Dis swit pas di wan yu bin gi mi

One of my first Impressions when I got to Sembehun was that I could never live up to people’s expectations or repay the kindness they had shown me. I certainly was not going there in hopes of changing the world, as many people seemed to believe I could. I was just going to teach, and even that I was uncertain about. What did I know about managing a classroom or making information accessible to students whose life experiences were so different than my own? As things turned out, managing a classroom was not as difficult as I anticipated and my students’ lives were not as foreign to me as I once imagined.

There are brief instances when I am teaching that I believe maybe I can repay the kindness of my community. Being a part of my students’ lives matters. I am doing something for those kids - or so I tell myself. Sure, I show up to school every day and teach. I care about my students. I celebrate their successes and mourn their failures. But honestly, I am just doing my job. There is nothing remarkable or spectacular in that, yet somehow people still manage to treat me as if I have done something wonderful for them. It is nice to hear their praise, but I cannot help feeling their words are unearned.

It has taken me awhile to realize that no one expects me to earn the respect they give me. Even if I were the worst teacher in the world, my students would still be expected to treat me well, to go out of their way to fetch me water, bring me pineapples, or sweep my porch. Even if I were a terrible person, my neighbors would greet me every morning, let me ditch in line at the water pump, and help repair my fence when the goats tear it down. To me, all this feels like unearned kindness.  I want to be able to repay the things that people do for me. I suppose that is a very American mindset – we have to work for whatever we have, and in turn, we do not give people things for nothing. I do not mean to imply that such a mindset is entirely negative, only it is not applicable to village life in Sierra Leone.

I think I consciously accepted for the first time that I will never be able to do as much good for people here as they have done for me on the day that Abu Bakar Sedik gave me mangos. Abu Bakar Sedik is one of those people who always seem to give me perspective when I grow frustrated. It is not that Abu's life is particularly tragic as far as things go in rural Sierra Leone; it is that, despite the tragedies of his past, he is eternally optimistic. Abu is just a fifteen year old boy who is intelligent, hardworking, and quick to laugh. He is one of seventeen children, only four of whom are still alive. His father is dead, so Abu helps his mother by raising crops to sell. He is the first in his family to get an education. One could argue that this child's life has elements of a tragedy, but Abu goes through life with a smile. He does not see himself as a victim, but believes he is privileged - and he is right. He is the one who survived. He is the one who got to go to school.

Abu is one of my best students. He has never asked me for anything, but goes out of his way to do things for me. He will bring me pineapples or avocados and would never dream of letting me carry a bucket of water from the pump. One evening, after Abu had carried a bucket of water to my house for me, and I offered to give him some mangos. (My students were true to their promise to give me more mangos than I can eat.) Abu thanked me and said yes he would like the mangos, so I went inside and selected the best two to give to him - ripe, but not yet turning mushy. The next day, Abu showed up at me house with five mangoes of his own. "Dis mango swit pas do wan yu bin gi mi," Abu announced as he handed the mangoes to me. Thanks for dissing my gift, I thought ruefully as I accepted the mangoes. It turned out to be true though. The mangoes were sweeter than the ones I had given him.

I cannot help but think of those mangos as a symbol of life in Sembehun. I can try my hardest to help people here - offer over my best two mangos so to speak - but then they will turn around and do something that surpasses whatever I did for them. They will come with five mangos that happen to be more delicious than the mangos that I gave away in the first place. Whatever good I do here will never measure up to the good that people do to me. That is a very humbling thought, and one worth remembering.

Sharp Green Mangos

“The sharp green mango bitten in turns,” writes Senegalese author Mariama Ba in her novel So Long a Letter. I am drawn to the imagery in those words, the vision of two young African girls in school uniforms passing an unripe mango back and forth between them, savoring its tangy flavor on their tongues.

I arrived in Sierra Leone at the end of mango season, and it is only now that the trees are growing heavy once again with bright green fruits. My students have assured me that once the mangos are ripe, they will bring me more than I can eat. I believe them, since that was the case with oranges at the height of orange season. But in the meantime, I watch the unripe mangos on the low hanging branches, tempted to stretch out my hand and take one. I see people walking around eating those mangos all the time, but I have the sense that it’s like eating the cookie dough before you bake the cookies – not really good manners, but delicious and absolutely worth a mild belly ache.

