key of the world.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you need money to eat, to educate, to buy cars,” Isata explained.

“Good. Raise your hand if you agree that money is better.”

All hands shot into the air. “Very good. I disagree, so you all have to debate against me.” I have never been so thrilled to have students argue with me. By the end of class, we had not finished the debate, so the students told me they wanted to come after Friday prayers (Friday is the Muslim holy day, so we don’t have school) to continue practicing. The students are supposed to present their debate to the school next Thursday.

Yesterday afternoon, I showed up at the school as promised, but only one student was there. “Are the others coming?”

“Yes, they will come,” Umara said. I knew right away that it was a “yes” just because he was afraid to tell me "no." I swallowed my frustration and disappointment and promised myself not to give up too easily. A girl from my JSS I class happened to be passing by the school, so the three of us decided to walk around and survey the wreckage of the primary school.

All day on Thursday, the students and teachers at the primary school had been constructing the school. Even the headmistress was working, mixing mud with her bare hands to build the school walls. During the night, the school collapsed. I looked at the wreckage of building sadly.

“Let all the parents come and they can work to rebuild it. If everyone comes together we can fix it in two or three weeks,” Umara said optimistically.

“When did they start building it?”

“February 2010,” he replied with a grim smile.

“Almost two years for nothing!” my other student, Lucinda, says.  

But at least the school collapsed in the night and not during classes. At least no one was hurt. Optimism is a valuable commodity.  

Introducing Manungima Batiloo

"Oh Manungima! Now you are beautiful!" Adima tells me as she hands me a small mirror so I can survey my freshly braided hair.

I look like a Dr. Suess character. the braids begin at the back of my neck and work their way up to my forehead, where they meet in a fountain of long tightly plaited strands. Look at myself and knowing that I'll leave the braid in for several days to be polite makes me realize that Manungima Batiloo is not always the same person as Kenley Jones. Manungima Batiloo (which means "have mercy on her, the people's child") has a beautiful singing voice and should join the church choir. In real life, I'm basically tone deaf. Manungima has just learned to cook because in America the only foods they have are ketchup and mayonnaise. Manungima is happy to eat bush meat, because obviously squirrel and porcupine are delicious. And of course, she love to have her hair braided in tight scalp-yanking plaits.

On the topic of eating bush meat though, it is not nearly as bad as I might have imagined. Once, when I was sharing a plate of rice with my friend Fatmata, she gave me a small unidentifiable substance to eat. I found I was more concerned wit how to consume the substance, which seemed like solid bone at first glance, than with what I was eating. Am I supposed to eat the bone? I wondered as I tried to break it apart with my spoon. I watched as Fatmata took a piece of the meat in her hand and bit through the bone to get at the meat and marrow. "Ah, so that's how you eat 'beef' in Africa," I thought, and tried to mimic Fatmata. It was only after I had bitten through what I'm assuming was a squirrel skull, that I allowed myself to think about the fact that the creature's brain was in my mouth. Disgusting in theory, but not honestly somewhat tasty in real life.

Besides, eating bush meat is not terrible when you are doing so in a dirt compound in a village, surrounded by children, dipping your spoon into the same bowl as one of your new friends. When I first arrived to my village, everyone insisted on giving me, the stranger, my own dish as a sign of honor and respect. I was thrilled that when Fatmata invited me to eat with her family, she let me share a dish with her. In a strange way, eating there seemed to mark a sort of turning point for me, not because I learned to bite through bone, but because as I did so, I realized I was beginning to make friends in my village. Everyone is quick to claim me as a friend here, but integrating on more than a superficial level is a slow process.

Nevertheless, I have plenty of time to devote to making friends, since a teaching strike as postponed the opening of school indefinitely. It might open on Monday, or the next Monday, or the next next Monday .... so people tell me ambiguously. In the meantime, I'm trying to hold study sessions for a few highly motivated students and looking for other small projects to work on. Hopefully the teaching strike ends soon. Oh, and for that matter, hopefully the postal workers strike ends too because the post offices have all closed. Other than strikes, all is well!

