Mood of Jubilation

Last week I had the great pleasure of attending the graduation party for my host mother, Winifred, who finished first in her class (the 'ace' in Liberia) with a degree in religious education from the Baptist Seminary in Monrovia. As with all life events here, this was a capital-O Occasion. My host father is the pastor of a large church in Kakata, and both he and his wife have touched a lot of lives. So the entire church turned out in Sunday best to show their support for such a huge accomplishment.

Liberian parties are usually full of people, they always have great food and an absolutely terrible rented/borrowed sound system, and they all have a program or agenda complete with an MC and the feedback squeal of an abused microphone. There are opening prayers, unrehearsed speeches, and frequent audience participation. This party was a magnitude above because my family works so hard here and because it doubled as the unofficial going-away party for their departure to a new life in America. I got to meet my host ma's mother, see the puppies all grown up, and give Delwin a hug goodbye. It was amazing, and I will miss them terribly, but I am so proud of and happy for them starting a new phase of their life. 

The MC called for a prayer to thank God for the "mood of jubilation" we were graced with, and today, on my six-month anniversary of arriving in Liberia, I am full of jubilation in one form or another.

Dry season is fully upon us, complete with bright sun, cool breezes, and the hazy, dusty sky of harmattan, when the winds blow off the desert to the north instead of the ocean to the south. 

On our adventure to the market, Heather and I were blessed by the produce gods with cucumbers, a tomato, a butter pear (avocado) AND a pineapple! When okra and bitterball are the standard fare, this is a trip to the produce section of Whole Foods by comparison. We had delicious sandwiches bursting with fresh veggies for lunch, and loved every bite. The market was insane today, in the run-up to Christmas, which is a huge deal here. The main market road was choked with wheelbarrows full of clothes and other gifts, and navigating the crowds reminded me a little bit of the mall, but with that dusty Liberian twist. 

Today, my last teaching day before the holiday vacation, was a scheduled quiz for all my classes, so mean of me! But I decided to give those students who showed up a nice Christmas gift, and made it an open-book quiz when I got to school. This also allowed me to put the questions on the board in all my classes at once, taking advantage of absent teachers, so I didn't have to stay until six, which was a side benefit. It was a really good decision, because today was the day for stump speeches and campaigning for student government. They go all-out with that here, registering a political party with the PTA, taking a stand on issues like teacher attendance and the lack of desks, and disrupting class to pass out candy and badges. There are also fabulous campaign crowns that any first-grader would be jealous of: a bright paper band with a square stapled up in front proclaiming "SUP for Rights" and "Ferguson wants justice for students." Because Heather and I were virtually the only teachers holding class today, most of the students were running around campus chanting slogans and playing music. Several of my tenth graders asked me if I supported SUP (Student Unity Party, wants to increase teacher regularity and administrative transperancy) or SDP (Student Democratic Party, wants to get more rights and justice for students, whatever that means). I told them I was very pleased to see my students exercising their political rights, and that I was sure that the best party for the school would win. I also got to wish everyone a merry Christmas ("Ms L, you will carry me with you for Christmas?") and a happy new year. 

It's strange to think that I'm almost done with my first semester of teaching here, that it's been half a year since staging in Philly, that I didn't know any of these people six months ago and now they are my family. I have plans to travel to Grand Cape Mount county for vacation (and maybe end up at Robertsport, one of the best surfing spots in the world), and to call home to talk to everyone. I am keeping you all in my heart this season, and I wish you all the jubilation you can handle. Merry merry!

Thank You For The Work

Today was a day of good work, as such things are measured on a Liberian scale.

Since we were gone to training for a week and came back to 2nd marking period exam week, neither Heather nor myself have had time to do a big restocking trip for far too long. So this morning we strapped on our backpacks, faced the nemesis hill right outside our front door, and headed to the market to fill our empty shelves. 

Wednesday morning in Kakata is a bustling, bizarre, beautiful thing. It hasn't rained in a week, so the streets are a dusty brown instead of a muddy red. The row of shoeshine boys who set up camp at the side of the coal tar greeted us cheerfully as we wended our way past them, fighting upstream against a tide of wheelbarrows and bundle-laden teens. The money-changer we stopped at to convert US dollars into Liberian dollars had a chess game set up and asked if we wanted to play. And everyone said good morning. Our usual shopkeepers missed us and gave us a gently chiding hard time for not stopping by to say hello. We ran into at least half a dozen of our students (most of whom sell in the market or do other work in the morning before going to school in the afternoon since they are self-supported and/or have families and children of their own). And we covered a lot of ground, walking around half of Kakata. All told, the adventure took about two hours. We returned with enough time to rinse off the sweat and stash our haul of rice, canned goods, oil, vegetables, and cleaning supplies before heading to campus for school. Pantry: stocked.

This week is the first week of 3rd marking period (a marking period is four weeks of instruction, one week of review, one week of exams repeated six times in a school year) and I made the executive decision that I would teach my tenth-graders actual algebra for this period after months of arithmetic review. So today I introduced the concept of translating English sentences into algebraic expressions. We kept things simple, making a list of words for addition and practicing math sentences using just that operation. I felt like an amazing teacher, too. I had students raising their hands to ask thoughtful questions and coming to the board to give (mostly correct) answers. They even took a mini-quiz and mostly managed to do their own work. 

Part of the reason class went so well is that more than half my students were absent, and twenty bodies are easier to manage than fifty-five. Many students and teachers have decided, apparently, to take their Christmas vacation two weeks early, and campus is like a ghost town after recess except for those dedicated/unlucky few who have Peace Corps teachers and decide to stay. After I finished teaching today, the empty schedule meant that I got some time to 'lecture small', or chat, with my kids and engage in a little Goal Two exchange, sharing American culture with Liberians. They had some great questions, like "do people in America have hard time like Liberians we do?" (I told David and Abraham about homeless people living on the streets, of which I've seen none here- "Don't their families help them, Ms. L? Why don't they get jobs?") and "is there special state for vampires to live in? (No, Martin. Vampires aren't real, we just have plenty stories about them) and "why  your father teach literature and you love to teach mathematics?" (Some people are strong at different things, Eva). I loved having the chance to talk and listen to my kids in an informal way. And they're so curious and open to asking anything- sometimes to a ridiculous or uncomfortable degree- which is refreshing. Students: taught.