My initial craving for a green mango was based mostly on curiosity. I wanted to know what a “sharp green mango” tasted like. I was pleased when one of my JSS I students offered me a bite of his mango after school one day. The inside of an unripe mango is white and crisp like an apple. It is deliciously sour. The skin is smooth and soft and can be eaten. As the mango ripens, the inside grows orange and sweet; the skin toughens and takes on a reddish hue.

Ripe mangos are delicious and worth waiting for, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the occasional green mango. After all, it’s not like I would ever make chocolate chip cookies without taking a few bites of the unbaked dough anyway.

Throwing Stones

Having even the slightest idea how cleaning days at my school work is a sure sign that I am beginning to understand teaching in Sierra Leone. Almost every Thursday afternoon is devoted to cleaning the school compound. The first time I witnessed the school cleaning was one of the more uncomfortable experiences I’ve had here (which is saying something.) I stood awkwardly watching students pull weeds and use cutlasses to hack away at the wilderness which was encroaching in the school compound. The other teachers made a student bring a chair for me so I could sit down and watch the work in comfort. I felt extremely lazy and ineffectual sitting there doing nothing as the students worked.

I will never enjoy cleaning days, but as time passes I have begun to appreciate them for what they are. I tend to think now that I was incredibly spoiled to have a janitor clean my school for me while growing up. Who did I think was going to do the school maintenance here if the students didn’t do the work? Besides, there are benefits to giving students the responsibility for keeping their school clean; it gives them a different king of appreciation for their education by instilling them with a sense of ownership for the school. Cleaning days can also be fun if you go in with the right attitude. Maybe it’s a bit like when I was in high school and we had red/gold days at CSG…(minus the hot apple cider and donuts, naturally.)

On one particular Thursday, the principal decided to cancel school for the entire day so the students could go brush a field about a mile from our village, where he hoped to build a new school. “Brushing” entails hacking down trees with cutlasses and tearing up the patches of tall spiky grass. The atmosphere was cheerful as we set off along the road to the field. Only I and one other teacher decided to accompany the students on the brushing outing. Since I’m not particularly intimidating (or adept at brushing for that matter), the other teacher took charge of making sure the students were working.  I spent my time wandering around chatting with some of the girls who thought it was hysterical that I was willing to join them in tearing a few weeds out of the rocky rust-colored soil. They were also amused that I was concerned by the fact that one of my JSS I boys thought it was a good idea to climb to the top of a tree that was in the process of being cut down. (In case like me you find that worrisome, you will be happy to hear that the child did not fall to his death.)

By lunch time, everyone was hot and tired and ready to go back to the school where some of the JSS III girls were preparing bulgur with sauce. The other teacher took a bicycle back so he could go check to see if the cooking was underway, but I walked with the students.  The procession of one hundred or so youth walking in unevenly spaced clusters trailed out along the highway. Behind me, some of the students began shouting.

“What’s going on?” I asked, turning back towards the shouts.

“They’re throwing stones. Let’s go quick!” Kadiatu Swaray, one of my JSS II students who was walking beside me answered.

Apparently, the students had found one of the mentally ill men in our village walking along the road. This particular man has a reputation for being prone to violence, but he keeps to himself as long as people do not disturb him. I can only imagine the numerous things a group of adolescent boys might have said to provoke the man, but whatever happened, the man began hurling rocks at the students. In retaliation, the students picked up stones of their own to throw. I sensed the situation was quickly escalating as the chorus of shouts grew louder and rocks flew through the air.

“Quick, let’s go!” Kadiatu urged me again, her voice full of concern. She was right, it is better to avoid the mob than to confront it, but I could not stand by and allow my students to stone a mentally ill man. I ignored her and strode back towards the fight.

I grabbed the arm of the boy nearest to me – Abu Bakar Bockarie – whose hands were full of stones.

“Don’t throw them,” I said. Abu Bakar has the reputation for being a troublemaker, but he is also intelligent and has been a perfect angel in my class ever since I helped him avoid a flogging from father. (The flogging was regarding an incident when the boy was innocent for once, so I wrote a letter on his behalf.)