First weeks at site

Ahead of us, the red clay road cuts through a swamp where men use large mesh baskets to mine diamonds. But now, the baskets and shovels are being strewn along the path, and people are beginning to run barefoot across the rocky soil and into the overgrown wilderness. Something is wrong.

Before I have the chance to ask, the Chancellor, who I am walking with, says, “One of the vehicles fell down.”

 Perhaps ten minutes before, vehicles on their way to a funeral had passed us on the road to Nyadiama, a village that’s located about a mile from Sembehun. They had called, asking why we didn’t get in, but the Chancellor decided it was better for me to walk rather than take a rickety trucks along the rugged dirt path. I try not to imagine what a Sierra Leone vehicle that has “fell down” would look like. I had contemplated it once before, while barreling down the highway from Freetown to Makeni in a run down poda poda. I sat against the window on one of the little benches you pull out to make extra space with my face bent towards the opening to get a bit of fresh air. If we were to tip over, I had thought, there’s no way I’ll survive. No seatbelts, no ambulances, people packed liked sardines… I decided then that car wrecks were something that were better not to imagine in Salone.

However, as we continued on foot towards the accident, I braced myself for the worse. I heard the wails of women as we approached the throng of people standing around the tipped truck. On the edge of the crowd, a man was rubbing a mashed up leaf into a deep gash that streaked across a woman’s eye.  Tears streamed down her face, but she was silent. The accident was not as bad as I had anticipated to tell the truth. Then again, I didn’t see the worst of it because they had already taken some of the victims away on motorcycles to get to the hospital. I felt helpless standing there watching and holding my umbrella over the woman with the cut eye.

Eventually, we continued along the road to Nyadiama, where I attended my first Sierra Leonean funeral. After the body was prepared for burial, and people had prayed, the men carried the body to the grave while the women began to sob with exaggerated wails. The wails mixed with the sounds of prayers sung in Arabic, and rain steadily fell over the crowd.

I had been frustrated with many things earlier that day. I was tired of never being alone – of having people arrive at my home at 6:30 every morning and not leaving until I went to bed at night. I was disappointed that my house was not finished. I was frustrated because I did not know how to politely tell people that I am capable of sweeping my own floor and cooking my own food. Both the crash and the funeral put things into perspective for me. I have no real reason to complain about anything.

After the funeral, the Chancellor took me to see the site where he wants to build a new primary school. He had applied for funds from USAID a year ago, but still hadn’t heard back. “Now that you’re here, maybe things will change,” he told me. I wish that were true, but obviously I have no power to tell the US how to direct their development funds. Still, it was hard not to be hopelessly idealistic as I stood looking out at the grassy field with a cluster of young children standing a few feet behind me, knowing that if a school were to be built here they would no longer have to trek almost two miles to go to class.

Nevertheless, goals like building schools will have to wait. For now, I just have to focus on the basics of my job – teaching English to secondary school students. That in itself is no small task.

Yesterday, the principal of my school let me make the class schedule. It was exciting to feel like I was actually doing something for once. Prior to this, my major accomplishments had been starting a fire and answering basic questions in Mende. According to the Peace Corps stipulations, we’re only allowed to teach 16 classes a week so we can get used to teaching. At first, that sounded like a full load to me, but I don’t think I really appreciated just how great the need is for teachers at my school. I had agreed to teach all three levels of Junior Secondary School (JSS), which would total 15 periods a week. However, it turns out that JSS I is spilt into two classes. I said I would teach both even though it means 20 periods a week. I promise that decision was purely pragmatism on my part. Ever student that passes JSS I this year will be in my JSS II class next year, and I want them all on the same page. Less pragmatic is the fact that I may have agreed to teach five periods of JSS I math as well…

There’s just not enough teachers to teach math and science. The students are supposed to have five periods of all core subjects a week, but last year they only had three. Right now one teacher is teaching all the math and science classes. I might be biting off more than I can chew by agreeing to help out with math, but I couldn’t stand just leaving the classes out because there was no one to teach them. Oh well, I had the habit of committing to too much in the US too, and I always managed somehow. I suppose some things never change...

Smol smol

“Smol smol” – perhaps my favorite Krio phrase.