Amos the carpenter came by yesterday to finish grouting the tile floor in our living room and reinstall the baseboards, and today when I got home from teaching my one class, I got out a bucket and a brush and, Cindarella-style, took to hands and knees to remove the spots of grout and cement marring our gorgeous new floor. (Tile: cleaned)

 I naturally tackled this task with the front door open and music playing loudly, which the neighborhood took as an invitation to drop by and thank me for the work and jealously ogle our beautiful floor. I had been worried that they would see us as selfish, wasting money on something so superfluous, but everyone's reaction has been overwhelming support and admiration of our investment in our home and the community. They all want to tell us "Thank you for the work," which I find strange since all I did was sit on the porch while three Liberians took less than a day to lay a floor, but since we supplied the materials and had the idea, we get the thanks. And the visitors. First was Ma Mary from up the hill who dropped in to appreciate us and ask if we had any extra cement dust she could have. Then Muistafa, a student, visited to say hello and caught me singing along (loudly) to "Hey, Jude," which probably made his day. And Peace, Ben and Fatu's dog, came by to spread out on the coolest surface in town. But my favorite visitor was Ben himself. I was just putting the bucket away and dancing on clean tile in my bare feet (para bailar la bamba, se necesita una poca de gracias) when his quiet voice interrupted from the porch, "what country is this music?" 

I told him the language was Spanish, and asked him if he liked it. 

"I hear this before, when I were refugee in 2003, it make me think on that time." 

"What place were you a refugee?"

"Oh, near to Freetown, in Sierra Leone. It a nice song..." and he smiled and went back to hooking the grass in his yard. Thank you for the work, Ben. 

Working Hard to Make a Living

It's the Saturday after exam week and there's no rest for the lazy.

My roommate is in town, leaving me on kitten/dish duty. Amos the carpenter is coming to put in a new floor that (hopefully) won't try to trip me to death every morning, so there's a huge mound of sand right in front of our porch steps waiting for his arrival at '8:00' or the Liberian equivalent. I need climbing gear to scale the pile of laundry-to-be-done in the corner of my room. If I don't use the bananas today they will aquire consciousness and possibly take over West Africa. I have 400 final exams and 200 make-up quizzes to grade. There is a rampaging horde of children at the well causing noise, spilling water, and taking forever to fill their buckets, holding up all my other chores. And yet.

And yet the mist over the hills is gorgeous, keeping the heat and bright sun of dry season at bay for a little while. My lap is full of purring baby cat curled up in a little ball of peace. A very kind blind man carried two pumpkins to us yesterday (word of our 'pumpkin business' conversation with Ben last month has spread all over town) so I get pumpkin soup for dinner today and tomorrow. The semi-sentient bananas are going to be delicious banana bread in a few hours. I have faith that at least half my students will pass my class this marking period. And I am here, alive in this moment, looking ahead (forward?) to a full day after a full week in a full month of the hardest and most amazing year of my life to date. Maybe I have a blessings list and not a to-do list. I can see how people love 6:30 in the morning.

An Awfully Big Adventure

Today as part of our training we watched a documentary called Girl Rising, which uses the stories of 8 girls and young women from countries like Peru, Haiti, Ethiopia, Nepal, and Afghanistan to illustrate the point that educating girls is the single most effective thing any country can do to combat poverty. The issue of gender equality wasn't my greatest passion back home, but my presence here as a woman teaching math and standing up for myself is a revolution on a micro scale. Our PCVL came to watch us teach a while ago and brought my attention to the fact that for a review activity with fifteen questions I had only three girls come to answer. I hadn't thought at all about the way I dealt with gender in the classroom here (too busy keeping my head above water for first marking period), but after his comment I made a deliberate attempt to call on girls more often, and to make sure that they felt like my classroom was a safe space. In the last month I have noticed a significant increase in the number of girls who raise their hands to answer questions in class and fight for a chance to come to the board. It feels like a tiny victory in an immeasurable war.

The issue of gender in education in Liberia (or the world) is part of a broader question I have been asking myself lately. When I stand in the front of my classroom, chalk on my hands and mud on my shoes and sweat running down my back, I sometimes see huge possibility and potential. Other times I see the 2/3 of my class who only occasionally cheat on their quizzes, usually come to class, and seem to value the results of education, if not the process. They work harder than any honors student in America, because they have to fight economic obstacles associated with being orphans/parents/self-supported adults, societal pressures stemming from a decade and a half of actual collapse, and the ingrained restrictions of gender roles. My last two classes of the afternoon have the added challenge of literally racing the sun in the sky to be able to see the chalkboard and their notebooks as dusk falls and their dim classrooms become even darker. Sometimes it feels like a losing battle (and an inappropriate goal) to teach them to graph a line or balance a chemical equation. How could that be relevant to the immediate screaming needs of their lives? What else could I possibly be doing, if not this? Is there a better use of my time here, or a better perspective I could find from which to approach our primary project?

One of my fellow volunteers (who has her students call her Miss Frizzle, btw), teaches math and science in a tiny school in a minuscule village. I love the way she looks at the world, and the humor and color she brings to her stories. We had an amazing conversation about our purpose here and what our role really is in development in Liberia. Her 12th grade physics class has less than a dozen students, and she has decided that in addition to helping them master the basics of force, waves, and matter, she is going to explicitly model teaching techniques and ask her students to put them into practice with each other when they take turns as class leaders since one of the only job opportunities for high school graduates is teaching. She described a Peace Corps volunteer in their school as Wendy reading to the Lost Boys, showing them new ideas bigger than themselves.

I think that is our purpose here. Our students are the (not-so-distant) future teachers of Liberia. We need to teach them now to value integrity, hard work, and gender equality. We can show them that progress is possible, you just have to want it. It's not this generation we'll have the biggest impact on, but the next one. We've spent the last week at our inservice training, discussing challenges and successes and sharing solutions with other LR-4's. I've been so consistently impressed by the creativity of my fellow pcvs and their resilience in the face of chaos (150 kids in one room, nonexistent resources, radically different cultural context for the process and purpose of teaching and learning), blown away by how they find incredible victories and dedicate huge swaths of their time and energy and heart to a job that is never done in a country that feels further away than the second star to the right and stranger than any rabbit hole ever could. Sometimes it feels like this Neverland is more real than the California dream I left almost six months ago. Will the lost boys (and girls) be better off for our fairy tales and dreams? No system is too big to be changed, and the quiet revolution of expecting them to participate in and take ownership of their own lives is one I have not yet surrendered. To teach in Liberia is an awfully big adventure.

Celebrate Good Times

On October 31st, as I was writing the date on the blackboard in my first class, I decided to share a little bit of American culture with my students. So I added a "Happy Halloween" below, and after the warm-up I shared some of the traditions surrounding halloween from back home (the dressing up in costumes and trick-or-treating and watching horror movie traditions, not the more religious roots of the day). They really loved when I went all along the front row of desks knocking on each one and saying "trick or treat," and for the next week I was greeted with "Trick or treat, Ms. L" when I saw my students in the hall. I also gave them a quiz that day (Happy Halloween!) and if they finished early I had them write me a letter on the back about what their favorite holiday was and why. I got a lot of random answers, but there were many students who liked New Years Day because they were grateful to God for letting them see another year. There's not much to argue about that sentiment here in Liberia, I feel.

