Me, at my desk in my livingroom/kitchen. A neighbor wanted to take my pic so... here it is.
A friend in my new home. I have several. I can't figure out if the eyes are on the body or the pudgy appendages protruding from the face...
A room outside my house where I can dry things, store things, hide things or throw things.
An eerie underwater-seeming crawlspace-ish hallway thing behind my house. I'll find a creative use for it. Promise!
Where my water comes from. It's kept locked and I pay 25 CFA a bucket (about 5 cents).
The area connected to my terrace/house where I bathe and wash things. The ledge is for laundry, dishes, or hiding and smoking a secret cigarette.
Another view of the same spot, but the door on the left leads to the room where I dry, store, hide and throw, as well as the hallway-ish place.
My latrine. It looks like a toilet; don't let it fool you.
This picture. Again.
"Take our picture!! Take our picture!!" Some of the neighbor kids whom I am currently teaching how to dance to American rock n' roll.
The area where I take my bucket showers. I typically wear a pagne out here, hang it up so I have some pricavy, bathe, then wear it back inside after it has been warmed by the sun. It's a nice little system and I find it thrilling to shower outside!
The front of my home, leading to livingroom or out back.
My house. From this picture, it would seem that a free-standing structure such as this indicates some level of privacy.It does not.
My concession. There is a heavy, green metal door and high concrete walls, and several structures within. I'm still getting to know everybody's names, and sometime's it's hard to tell who lives in the houses and who just hangs out in them! In due time...
"Take our picture! Take our picture!"
My bedroom, from the armoire's point of view. It's really quite spacious.
My livingroom, from the water filter's point of view. The water filter lives on the table that is my kitchen.
See? Bike, desk, kitchen, pantry, containers for water storage... all wrapped up in BLUE.
My bedroom from the doorway's point of view, and me, in this picture, again.
10/1/09
“Winter is coming,” my twenty-six year-old internal seasonal clock tells my warm, sun-heated body as I bucket-bathe in the enclosed outdoor area of my new home. Then, this being October: “Mark my words, it’ll be here soon.”
“Ooh, yeah. About that- we live on the Equator. This is winter,” quips my frontal lobe, still smarting a little from the recent language-shift bombardments but reveling in the freedom and excitement of its new environment. As if to illustrate this point, a feisty little lizard scuttles loudly across the corrugated tin roof of my latrine and leaps over my head, silhouettes mid-arc as I wince into the sun mid-pour, and lands with a clack! on the ridge of the bricks to my back. After completing his reptilian rainbow, the living dinosaur glares in my direction then scampers off in all his flashy, tropical African-ness.
“Whatever,” replies my once-rhythmic seasonal calendar, hurt but smug, “Just wait; you’ll see.”
Later, when it the sun sets at seven with the sand still steaming, my conned circadian clock will find occasion to say: “Screw you both.”
I love my house. My best friend is leaving. Those are the two most urgent recent developments. First the house: allow me to describe it in all its splendor, because by African, Peace Corps, and my personal standards, it excels most impressively, and the subject is cheerier one with which the reader may commence.
I live in a concession, which is a gathering of several small homes within a perimetric wall. My concrete house is on the left upon entering through the front gate and has a lockable little raised terrace in front. To the left is an outdoor area with a high wall around it where I take my bucket-baths, use the latrine, wash laundry and dishes and burn unusable trash (thought I can slowly feel myself mastering the art of re-use. Today I put another bucket under my body as I showered, collected what runoff I could, and used that to flush the toilet that sets upon my latrine exactly once. So worth it). Straight ahead is are screen and heavy wood doors, both of which lock in about a zillion ways. If someone breaks in, it won’t be through the doors; I guarantee it.
One walks into a spacious living room painted an initially off-putting but quickly redeemed-by-its-vividness cerulean shade of blue. To the left, windows that look onto the douche area, my “kitchen” (table with stove and water filter, bookshelf with ingredients and utensils- more than one needs, as it turns out, as most locals don’t have gas stoves) and my desk. There are two chairs, two large grass mats for guests’ impromptu floor-naps (which are far more frequent than you may be thinking; I’ve already had two. The heat and humidity do not discriminate when choosing time or place of victims’ naps) and straw hand-held brooms for sweeping.
There are two bedrooms, each the same shade of green-crayon that results from the compulsive depiction of grass by an overly-enthusiastic kindergartener. At times, I do feel as if I live in a box of crayolas, but ask yourself where you’d rather abide: a buoyant box of bouncy blues or inside the confines of a can of Killz? In one, I think, you’d drown.