I ask my host grandma who wasn’t feeling well about her health & she replies, “Ah tel God tenki smol smol.” (Literally, “I tell God thank you small small” but a better translation is “well, I’m alive.”)

When I’m asked ten times a day about my sprained ankle by everything single person who sees me limping on the street, (whether I know them or not) the response is always “ee don bete smol  smol.”

When people ask how the Mende language learning is going – “smol smol.”

One could argue that the goal of training is to ease us into all things Sierra Leonean smol smol, or bit by bit. (It’s debatable how slow the integration process is in practice, but I think they try not to overwhelm us too much!) Still, I do have one personal saga about taking smol smol steps to get used to things in Salone. This is the story of why I am officially over my fear of arata (rodents).

It all began the first night at my host family’s house. The sound of rats scurrying across the ceiling was slightly unsettling, but at least there was a bed tent between myself and the arata. Who knew mosquito nets are actually very useful rodent guards? A few days later, I found a smol smol mouse dead on my floor. I shuddered, but acknowledged it wasn’t so bad. Much smaller than it sounds at night… My nine year old host sister Aminatta disposed of the creature for me.

I grew accustomed to listening to the arata at night. Just when I had finally gotten over my fear that the arata would eat through the mosquito net, I woke up to find a giant rat dying on my floor. Picture the rodents of unusual size (RUSes) from The Princess Bride, and you’ll have a good idea of how big this rat was. I approached it, thinking it was dead, but it began thrashing it’s tail about. I decided being a wimpy American who is not accustomed to giant arata was justified in this instance. (Smol smol steps, right?) I jumped over the rat and had my host grandma come sweep it out of the room for me.

A few days later, one of my Krio teachers gave me a tiny kitten that could “kill the arata.” I named the kitten Towei, which means pumpkin in Mende. However, I had my doubts about how effective the scrawny white kitten was going to be when it came to hunting RUSes. It turns out, I should have had more faith in Towei.

As I sat on my bed grading papers from summer school a few nights ago, I heard a crash near my window. I turned the beam of my headlamp towards the noise, and saw Towei wrestling with a rat that was the same size as her. (This time I’m really not exaggerating!) I wouldn’t say that she was winning the fight, but I had to admire her guts. I certainly hadn’t made any effort to fight off the rats up to that point. I realized I would have to get over my fear of the rats if I wanted my cat to survive long enough to be able to fight off future rodents. Taking a deep breath, I looked around my room for a suitable weapon. I settled on my umbrella and THWACK! Let me just say, that it is way harder than you would think to kill an arata with a blunt object. Their bones must be made of iron…Anyway, it was by far the most disturbing thing I’ve done here and I don’t recommend trying it! Nevertheless, at least I know I can survive alone against the arata when I get to site.

This afternoon, my host mom uncovered a rat nest in a box of old blankets in my bedroom. I didn’t see those rats, but she told me they were huge. Good, I’m glad a Sierra Leonean has confirmed my diagnosis on the unusual size of the rodents. At least they’ll make a good addition to tonight’s rice and sauce! I’m kidding. Not that I ever actually know what kind of “beef” is floating in my okra and palm oil…(No, I really am kidding!)

First impressions: my village is perfect.

As the poda-poda (bus) rolls out of Makeni, I can hardly believe I’m finally going to see the place that will be my home for the next two years. After a few hours on a paved highway, we pull off onto a bumpy dirt road. The bus lurches and groans, but outside the windows the hilly wilderness of Salone is beautiful. After five hours of traveling, I reach Bo – the second largest city here. From there, it’s another 17 miles to my village, Sembehun.

Quickly, the crowded streets of Bo are replaced with rice fields and gently sloping hills. Along the street, I see a group of about 100 children dressed in grey school uniforms. So this is home, I think as the taxi pulls to a stop.

As my principal (who traveled with me from Makeni) and I get out of the car, my soon-to-be students begin signing a song they prepared for the occasion. To the rhythm of drums and young voices, we all proceed to the school – Kankaylay Islamis Junior Secondary – for a welcoming ceremony. After greeting my fellow teachers, community members, and sector chiefs, giving a quick speech in Krio, and listening to everyone’s words of welcome, I get to go visit my new house.  