Sharing celebrations with my students was a great way to kick off the holiday season here in the tropics halfway around the world from my family, where I don't have crisp, cool fall weather to set the mood. I decided I would find my own ways to make the holidays special this year. So far, I'm off to a great start.

One of the LR-3 Peace Corps Leaders went home for a couple weeks around the same time (and brought me back a new iPhone, thank you so much to everyone involved with that!) and was really excited about, and I quote, "all the pumpkin-flavored things" including bread and pie and spiced lattes. I decided to bring autumn to West Africa. I got some canned pumpkin and pumpkin pie spice in Monrovia and set up my coal pot dutch oven to churn out some tasty pumpkin bread. I borrowed metal muffin tins from our neighbor Fatu and used laughing cow 'cheese' to make a maple cream cheese frosting. In case you are wondering, the experiment was a success.

In exchange for the use of the muffin tins, I carried some of my victory baking to Fatu, Ben, Winifred, and the kids. Heather and I had a great time explaining the harvest season traditions of America to them, including leaves changing color, jack-o-lanterns, American Thanksgiving, corn mazes, and giant pumpkin growing contests. Ben is a farmer, and he was really interested in the differences between Liberian pumpkin (green and squash-shaped) and their round orange American cousins. They also really enjoyed the pumpkin muffins. 

I stopped by the Peace Corps office recently to pick up some mail, and I had a postcard (thank you Stan) and an amazing package (thank you Carrie) full of gorgeous paper/ephemera and a Smithsonian magazine. The paper became another pop-up 'card' that I hung on the bulletin board in my room.

The Smithsonian magazine actually had a really good article and photos of how giant pumpkins have gotten bigger in the last century because of the pumpkin-growing contests. Heather had a package as well, and her parents had sent seed packets, including pumpkin seeds with a jack-o-lantern on the front. We got so excited about this, and carried them over to show the neighbors all the things we'd told them about. Ben was fascinated with his glimpse into American agriculture practices, especially the photo of a tractor hauling a huge pumpkin out of a field. He reached out a finger to trace the giant tire and commented that it was "a fine fine machine." We handed the seed packets into his experienced hands to try out the American varietals of tomatoes, bell peppers, pumpkins, and squash in exchange for part of the produce. 

Thanksgiving is in two days, and the volunteers have been invited by the US ambassador to the Embassy Thanksgiving potluck in Monrovia. So I will get to eat real pumpkin pie, turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing with my fellow LR-4's. It's nice to have family around, even if it's a new and different kind of family than I've had before. I am thankful for so much in my life right now, and the great support system I've found for myself here is at the top of the list. 

Something to Be Gained

“Having been borne across the world, we are translated men. It is normally supposed that something always gets lost in translation; I cling, obstinately, to the notion that something can also be gained.” ― Salman Rushdie

In geometry, a translation is a physical shift that maintains the integrity of an object's form and features, but installs it in a new location, giving it new context and function. Standing in front of my 10th grade students, I am translated. The new context doesn't change who I am or what I do, but that person and those actions have a different impact. I have to listen, hear, and speak differently, both for the language limitations and because when I am in public I represent something much larger than myself, and I am always conscious of the weight my words and actions carry as a Peace Corps Volunteer, especially in Liberia. This isn't study abroad adventure. I find myself thinking differently, too. My fashion sense has re-adjusted to West African styles (some would argue that it never left), my sensibilities about correct public and private behavior have been altered, and there isn't any physical thing from home that I miss enough to impact my quality of life here. People are a different story, but that comes with the territory. I am still/again myself, but I have missed this version of me! When UN vehicles, Liberian English, and the collective community consciousness have become my new normal and I can't imagine myself in any other place, doing anything else, nothing feels lost in my geographic shift. I feel found in this translation. I fit differently here, not better or worse, but translated...

All My Days

This is my life here in Liberia:

I wake up at about seven am every day to our neighbor Fatu leaving to sell her doughnuts. I wish there was an easy way to save and embed sound here, because there is no way to accurately describe the prayer-call/hawking/gibberish phrases that are apparently "yeeeeaaaahh, doughnuts! yeahhh eat a sweet doughnut here."

Until this last week, we didn't even have to draw water very often, just put buckets out on the porch to catch all the rain that pours from the edges of the zinc-tin roofing and drips holes in the concrete of the steps.

We cook breakfast sometimes, either oatmeal with brown sugar and powdered milk (the Wonderful Amazing Heather has suggested that condensed milk might be a better option), or fried egg sandwiches, which require a small trip up the hill to Bossa Community Road. The road is lined with houses and small 'shops': tables out on peoples' patios with candles, soap, bread, eggs, biscuits, plantain chips, and other bits and pieces, as well as coal for the coal pot. On the way to the shop we always go to, I have to pass our neighbors, one of whom had a monkey as a pet for a few weeks, and also has a litter of kittens Heather has been eyeing with desire. I also have to run a gauntlet of small children who all chorus "My friend, my friend!" and require individual greetings and handshakes to be placated. It is common practice to greet everyone you meet or pass by, so it takes a while to wind my way up the path through groups of houses and yards to the road, and along the road to the shop. The Ma who runs the shop has an adorable 18-month-old daughter named Esther, who is not scared of us like most Liberian babies are (apparently white skin is terrifying, and they scream at us all the time). She comes out from behind the house to greet us waving her whole arm and beaming, and she is learning to shake hands.

After breakfast we read or do lesson planning on the porch. Heather and I have started a book club of sorts, and are currently reading The Stand, after Pride and Prejudice. I am not sure what will come next, maybe some science fiction? Some of the volunteers have put together a pretty great kindle library with enough books to keep even voracious readers occupied for a while.

For me, lesson planning is not that big of a challenge. I teach 10th grade 'Algebra' at Lango Lippaye High School, but most of my students are not that confident with whole number operations, so I've started them on a modified pre-algebra curriculum that may take us to expressions and equations by the end of the year. It's a lot like what Harvest Middle School 7th graders do, actually. I teach seven sections of 10th grade, which is between 385 and 420 students, depending on attendance. Algebra class meets twice a week for 45 minutes, so I really don't get as much class time with my students as I would like, and since there are so many of them (true confessions) I don't know most of their names. Exam week for the first marking period starts Monday, and it is shaping up to be just as inefficient and frustrating as everything else has been on campus. But despite the ups and downs of working within an educational system still being rebuilt after the war, I love my job. My students work so hard (most of them) and it is so gratifying to see them actually understand things, or thank me for explaining concepts in a way they can grasp. More experienced volunteers say that I should wait until I grade my first exams, because understanding in the classroom doesn't always translate to performance on the test, so I may be changing my tune. Even if I do, this still feels like a perfect fit for me.