“Don't throw them?” Abu Bakar asked.

“Yes, what you are doing is very bad. You cannot throw stones at a crazy man,” I scolded him.

Abu Bakar dropped the stones quickly, as if he had suddenly realized that he had a snake in his hand. He looked stricken for a moment, afraid of the disappointment in my voice. However, he quickly rallied and began marching around to the other students and yelling at them to stop throwing stones. I then sought out the school prefects in the crowd so they could help me restore order. I breathed a sigh of relief when the last students abandoned their stones.

I realized that my students did not fully understand why I was upset that they were throwing rocks at a man whose “head don flop.” They could not understand why I was always quick to defend the mentally ill from taunts, laughter, or violence. However, my students knew I was disappointed in their behavior, and for some reason that was enough to make them stop.

Fairy Tales

The sky is black. An opaque curtain of water vapor covers the stars, or maybe it is a film of orange dust risen from the sun scorched land and caught in the air. Either way, crowded on my veranda in the glow of my headlamp, the dark hardly matters.

“You don change di battery?” an ever-observant child asks, noticing that my head lamp is considerably brighter today than it was before.The primary school children who live next door to me have taken to coming to my porch every night to study. One 5^th grade girl named Fati asked me to write something for her to read. I began to write the story of Cinderella, but then thought better of it. Fairy tales tend to be the antithesis of gender empowerment and the last thing a little girl in Sierra Leone needs is another story about a weak female character who is saved by a man and a fairy because she had the good fortune of being born beautiful. These critiques occurred to me just as I was writing “After Ella’s father died, her step-mother began to treat her very badly.”

I paused, my pen hanging hesitantly in the air. Fati was living in a society where the fairy tale premise of Cinderella was not completely foreign. It is a world where a woman’s success is often based on luck and a rich husband, but it is also a world where girls have the chance to go to school. I decided I would alter the Cinderella story to make it a tale of hard work and determination not magic and good fortune.

Over the course of a week, I added to the story a few lines at a time so Fati could read them and learn the new words. In my Cinderella story, Ella and the prince are friends, but the king forbids his son to marry Ella because she is too poor. However, after Ella wins a competition to prove she is the most intelligent woman in the kingdom the King agrees to the marriage. Granted, my story is every bit as much of a fantasy as the Grimm brothers’ version, but I think it portrays a slightly better role model for an eleven year girl.

Fati may not be the most intelligent child I’ve met, but she has character and spunk which probably counts for more in life than simple intelligence. She’s the sort of child whose determination will push her to spend an hour struggling through a few pages of a story, who loves to talk, and who will stomp on a scorpion if it happens to cross her path.

One night, the children stayed on my porch later than usual. As it was approaching 10pm, one boy named Amara noticed how dark it was and was afraid to go home. He claimed he was worried about “kid-nappy-ers” as he calls them, but really he was worried about getting in trouble with his father for staying out too late. And what better way to avoid a beating than to get your teacher to walk you home? Surely your parents can’t complain that you were out too late studying.

Thus, Fati, our neighbor Alusine, and I all walked Amara home. After we left him safely at his porch, we made our way back across the path to our own homes with the beam of my flashlight guiding our steps. As we walked, I noticed a small creature scuttle across the path.

“Wait, point back”, Fati said, meaning point the flashlight back there.

As the beam of the flashlight fell across the creature, it began to run, but Fati stopped it with her flip-flop clad foot. She stomped on the creature until it lay in a still broken heap in the dust. A scorpion, Alusine informed me. “Santem Fati no bin see em ii get fo kill mortal man. Quick wi dat tail ii de kill posin, like snake no mo.” (If Fati hadn’t seen that scorpion, it might have killed someone. It can easily kill someone with its tail, just like a snake.)