My house is still being renovated, but I love it! I have papayas, oranges, avocados, and mangos growing in my backyard. There’s a small outdoor kitchen, space for a vegetable garden, and a well that’s not too far away.

Right now, I’m back in Makeni, but I can’t wait to move to my site in August!

A delayed post due to a faulty internet...

July 8, 2011

“Oakwom lakalo!” My Temne speaking neighbor tells me.

“wetin?” I reply Krio, Salone’s lingua franca.

“Di rain de pan kam”

Right on cue, a blissfully cool breeze sweeps across the compound and the rain begins to pound against the roof of my host family’s porch .

“Yu don col?” my neighbor asks.

“No I no col.”

“Eeee!” She surveys me skeptically   - probably wondering how it’s possible th at I’m never cold, even when the weather dips below 80 F. How can I possibly explain the concept of the cold that I’m used to?

I can hardly believe training is almost half over. I’ve loved exploring Makeni , spending time with my host family, and getting to know the other volunteers. On a typical morning, I wake up when the call to prayer sounds from the mosque across the street at 5:30am. I wait half an hour for the sun to rise, then go outside where my host grandma is just starting the fire. I quickly discovered that the morning is the best time to run here – not necessarily because of the heat, but because fewer children are awake before 7am. Fewer children means fewer shouts of “opoto opoto!” (white person) The kids here love foreigners and never get tired of yelling at any white person they see. At least the kids who live near me know my African name, so I’m greeted with calls of “Baliya!”, which is much better than opoto!

After running, it’s time for a bucket bath, a breakfast of fresh mangos or boiled plantains, then it’s off to training by 8 am. Training can be a bit tedious  at times, but we get to visit our sites this weekend. The principal from my school, which is called Kankaylay Islamic Junior Secondary School, is coming to Makeni on Friday to meet  me and take me  to my site. I’m stationed in a town called Sembehun 17, which is located 17 miles south of a city called Bo.  My host family is very disappointed  that I won’t be learning Temne or staying near Makeni, but I’m enjoying learning Mende and looking forward to seeing a new part of the country. (I do seriously doubt my ability to learn both Krio  & Mende anytime soon though…) I’ll be in my village from Sunday until Wednesday, then we go back to Makeni for  5 more weeks of training.

Okay, internet time is up so we go si bak! (Krio for see you later)

So you want to join the Peace Corps?

On a humid afternoon in July, I sat in an air conditioned conference room of the Carter Center for a question and answer session with Jimmy and Rosalyn Carter. One of my fellow interns asked what advice they had for people interested in pursuing careers in global health or international development. Jimmy Carter answered without hesitation, "Join the Peace Corps."

It would be rather idyllic if I could claim that this advice from a former president inspired me to apply for the Peace Corps, but the truth is, I had submitted my application weeks before that afternoon in Atlanta. Still, I do agree that the Peace Corps provides an unparalleled opportunity to learn about development through first hand experience and cultural integration.

Since I first submitted my application in late June, I've had plenty of time to think about whether this is something I really want to do. On September 20th, I received a nomination from the Peace Corps for an English teaching position in Eastern Europe. (Possibly the best birthday present I've ever received, though it was one day late!) Although I was forewarned that this nomination was subject to change, I began reading about the region and trying to teach myself a few Russian phrases. I knew it would be several months before I learned anything else about the status of my application. Finally, on May 21st, I received a phone call from a Peace Corps placement officer. After a long conversation, she told me she was prepared to offer me a position with a program in Sub-Saharan Africa. I was incredibly excited about the change in plans, though I guess the few words of Russian I learned won't be useful after all!

I received my official Peace Corps invitation in the mail a few days later. Due to the fact that my landlord and his wife live in the apartment below mine, I resisted the impulse to jump up and down and shout with excitement as I opened my envelope. I'm going to Sierra Leone!!!!

My program departs on May 31st. We will spend a few days in Chicago for orientation or "staging" before flying to Africa. I will spend my first three months in Makeni, Sierra Leone for training and language lessons. After that, I'll be relocated to a village where I'll begin my new job as an English teacher!