We teach high school, which runs in the afternoon from 1-6pm, since elementary school uses the campus in the morning. So at around 12:15 Heather and I get dressed to teach, in our lappa fabric skirts, and head to campus. Sometimes, when we get there early, we hang out in the teachers lounge and listed to the junior high French teachers complain about their students.

School is pretty much constant semi-organized chaos, with elementary students leaving and high school students clamoring to be let in early so that they can claim their chairs before the rush of students starts. They are supposed to line up outside of the school gates for devotion and announcements at 12:30, but if it is raining devotion is canceled, and it usually doesn't start or finish on time, so students all rush the gate and push through the line of 12th graders whose job it is to check their uniforms for skirt length and waistband width (below the knees and 4 inches respectively) for girls, presence of belt and lack of sagging for guys, and correct shoe and sock color. I try to start teaching at 1:00, but most of my students are not in class at that time, and when they do come in, they come in and fight over desks, like a never-ending game of musical chairs with no winner or prize except a place to sit in class.

students coming in the front gate late for first period

10th grade meets in an unfinished building in the middle of campus, a county education project slated to be completed in 2012 (Liberian time), complete with no light, leaky roofs, and empty gaping window holes. It has been six weeks, so I don't really notice the dirt floor and precariously mounted chalk board anymore.

my section 10D copying their practice test review questions from the board

I am very lucky in that I feel like most days are teaching victories. I am definitely grateful for the teaching experience I had at home before I came here, and our training was also really good, if very fast.  And I really love hearing people call me Miss L as I walk through the market.

When we finish teaching we sometimes go into the market to buy supplies or peruse the wheelbarrows of secondhand shoes and clothes. I found (miracle of miracles) a Blackhawks jersey for sale on Wednesday, for 330 LD, which is less than $5. So exciting! Then we head home, and I usually cook something delicious for dinner (pumpkin soup, ground pea soup, spaghetti, stir-fry, or sometimes an experiment!) and we grade papers, eat, and watch the sun go down over our quiet neighborhood while lightning bugs zip and frogs croak. I really feel like I am finding my feet here and walking my path.

I Tumble Homeward

[sorry for the HUGE delay in posting anything! my iphone was stolen so I have had no internet for almost two months :( but I am posting several entries at once to make up for it!]

Here are some pictures of our house and community to go along with the previous post about our little corner of the world here. Two months in I am just as comfortable and at home here, and have actually had some pretty victorious cooking and baking experiences (thank you SOOOO much for the brownie mix, mom!) that deserve their own post. Enjoy a pictorial tour of Bassa Community, Kakata City, Margibi County, Liberia, West Africa, the world!

 our house, the near half of a nice, new duplex building

the well in front of our house, with draw-bucket 

front porch with coal pot in the corner

front yard, neighbors' house 

view from the front door: bathroom straight ahead, my room and spare bedroom to the right,

my bedroom with the patchwork blanket I sewed the first few weeks at site

kitchen with real counters, and crawfish on the curtains

Small Brown Girl, the helpful chicken, doing dishes with the Wonderful,  Amazing Heather, my roommate

Joy Africa FM radio tower on Bossa Community Road, down the way from our house

the view from the top of the hill going down to our house

our house, the swamp, Kakata Rural Teacher Training Institute up the hill to the left, and Booker Washington
Institute over the hill to the right

Found In Translation

There are some things about Liberia that are so very different from America as to seem almost alien (the three hour church service we attended Sunday, the general pace of life, the way Liberians think animals have no souls). But there are some things that, if I squint and tilt my head, look so very familiar. 

Our house is across the well clearing from a delightful family headed by the industrious Ben, who does something in agriculture requiring huge rubber boots, and his wife Winifred, who smiles at my roommate and I doing the wash in the morning. They have a collection of young children ranging in age from Naomi (10 months) to Mama (8 years) and an older girl (17 years old?) who may or may not be their born child, but is part of the household. One of the girls, a 3-year-old named Fewa, has a red stuffed animal that she carries around everywhere. This weekend she was wearing a red shirt, turquoise skirt, pink rain boots, and a child-sized lappa cloth in yellow, green, and orange. And she had used her lappa to tie her red stuffed doll to the small of her back exactly like her mom secures Naomi. She had a tiny bucket and was helping her brother and sister haul water from the well, too. I feel like there is a photo somewhere of me in an equivalent outfit pushing a stroller holding Baby James Butler and following Mom down the street in San Francisco.

Every Peace Corps volunteer in Liberia would probably tell you that the community they live in is the best volunteer site in the history of the organization in this country. I am no exception to this rule, despite brief initial misgivings when I learned that I would be traveling nowhere at the end of training. In the week since we moved in I have come to appreciate the things Kakata has to offer: a highly-functional school that boasts a functioning PTA, actual toilets that are cleaned regularly, and a 50-unit computer lab with hot and cold running internet; access to luxury food items like frozen chicken, canned veggies, BBQ sauce, snickers bars, and ice cold beverages; a daily market offering in-season fruits, bed sheets, water buckets, tomato paste, and monkey meat; two paved roads(!); and many more things I was not expecting to be included in my Peace Corps experience. 

By far the best surprise to date has been our house, though. It is one half of a brand new lime green and brown duplex off of one of the main roads and down a valley/dell. We share the bowl of this depression with Ma Winifred's family, their two puppies (Peace and Poornotfriend), and their chicken flock. Small Brown Girl, the most helpful chicken in Liberia, is a regular guest on our (beautiful enclosed tiled) porch while we wash laundry or cook dinner. Last week she brought Ma Winifred and her teenage daughter and we all listened to music, braided hair, and talked about kids and dogs and our new home. If good fences make good neighbors, the deep wells and friendly poultry do as well.

Inside our new palace we have a real, recognizable kitchen with counters and a sink, and our bathroom is a work of glory. We don't have running water, but all the drains work. On the first day we made curtains for the windows in the living room, kitchen, bathroom, and all three bedrooms, and furniture will be coming from Amos the carpenter 'this week.' My room is a nice bright green, the other two bedrooms are mauve, and the main living area is a very strong and assertive pepto-bismol pink. To alleviate a little of the pink-ness of our walls, we ventured to Jeety's store (home depot equivalent, selling all your hardware, flooring, and plumbing needs minus the orange aprons) to buy some white paint. On the way along the coal tar, we passed wheelbarrows full of copy books, pens, and rulers (office depot back-to-school sale), and some ladies selling fried egg sandwiches (egg mcmuffins?). I made a stop at the Lonestar store to get Internet set up on my phone, and waited in queue just like in the Verizon store in Napa when I took Nate to get a new phone.

My roommate, who was born and lived for 11 years in Botswana (to missionary parents) before seeing the US for the first time, shares my feelings of comfort and familiarity with our new life. I am assured that awkwardness, discomfort, and frustration are coming, but right now I can wholly embrace the little corner of the world in which I find myself. There are glorious and fascinating new things to discover, and, surprisingly, some wonderfully familiar things as well.