My bed size is just right for one; my mattress makes me yearn for home. Think cardboard stretched thinly over styrofoam. Its gives, but just enough not to kill you. The first time I exhaustedly collapsed upon it I had the wind knocked out of me (but quickly put back into me; thanks, trusty fan!) and the second time, I remembered to fall onto my side. However, just as in the states, this bed eats earplugs like a dryer devours socks, so if you are planning on sending something, noise-cancellers of all sorts are useful. Label them deceptively though, lest the devious Neighborhood Noise Coalition of goats, roosters, children, heavy machinery (that’s right- a mill, I think) and motos intercept them and overthrow my sporadic slumbering once and for all.
My bedroom has a bedside table as well as an armoire which zips to prevent curious critters from chomping my rompers or gobbling my garb. At least, it would serve this purpose if I ever zipped it. My windows look onto other people; that is to say, their yards, in which they are perpetually saute-ing, scrubbing, slathering, slaughtering, scrounging, singing, soldering and sanding (the last being inevitable, as sand constitutes the bulk of one’s yard and life here), and as I shamelessly spy I realize what a huge task I have in either redefining privacy or, more feasibly, discarding the concept altogether.
I haven’t found a use for the other room yet and it currently contains my stashables: suitcases, a small empty box, another mat, and so forth. It also has strung cord for drying my private womanly things and two windows which currently serve to support circulatory airflow when all is stagnate and suffocating. I freaking love it here. The heat is vitalizing, rejuvenating, and certain: my favorite aspect. Even when stifling, it can be counted on-- a sharp contrast to the weather in Iowa which was wont to change faster than a Jehovah’s Witness’s theology at the prospect of a new convert (this being based on a one-time conversation in which I attempted to see in how many dogmatic directions I could lead a door-knocker [many] and is not an attempt to degrade, defraud or defrock any particular Witness of Jehovah).
So it can be said that I love the weather, I love my home and I love my village (Djigbe), which is part of an arrondissement (Hozin) of six small villages within biking distance of one-another. Who knew that by joining Peace Corps I’d get my own two bedroom, 1½ bath (I pee in a bucket at night) house with open floor plan in a gated community? And how is it possible that I have less privacy but more space than I’ve ever had in my whole life? More pertinently, how did it happen that I landed on the exact coordinates of the planet which marked precisely where I needed be, as though Santa Claus had some creepy prior knowledge of my wants and wishes, contracted with Peace Corps and my NGO to have me placed here, and offered me this once-in-a-lifetime, unforgettable, very early Christmas present?
…and why not Ragan? My emotional pillar during stage, my go-to girl for all things joyous and tearful, my rambunctious, outspoken, energetic, empathetic, sensitive, fierce, hilarious counterpart is leaving and because human nature demands “What about me?” I feel the tiniest bit abandoned and lacking without her presence here (however, tangible though it was, she lived about fourteen hours north of me). That being said, I promised her once that if she decided on early termination she wouldn’t have to explain her decision to me, and she doesn’t. I understand. The best thing I can do as her friend is trust that she is making the best decision for herself, support her no matter what, and try not to focus on the fact that I am going to miss the living shit out of her when she’s gone.
My concession. There is a heavy, green metal door and high concrete walls, and several structures within. I'm still getting to know everybody's names, and sometime's it's hard to tell who lives in the houses and who just hangs out in them! In due time...
"Take our picture! Take our picture!"
My bedroom, from the armoire's point of view. It's really quite spacious.
My livingroom, from the water filter's point of view. The water filter lives on the table that is my kitchen.
See? Bike, desk, kitchen, pantry, containers for water storage... all wrapped up in BLUE.
My bedroom from the doorway's point of view, and me, in this picture, again.
10/1/09
“Winter is coming,” my twenty-six year-old internal seasonal clock tells my warm, sun-heated body as I bucket-bathe in the enclosed outdoor area of my new home. Then, this being October: “Mark my words, it’ll be here soon.”
“Ooh, yeah. About that- we live on the Equator. This is winter,” quips my frontal lobe, still smarting a little from the recent language-shift bombardments but reveling in the freedom and excitement of its new environment. As if to illustrate this point, a feisty little lizard scuttles loudly across the corrugated tin roof of my latrine and leaps over my head, silhouettes mid-arc as I wince into the sun mid-pour, and lands with a clack! on the ridge of the bricks to my back. After completing his reptilian rainbow, the living dinosaur glares in my direction then scampers off in all his flashy, tropical African-ness.
“Whatever,” replies my once-rhythmic seasonal calendar, hurt but smug, “Just wait; you’ll see.”
Later, when it the sun sets at seven with the sand still steaming, my conned circadian clock will find occasion to say: “Screw you both.”
I love my house. My best friend is leaving. Those are the two most urgent recent developments. First the house: allow me to describe it in all its splendor, because by African, Peace Corps, and my personal standards, it excels most impressively, and the subject is cheerier one with which the reader may commence.