I have to respect a girl who doesn’t even flinch when it comes to slaying a scorpion. Maybe I should write a version of a fairy tale where the princess locked in the tower slays the dragon herself…

Kids Will Be Kids

At first glance my school is nothing like a school in America. In the morning, students use grass brooms to sweep leaves from the school compound. A 8:00 a.m., when the bell rings for assembly, the students line up to recite a prayer in Arabic and sing Salone's national anthem. No one is to walk while the national anthem is being sung. (I made the mistake of not freezing in my tracks as soon as I heard the first words of the anthem once and everyone was shocked by my audaciousness. Of course, I was forgiven due to my ignorant status as a foreigner.) After the last lines fade, late comers hoping to avoid six lashes with the dried reed canes try to sneak into assembly among the other students. Meanwhile, the primary school children drag their desks and benches outside under the trees because the school building that collapsed has yet to be rebuilt. From the outside, no one is going to forget that we're in  a rural African village school. Inside the classroom, some of the differences begin to melt. It is true that the education system and the style of teaching are vastly different here. It is true that limited resources pose unique challenges. However, the kids are the same as kids in America in many ways. You have the know-it-alls, the under-achievers, the kids who really want to learn, and those who spend an unnecessary amount of effort causing problems. You have the frightened JSS I students who are just leaving primary school and the JSS II students who will be graduating this year and think they own the school.

Teaching makes me wonder what my own high school teachers really thought of us. At times, I honestly cannot comprehend why students are acting so obnoxious or are so horrified by the amount of work I give them. (Which, by the way, is nothing compared to the amount of work my own high school teachers gave) In other instances, I find the antics of trouble-makers more amusing than irritating. In order not to loose face as an authority figure, I stay relatively stern in class. However, at times, it is difficult to keep a straight face in class when students cause problems. One afternoon, I turned around from the chalkboard to see Fatmata's face covered in chalk dust. "What happened?" I asked. "It is this boy," she says, throwing the duster at Umani.
"Don't mind them," Isata tells me. "He is her boyfriend." Oh fine, as long as it's just flirtatious banter, go ahead and wack each other over the head with the eraser, I think, wishing sarcasm could translate language barriers.
"Give me the duster and write your notes," I say. I turn back to the chalkboard partly to continue writing the definition of metaphor, and partly to hide my amused smile.

No matter where you are in the world, it is true what they say - kids will be kids.

I only laugh so as to keep from weeping

Yes, I am entitling this blog entry after a line from a Knight's Tale. (What? It's a great movie)

To be honest, I am rarely on the verge of tears when I resort to laughing at inappropriate moments. It is only in retrospect that I realize I am laughing at things that really aren't very funny. Or funny at all, for that matter. That being said, laughter is great preventative medicine. It keeps you in a bright mood when you would otherwise run the risk of becoming bitter and frustrated. So I want to share an example of the times "I only laugh so as to keep from weeping."

One Friday morning, I left my house with my empty rubber bucket in hand and headed towards the pump. Friday is the Muslim holy day so we don't have school. This means for me Friday is "brooking" day - or the day I use my two rubber tubs and a little plastic bag of powdered "Africana" soap to wash all  my clothes. I was never a fan of doing laundry in the US even though it is ridiculously easy to throw all your things into a washing machine, but for some reason I enjoy the methodical process of scrubbing my clothes by hand and beating them against a rock to work out any stains. Thus, with my bucket in tow I proceeded to the well to get my brooking water. Nine year old Ibrahim stopped me to ask in Mende where I was going. I replied that I was going to get water, to which Ibrahim answered something that sounded to me like "there is no water."

"What?" I asked, thinking that perhaps I had misunderstood him.
"Wata no de." He repeated in Krio, thus I clearly got the message that there was no water at the pump.
"Okay, I'll go across the street."
"No, that pump is broken too."
"So where do you go to get water?"
"We can't get water."
"You can't get water?"
"No, we no de get again!" (We won't get water again!)

For some reason I found this completely hysterical. A little boy was telling me that they would never get water again in the village. It was only after suppressing my laughter that I realized it wasn't actually a funny situation. The idea that the entire village could be without a clean water source was actually rather horrifying. Of course, this was not the case. There are other water wells on the outskirts of the village so I went there to fetch my water. I did decide to put off brooking my clothes not knowing when the pump would be fixed. I figured it was important to conserve water, since wells run the risk of going dry, especially now that it hasn't rained for a few months. I was mildly surprised that the pump nearest to my house was fixed within 48 hours. Apparently the threat of "we no de get again" was not a laughing matter, so people got straight to the business of fixing the well.

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 . . .