I Am the One In Ten

News bulletin of the day from Liberia one week ago today, from the morning radio as I ate my plantains and hardboiled eggs:

• National Oil Company of Liberia, ltd. was called before the congressional ways and means committee to explain their "extravagant and wasteful spending." The company was unable to produce documents justifying said spending and the hearings were postponed until the documents could be produced.
• All non-administrative/security personnel at all government health facilities have gone on strike (and are still on strike one week later) protesting the lack of both a promised wage increase and their current wages.
• A 3-month-old baby was found with its head chopped off behind a hotel in Nimba county, and no one came forward to claim the body or offer information to aid the investigation.
• A coalition of bishops and other religious leaders in Liberia is imploring the government not to yield to international pressure to legalize gay marriage on the grounds that doing so would result in a downward spiral of moral decay in Liberia like in Soddom and Gomorrah 

Days here are difficult enough without corruption, ineffective or nonexistent social systems, violence, and discrimination. My intestinal tract has staged a full-on rebellion this week against an unknown food or beverage, which is a common occurrence for everyone. The most plentiful and financially available means of public transportation (pen-pen motorcycles) results in enough road accidents to field an entire soccer team composed of drivers who are amputee accident survivors. [true fact, and I think they are even a winning soccer team!] Most people don't have much concept of budgeting or saving money for a rainy day.

And yet I am reminded that true, lasting, powerful change, while it doesn't come overnight, or even in ten years, is possible. A beautiful piece in the New Yorker yesterday gives, as Vince our country director says, some context to the work we do here, and the ways we can help. The strongest change and importance lie in the "slow ideas," the personal relationships formed when we take time, and truly get to understand the people we want to help. I asked my students to write a letter to me on the back of the quiz they took last week. I got several "Dear Miss L, I greet you in the name of Jesus our Lord, and I pray you take me back with you to America" or "Dear Miss L, I wish you have a happy 26" but I also got a very heartfelt letter from a young woman who is probably 13, who told me she would never forget how I helped her, and that she would always want to do well in math because of me. I am not sure how long that will last, but the fact that it was true even for a moment means I am in the right place, doing the right thing.

The only way to open opportunities for people here is through one-on-one relationships. This week, in addition to teaching seventh grade geometry at Model School, I am meeting with the principal of Lango Lippaye school, where I will be teaching for the next two years. All of us trainees have the chance to sit down with our administrative counterparts and go over some of the challenges facing these schools: lack of clean drinking water and seats for students, little or no enforcement of academic calendar and standards, nonexistent resources for teaching. My school is considerably higher-functioning than the average, due mostly to the tireless efforts of Principal Robert Za-Za. I am very excited to build a relationship with him, and with my students and fellow teachers. There is so much to do...

She Puts Color Inside of My World

Learning happens best in a reciprocal relationship, where the teacher and student both participate in both aspects of instruction. I had some great experiences of that relationship with a young woman named Annie this weekend that taught me "things I never knew I never knew." 

Annie and her brother moved in to Rev. Dickson's house about a week and a half ago to spend time in Kakata for school. They are from Nimba county, and I don't know if they are actually blood-relatives or just more adopted children. Annie is in 10th grade at Model School, where us LR-4 trainees have been perfecting our teaching craft on volunteer summer school students from the Kakata area. On Saturday, Annie came to me after breakfast and asked me to "lecture small" on cells and their organelles, the subject of Friday's lesson in her biology class. I got some 'rough sheet' scratch paper and we went through the parts of a eukaryotic cell, the difference between rough and smooth endoplasmic reticulum (rough ER has ribosomes sitting on it, like stinging ants on a blade of grass), golgi bodies ("the post office of the cell" "..." "like, when you go to Red Light to get a car to the east, a transport center" "oh!"), etc. It was pretty enlightening for me in terms of literacy level and general mental perspective of Liberian students, and it was fun besides.

Annie is a perfect example of the average Liberian student. She recognizes the benefits of getting an education (especially for women) and is willing to work as hard as she can to get access to those benefits. Even in the face of non-existent resources, teachers with no knowledge of their subject matter and no concept of the craft of teaching, and all the challenges that come from being a woman in this country. Her academic work ethic would put the valedictorian of my high school class to shame and she has "the ganas, the desire," as Jaime Escalante would say. She also has a general work ethic that puts me to shame. 

Women in Liberia work so hard- household chores and child-rearing fall almost entirely on them. And more and more women, encouraged by the example and under the influence of the Iron Lady of Liberia herself, Madam Sirleaf, have careers outside the home in addition. So on an average school day, Annie gets up somewhere around 5:30 am to haul water for the barrel in the bathroom, sweep the living room floor, and help with the children. She then walks about twenty-five minutes to get to school by the beginning of first period at 8 am. After school finishes at 12:30, she walks home and does laundry (by hand, with a washboard, involving yet more water hauling, ferocious upper-arm strength, and knuckles of steel), runs to the market for ingredients for dinner, helps with food prep and clean-up, and reviews and memorizes her notes from that day's class, all before the sun goes down at 6:30. I do less than half the work she does in a day, and I find myself longing for a post-lunch nap. 

On Sunday morning I got the buckets, soap, and washboard together to do laundry (for the third time on my own, thank you very much!). On my way out to the front yard's dedicated cement laundry slab, Annie was instructed to help me. Despite my insistence that not only could I do it myself, but I already had done it myself, I was not allowed to haul up my own water from the well. Annie turned out to be very helpful, actually. She was able to impart the secret wisdom of washing underwire bras effectively, the true value of doing whites before denim, the proper length of time to let clothing soak, and how to tell that your 'clean' clothes are actually clean. She also solved the mystery of where people hang their underwear when putting clothes on the line: under a light blouse or t-shirt! It is apparently just fine to hang bras in the open, but no one should see the other unmentionables. I had been bringing them in to my room to dry in private, but the shirt thing works perfectly. That revelation led to a discussion of dress and comportment of young ladies in Liberia. It is totally ok to show leg from the knee down, and shoulders/arms are no problem. But any thigh at all is, as Annie says, "not good-good at all." The way a woman dresses is a signal of how much she respects herself, and the respect she demands of others in their dealings with her. Being tutored in hard work and self-respect by this amazing high school student prompted me to ask her more about her life. 

Annie is the oldest girl in her family, though her brother Ozinga (spelling almost certainly NOT correct)  who is living with us is older than she is, and I think she has another older brother too. She informed me that it was very important for her to do well in school so that she could help her younger sisters (academically, financially, and by example) to do so as well. She will be in 10th grade at Lango Lippaye High school here in Kakata starting in September, and she is 19 years old. She is smart and strong, and has a wicked sense of humor which was turned towards me quite frequently over the course of the weekend, especially at my attempts at plating hair- apparently what I know of as a french braid is actually a 'country plat' and thus pretty unrefined, at least on a Liberian head. 