I live in a concession, which is a gathering of several small homes within a perimetric wall. My concrete house is on the left upon entering through the front gate and has a lockable little raised terrace in front. To the left is an outdoor area with a high wall around it where I take my bucket-baths, use the latrine, wash laundry and dishes and burn unusable trash (thought I can slowly feel myself mastering the art of re-use. Today I put another bucket under my body as I showered, collected what runoff I could, and used that to flush the toilet that sets upon my latrine exactly once. So worth it). Straight ahead is are screen and heavy wood doors, both of which lock in about a zillion ways. If someone breaks in, it won’t be through the doors; I guarantee it.
One walks into a spacious living room painted an initially off-putting but quickly redeemed-by-its-vividness cerulean shade of blue. To the left, windows that look onto the douche area, my “kitchen” (table with stove and water filter, bookshelf with ingredients and utensils- more than one needs, as it turns out, as most locals don’t have gas stoves) and my desk. There are two chairs, two large grass mats for guests’ impromptu floor-naps (which are far more frequent than you may be thinking; I’ve already had two. The heat and humidity do not discriminate when choosing time or place of victims’ naps) and straw hand-held brooms for sweeping.
There are two bedrooms, each the same shade of green-crayon that results from the compulsive depiction of grass by an overly-enthusiastic kindergartener. At times, I do feel as if I live in a box of crayolas, but ask yourself where you’d rather abide: a buoyant box of bouncy blues or inside the confines of a can of Killz? In one, I think, you’d drown.
My bed size is just right for one; my mattress makes me yearn for home. Think cardboard stretched thinly over styrofoam. Its gives, but just enough not to kill you. The first time I exhaustedly collapsed upon it I had the wind knocked out of me (but quickly put back into me; thanks, trusty fan!) and the second time, I remembered to fall onto my side. However, just as in the states, this bed eats earplugs like a dryer devours socks, so if you are planning on sending something, noise-cancellers of all sorts are useful. Label them deceptively though, lest the devious Neighborhood Noise Coalition of goats, roosters, children, heavy machinery (that’s right- a mill, I think) and motos intercept them and overthrow my sporadic slumbering once and for all.
My bedroom has a bedside table as well as an armoire which zips to prevent curious critters from chomping my rompers or gobbling my garb. At least, it would serve this purpose if I ever zipped it. My windows look onto other people; that is to say, their yards, in which they are perpetually saute-ing, scrubbing, slathering, slaughtering, scrounging, singing, soldering and sanding (the last being inevitable, as sand constitutes the bulk of one’s yard and life here), and as I shamelessly spy I realize what a huge task I have in either redefining privacy or, more feasibly, discarding the concept altogether.
I haven’t found a use for the other room yet and it currently contains my stashables: suitcases, a small empty box, another mat, and so forth. It also has strung cord for drying my private womanly things and two windows which currently serve to support circulatory airflow when all is stagnate and suffocating. I freaking love it here. The heat is vitalizing, rejuvenating, and certain: my favorite aspect. Even when stifling, it can be counted on-- a sharp contrast to the weather in Iowa which was wont to change faster than a Jehovah’s Witness’s theology at the prospect of a new convert (this being based on a one-time conversation in which I attempted to see in how many dogmatic directions I could lead a door-knocker [many] and is not an attempt to degrade, defraud or defrock any particular Witness of Jehovah).
So it can be said that I love the weather, I love my home and I love my village (Djigbe), which is part of an arrondissement (Hozin) of six small villages within biking distance of one-another. Who knew that by joining Peace Corps I’d get my own two bedroom, 1½ bath (I pee in a bucket at night) house with open floor plan in a gated community? And how is it possible that I have less privacy but more space than I’ve ever had in my whole life? More pertinently, how did it happen that I landed on the exact coordinates of the planet which marked precisely where I needed be, as though Santa Claus had some creepy prior knowledge of my wants and wishes, contracted with Peace Corps and my NGO to have me placed here, and offered me this once-in-a-lifetime, unforgettable, very early Christmas present?
…and why not Ragan? My emotional pillar during stage, my go-to girl for all things joyous and tearful, my rambunctious, outspoken, energetic, empathetic, sensitive, fierce, hilarious counterpart is leaving and because human nature demands “What about me?” I feel the tiniest bit abandoned and lacking without her presence here (however, tangible though it was, she lived about fourteen hours north of me). That being said, I promised her once that if she decided on early termination she wouldn’t have to explain her decision to me, and she doesn’t. I understand. The best thing I can do as her friend is trust that she is making the best decision for herself, support her no matter what, and try not to focus on the fact that I am going to miss the living shit out of her when she’s gone.
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