Annie and girls just like her are my future students, and the future hope of this country: flexible and funny and brilliant and beautiful and so hard-working. They face challenges that this middle-class white girl from Northern California couldn't imagine five years ago. After spending this weekend with her, I called on Princess, Comfort, Mercy, Bendu, and Hawa more than I called on Homphery, Timmothy, Muistafa, Arona, and Joseph for geometry answers in class today.  How could I not do everything in my power to set these women on their immensely difficult and immensely important paths? 

Everything But the Kitchen Sink

Everything surrounding the subject of food here is vastly different than in America, from where and when and what you purchase as ingredients, to prep and cooking time and storage, to presentation, taste, and impact on energy level and digestive processes. Despite those differences, I feel like I'm eating pretty well here. 80% of my meals contain rice, but they also have a variety of soups (potato greens, cassava leaf, kidney bean, pumpkin, okra, eggplant, pepper, etc) made to the same basic pattern as below: onion, peppers, tomato paste, and the namesake vegetable, which is usually super fresh. There are no processed foods, and no storage, so everything is cooked and eaten fresh. And when I'm not eating rice and soup, I'm usually eating plantains and hard boiled eggs (my most frequent and most appreciated breakfast). I just looked up the nutrition facts online, and plantains have almost twice the potassium bananas have. I also eat  'plenty' pineapples, butter-pears (avocados), and other local fruits. 

At my insistence, Munah taught me to make kidney bean soup over the coal pot this weekend. I was very excited to learn because a) it is one of my favorite meals here, and b) I will be living in my own house in less than a month, and I will have to do everything for myself. The moral of this story is PATIENCE, because cooking by coal pot (or just in Liberia in general) takes a looooong time.

Kidney Bean Soup

Ingredients:
1 'cup' (aka 12 oz can) kidney beans, or dried beans cooked and prepared in advance
50 LD worth of chicken (roughly one thigh/drumstick combo plus "small more")
2 small onions
1ish handful of small and VERY spicy peppers
6 oz pouch of tomato paste
1 Vita/Maggi cube (shrimp-flavored boullion cube, pretty much straight MSG I think, the secret ingredient in almost all Liberian dishes)
+/- 1 cup Argo oil or red oil (I used considerably less, since I don't find a thick film of oil floating on my food as appealing as Liberians do)

Prep time: 1 to 1 1/2 hours depending on how fast you can get your coal pots lit

The kitchen I worked in is the dedicated cooking space behind the house, furnished with a cement half-wall, a plastic chair for the guest, a wooden table, and a couple of coal pots:

counter space, cutting board, and stove

kitchen sink and cupboard

Start the coal pot, using left-over hot coals from the morning or a small twist of rubber lit and placed under the piled charcoal. Fan coals to get them started, and BE PATIENT, because it takes FOREVER for the fire to be hot enough to cook on sometimes. 

First, wash and skin the chicken. Then boil it 'nice' with one chopped ('slashed') onion and some of the vita cube. While it boils, slash the second onion and the peppers, open the can of beans (with a knife: place tip on lid of can, hit base of handle with flat of palm, rinse and repeat until lid can be pried off), and add tomato sauce. When the chicken has boiled sufficiently, pour it and stock into a bowl. Put half the oil in the pan to heat and remove bone shards from meat. When oil is hot, add onions, peppers, tomato paste, beans, and chicken/stock. Add more oil and vita to taste, and leave on fire to simmer until 'dry'. While the liquid is simmering off the beans, start the second coal pot for rice. Wash rice thoroughly, picking out any rocks, bugs, or other foreign matter. Don't measure the water-to-rice ratio. Instead, just add 'some' and check frequently during the cooking process to add or remove water until desired 'softness' of rice is achieved. Serve soup over rice from communal bowl/pot. Eat with fingers or spoons. (Except in the case of American guests. They should be served alone inside at the table, with door closed to keep out mosquitos, air and light, spoon not optional.)

The end: it was delicious (even consumed alone listening to Liberian compliments through the window screen). I will not starve living on my own.

Just a Mirror for the Sun

As part of our training, we trainees of LR-4 got into bush taxis on Saturday morning and headed in to Monrovia for an orientation weekend/American food fest.

Mitch, Amy, Mike, and Sarah in the back seat

The road from Kakata to Monrovia is coal tar (paved) the entire way, so aside from the pot holes, makeshift speed bumps (piles of earth constructed by villagers to slow traffic through their neighborhoods), speeding pen-pens, and heavy trucks, the ride was smooth and easy for our convoy of cars. The drivers who picked us up at Doe Palace were admonished to "take time" so we made the journey at half-speed.

The roads in Liberia are populated by the ubiquitous white land cruisers with icons on the doors for World Food Program, Save the Children, UN, the World Bank, and others from the alphabet soup of NGO's operating here, by pen-pen (motorcycle) taxis, bush taxis kept running on prayers, and giant trucks belching diesel exhaust piled high with large bags of coal. Looking out the taxi window (or even at the dashboard of the taxi, decorated with a stuffed llama and flags for Liberia and Monserado County) reinforces how much of a stranger in a strange land I am sometimes. The dual feeling of familiarity and strangeness together happened all weekend long. 

Part of the plan was to hit Red Light transit center on the return trip, so we took ELWA junction road to bypass the insanity on the way in. Once you get close to Monrovia there are intersections with actual street lights, though the volume of traffic seems to render them less effective. 

an uncharacteristically quiet corner of Red Light

pen-pen boys waiting for passengers in Red Light

The architecture here is mostly civil conflict revival featuring half-built or half-destroyed facades, with a smattering of modern construction and some left over buildings from the building boom of the 1960's and 1970's, arguably the best decades for style of any kind, let alone architecture. But there are some interesting buildings, and even the falling-down structures tell a powerful story.

new construction at the corner of Tubman Blvd and ELWA junction

When we arrived in Monrovia we checked in to St. Teresa's convent/hostel/school, had an 'american' meal at Monroe Chicken (KFC-lite), and set out on a walking tour of Monrovia. Our group, led by an LR-3 and a response volunteer, took us along United Nations drive past the white-walled compounds to go with the white land cruisers and up the hill to the old US Embassy and the masonic lodge. The land on which the US Embassy housing currently stands used to be the British embassy grounds until they pulled out during the war and the US laid claim to it. The bluff looks out over the Atlantic ocean, with private beach access and a truly impressive view, and is the highest valued real estate in the city. 

On some levels I am impressed with the infrastructure I saw in Monrovia. We have been watching documentaries about the conflict and its aftermath, so the images I had in my head of Monrovia were of broken bridges and empty streets populated by child soldiers. The reality of ten years of development and rebuilding are paved streets with gutters (still overflowing into the street, but there) and a bustling, if, informal economy. Progress is gradual but visible, which is encouraging.   

Our tour took us past the new US embassy building and up (again) to Ducor Hill and the abandoned hotel perched above the city. After coming down from on high, we stopped to rest small and have some water at the Bamboo Bar on Broad and Randall streets, the busiest intersection in town. 

across the street from the US Embassy

Randall Street

After our rest, we wandered through the controlled chaos of Waterside Market, whose concentrated commercial energy reminded me very strongly of the big market in Accra: streets full of vehicles and people, sidewalks lined with shops and stalls and vendors, everything imaginable for sale. 

Our tour group won a trivia contest from Vince, the country director for Peace Corps Liberia, and the prize was a ride in Vince's 4Runner to dinner at a steak house (!) and dessert at an ice cream parlor (!!). Through the two American meals, a real grocery store, and driving the night streets of Monrovia listening to the Beatles, I was caught up in the foreign-familiar feeling of the place.  I asked one of my fellow trainees what she thought the strangest part of the trip was, and we couldn't make up our minds if it was the food or all the non-Peace Corps ex-pats and other white people. Those things seemed as foreign to me as the roadside attractions on the drive down. Monrovia was a nice adventure, but it was really good to get back home to my host family, take a bucket bath, and have some pumpkin soup while talking jazz and blues with my host brother. I guess the next two years of my life are going to follow the same theme, of new and old, and I get to learn from both of them.

You Can Check Out Any Time You Like

The Ducor Hotel was the 5-star jewel of West African hospitality when it opened in 1967. Now it sits, a strangely creepy and beautiful gargoyle perched on the top of Ducor hill, overlooking the city of Monrovia. As part of our walking tour of the city, guided by an LR-3 and a response volunteer, we got to climb up to the roof and explore.

The hotel closed in 1989 when tensions grew and threatened the political stability of the country. During the civil crisis, people moved from the slums into most of the rooms of the hotel, where they lived until the government kicked them out in 2007. Now there's a security guard and his entourage holding court where the concierge used to sit. The wide marble staircase that curls up from the lobby is green with algae and moss now. The diving board still extends out over the deep end of the swimming pool, but the pool itself has just a few feet of toxic brown sludge in the bottom. The stairs are dark and slippery and there are holes in the walls for gun barrels to peek out. But for all the violence and decay felt through the whole building, there is still a haunting, compelling beauty.

Waterside Market and Mesurado Bridge

Broad Street and downtown

TIA

This red earth, it's in our skin. The Shona say the colour comes from all the blood that's being spilled fighting over the land. This is home. You'll never leave Africa. - Col. Coatzee, Blood Diamond

A good conversation with some beautiful, interesting people at lunch today, talking about the truth of this idea...

Anniversary

When I'm going about my business here in Liberia (waiting for the Peace Corps car in the morning, greeting everyone I walk past on a weekend afternoon walk, joking with Zayzay our training manager, doing laundry with my brother Delwin and teaching him to swing dance) I don't think about the civil crisis that ravaged this country. There isn't much about the daily life of Liberians that indicates how recent the conflict was, and for all that this is a 'hardship post' for Peace Corps volunteers, it really doesn't feel like it. Maybe that will change when I get to my eventual site, who knows? But I have another month of training left. And if the last three weeks are any indication, that month will both drag and fly by while my brain struggles to process so much new information and so many new experiences.

The conflict that ended ten years ago next month started on Christmas Eve, 1989 when Charles Taylor crossed into Liberia from Cote d'Ivoire with about a hundred geurilla troops. He capitalized on the pre-existing tensions between tribes, the weakness of President Samuel Doe, and the desperation of the general populace to build his army. Over seven years he gained control of 90% of the country, made and broke a dozen peace treaties, and created a 'small boys' army of 8-15 year old boys on drugs with guns. He then 'won' an election and while a sitting president worked to destabilize his neighbors and dominate the blood diamond trade. And when the lives of his people were at stake and he was being indicted for war crimes, he refused to step down from power until forced to by ECOWAS and the UN.

After an interim government held power, Liberia elected Ellen Johnson Sirleaf as the first female president in Africa. She faced greater challenges than maybe any other head of state taking power: a country barely emerged from 14 years of violence, no functioning infrastructure whatsoever, $370 billion in debt to IMF, World Bank, and various countries, and a history of working for or with some of the leaders responsible for the mess. It took tireless effort, shrewd negotiation, and an O-Ma's touch to bring any order at all to the chaos and hurt of civil war. And there is still much work to be done.

The international community is looking to the August anniversary as a benchmark, an indication of how far Liberia has come. The UNMIL mission here is scaling back from its original 15,000 troops and support personnel to not quite 3,000 by next year. Rule of law is slowly replacing mob violence as the arbiter of justice. And while the education system is seriously flawed, it has improved tremendously and will continue to do so. But when I talk to my host father, he says that he isn't celebrating the upcoming historic day. It marks the end of the war, yes, but it also marks the point at which Liberians could not help themselves and required outside forces to intervene. It is an international occasion of celebration but for some people here it is something they would move forward from without looking back rather than a victory to be celebrated and discussed.

But Liberia is coming up on the tenth anniversary of the end of their civil crisis, and since we have been reading and thinking and talking about that period of Liberian history (can it be history if it was within the lifetimes of most people I've met?) it is in the forefront of my mind. Walking down Old Main Road (road is such a generous word, actually...) I can find evidence of the conflict and the time elapsed in fallen-down abandoned buildings from which are growing jungles of grasses, palms, and paw-paw (papaya) trees. I told my host family last night that I think Liberians have some of the greatest potential of any country in the world because they have been able to move through hell on earth and find reconciliation  rebirth, and recovery. The paw-paws will be ripe in just a few months, and boys will go out with long sticks to poke them down from their clusters and eat them or sell them. From the shell of a ruined house, something new, different, fresh, and nurturing is growing. And I think that is one of the most beautiful, joyful things I have seen.

I can not imagine a more perfect place for me to be than right where I am right now...

Please Take Time

The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, but sometimes you don't know where one point is, or you haven't figured out the concept of distance yet, or the idea of 'straight' doesn't make sense for the world in which you find yourself. So finding that shortest distance, that smuggler's route, the backroad, takes a little time. Here in Liberia, if you want someone to slow down and be careful in any context (for instance, a driver going too fast on a terrible road in the dark in the rain), you say, "Please, take time." It's a simple idea, but the application can be complicated, especially for someone who struggles with impatience and control. This past week is a perfect example.

Last Sunday was Adoption Day, and in true Liberian fashion, it was a capital-E Event. All the host families sent at least on representative to Doe Palace to pick up their bouncing new baby Peace Corps Trainee. Sam Sampson, one of our Liberian training staff, served as the MC. There was supposed to be a cultural demonstration in the form of drumming and dancing that was rained out. All the Trainees were seated facing our new prospective parents and I didn't think I would be nervous, but I was pretty excited by the time the 3:00 ceremony actually started at 3:45 (Liberian time works much like Ghana time did and a lot like Navajo time, for those of you who read Tony Hillerman novels: not at all on the same scale as we are used to...).

My name was the third one called, and my new father came up to the front to give me a hug in a dapper grey suit coat with short sleeves over a white tank top. Once I joined him in the group of prospective parents, I gathered from context clues that he was a pastor at one of the (many, or as they say here, plenty) churches in the neighborhood. Since I was close to the beginning of the pack, I got to sit with a lovely smile on my face waiting for everyone else to be adopted and trying to make (awkward) conversation with my new father trying to find common ground. I was able to deduce that I have at least one younger sibling, a brother who was at that very moment celebrating his graduation from Kindergarten. Once the ceremony concluded, my host father showed me to his vehicle (a nice, late-model, extended-cab Nissan truck!) and helped me load my belongings in the back-most people had sent their stuff in advance since they were walking or catching a taxi to their new homes, but mine had stayed in a little pile under the carport and now that mystery was solved! We were also apparently providing rides to other Trainees and their new families, so the extended cab was packed, bush taxi style, with a crowd of people in all their lappa finery. 

Once we dropped everyone off at their homes, we headed to the Kindergarten graduation celebration, which was held at my new father's church. I really think it was an excuse for three more hours of church, and I got to sit up on the dias at the front as an honored guest/new daughter of one of the church leaders, so I had to at least pretend to pay attention. I got to meet my little sister, Abigail, who is 4, my brother Delwin, who is 17, and my mother, Winifred. The graduate, Royal, is 6 and going into first grade next year. After the graduation ceremony (and sermon, and collection), everyone came back to my new house for another sermon and a (surprise!) speech from the new American Peace Corps and a tasty and celebratory meal of joloff rice. I set up my bug hut and mattress while it was still light and was pleasantly surprised when the bulb hanging from my ceiling went on! I took my bucket bath and sat down with my family to watch part of some american movie about army soldiers training for war.

Reverend Roosevelt Dickson's house is more of a compound, actually. A duplex unit and a half-built two-story house are surrounded with a high cement wall entered through a (rust)red set of metal gates on which is scrawled "Be Aware of the Bad Dog." The yard is grassy, with a small paved area off to the side for laundry and kids' baths. One half of the duplex houses my family and the other is rented out to another Liberian who works for Save the Children, which has an office down the road. The front door opens into a living room with comfortable chairs and a shelving unit holding a tv/dvd set-up (my family has a generator that they run for a few hours every night). There are two bedrooms and a bathroom off the main room to the left, and a small, dark kitchen that opens onto a back area outside. Most cooking, food prep, and clean up are done out the back, where there is more light and space. There are also attentive animal friends waiting for scraps of food to fall from above. My family has a young cat, a very bedraggled duck-like creature, the advertised Bad Dog, his lady dog wife, and their three (5 week old?) puppies. The household consists of my Papay and Ma, Delwin, Royal, Abigail, and a 13-year-old who I think is my sister. In addition to the blood relatives, there is a small boy named Raj who is (I think) the son of the woman who comes to help cook and clean while my Ma is at school all day for teacher training. The noise and bustle of everyone getting ready feels like home in the best way...

Monday morning was an exercise in confusion, but at least I started it after a good night's sleep. My first breakfast was cream of wheat, hard boiled eggs, and pineapple, and I was not able to finish all of it. I really didn't want to go back home to my new family on monday evening after training, mostly because I was very unsure of my place in all the usual routines, or even what those routines should be. I got home and sat down with Delwin to have a little chat about things like how to flush the toilet (pour some water in the bowl from a barrel in the corner of the bathroom), get water for my bath and to put in my fiter for drinking ("Oh, I will fetch it for you!" "I really think you should show me, though." "Next week, next week I swear I will."), or participate in chores ("Ah! No, you do not need!" A battle I have yet to win). I also had the hilarious experience of trying to describe my favorite sport (ice hockey) to someone who has spent their whole life living right above the equator. He was with me through goalies and nets, through offensive and defensive players, through a small disc of rubber hit with sticks, but the expression on his face when I mentioned the thin sheet of ice that forms the playing surface or the special skates (shoes with...knives on the bottom?) was priceless. And I felt much better after figuring out some of the daily household routines. 

For our Liberian English class on tuesday we had to go to the market and purchase the ingredients for, and then cook over a coal pot, ground pea (peanut) soup. Our group, Tree Goats, did well with the purchasing and set up, but the stress of the previous days was getting to me, and a gentle rebuke from one of the training staff sent me into a frustrated, hysterical meltdown that took a while to subside because I kept getting frustrated that I hadn't stopped crying yet. I had taken so much pride in the fact that I was adjusting so well to (coming back home to) West Africa, hadn't been sick, hadn't been confused. And it took me aback to be confronted with the fact that though I have done this before, I am not immune to the ups and downs of culture shock, or above the stress of relocating to a new place and acclimating to a 100% new environment and people. The demands I placed on myself were perhaps too strict. And I needed to crash in order to realize that I could let go a little and ride the wave of new experiences. Our soup turned out quite delicious, as well, which helped.

On Saturday I made Delwin teach me to draw water (And it turns out that it comes from a well in the corner of the yard, hauled up in a five-gallon plastic can on a long rope. It was apparently very impressive that I was able to haul it up on the first try without help...), I asked my Ma to teach me to do laundry with a washboard and a bucket (my right ring finger knuckle will never be the same, I'm sure), and I requested a guided walk to the market so that I could orient myself and find my way around town more effectively. I can give directions to my house from the coal tar road (bend left on Old Road, go past the green church with the nice windows and no bend-bend for long time, then bend left and its on the left opposite CH Rennie hospital), and I feel much more settled into my new family, my new community, and in Liberia in general. I even know the shortcut (at the video club on Old Road, head up the hill behind the nice o-ma's house, walkabout through the grass up to the parking station behind the broken water treatment plant, then take Old Main Road up to the coal tar) to get to Doe Palace if I feel like walking home.

I think I've found my straight line, and learned to be patient with my family, the training program I'm in, and most of all myself. I am slowly adjusting to the pace of life here, and I have to remember to take time, and it will come as it is meant to come.

eidt: my new siblings!
edit 2: now with bonus host mother!

Delwin, listening to blues and jazz music last night

My Ma, Winifred, getting her hair braided by Munah, with Raj's help

Raj

Abigail

Royal