This
week was yet another busy week of training. Monday started with lots of
language and technical training for health, focusing on our roles as health
volunteers, and knowledge of public health. I also had my first experience with
Bokito’s Monday market. Cedric and I went as part of French class, and the
experience was fun, albeit a bit overwhelming, due in no small part to the
hoards of people that seem to have come from nowhere and everywhere, and the
fact that the rains had made the muddy unpaved roads nearly impassable, even by
foot. After bartering for fabric, Cedric went with me to the tailor where I was
again surprised at how much I was able to communicate and understand of our
French conversation. My tailor, Michele, is a smiling man with laughing eyes
who was incredibly patient with me as I bumbled my way through explaining the
billowing genie/MC Hammer pants that I wanted. The rest of the week passed in
an enjoyable, albeit long routine.
The next big event was our santé
group’s visit to the integrated public health center in the neighboring village
of Kiki. The health center was Spartan in the extreme, with no running water,
and unreliable electricity, and was staffed by one male nurse and his nurse
assistant. We were introduced to the smiling nurse while he explained that the
15 people waiting to be seen could wait while he gave us a tour of the
facility. Before I start explaining some of the more poignant experiences of
our time at the health center, I want to mention that I’m saying these things
purely out of observation – I can’t claim to be objective, but I’d like to
paint a picture of the place – not to evoke pity, but as a way of telling what
I saw and felt. The sinks and drains were caked with the remnants of disuse
over god knows how long; the in-operational morgue stood near the back of the
property compound, a wasp’s nest and a used condom the only signs of life; the
bags of old plastic wrappers from mosquito nets being held in a non-existent
radiology room, waiting for the government officials to show up and collect
them (they’d be waiting for over a year); no malaria medication (it’s supposed
to be free) for over a year, leaving the nurse to resort to buying his supplies
(with the small funds he has) for his patients from the medication vendors in
the marketplace – I don’t need to mention that this is highly unreliable, and
potentially dangerous; several different blood spatter patterns on the walls of
the delivery room that was made private by the use of several cut up feed bags
carefully fashioned to be blinds over the open windows; the fancy, inoperable
latrine that sat nearly completed, but was abandoned shortly before completion
by the French aid organization by which the project had been started; and the
people, oh the people, with a look in their eyes that spoke of resignation, but
an indomitable spirit. One would think that I would have felt pity, and while I
can’t deny that there was a good deal of that in my emotional rollercoaster, my
main emotion was shame – shame that white privilege was alive and well, and
manifested in subtle, and not so subtle ways in a rural African village health
center: the latrines were there, but non-operational, remnants of people in
developed places and their misguided attempts to help the poor, defenseless
Africans (note: I’m not saying that aid to Africa is futile, indeed, far from
it, but if not done well and with the involvement of the people, no fruit will
come of the efforts, like the locked latrines that lay vacant because the aid
organization was in progress of transferring ownership of the project to the
people (it had been over 2 years in progress). We had a tour while the
patients, the children softly crying because of their pain, were waiting for
care. If there were anyone to pity in this situation, it would be us, the
stagiares, for happily contributing to these people’s problems while we went on
our tour and merry way, and they waited in pain. Again, not saying that it
wasn’t important for us to see/experience the health center, but I couldn’t
shake the overwhelming feelings of guilt and shame that accompanied my newly
broadened perspective. I’m still wrestling with the feelings, and other than
let these feelings be reflected in my future actions at my post, I’m not sure
there’s much else I can do.
On a happier note, on Friday, I went
to my host sister’s secondary school (Charlene is 14) and spoke to her English
class about life in the Peace Corps; American culture; the importance of
studying English (as per the teacher’s request); my life in Tanzania; my
favorite parts of Cameroon, etc and to test the students’ English
comprehension. All in all, it was an awesome experience – it was very
interesting for me to see the morning routine of the students and the classroom
life, but also (happily) the students were engaged in my presentation, and had
lots of insightful questions. I spoke with the teacher today, and he said that
the students were still talking about it, and wanted to have me in again so
they could ask more questions. This was the same day that we went to the health
center, so I had both my highest high, and lowest low of the week all in one
day – after one of our talks this week about the progression of emotions of the
length of service, I get the feeling that the emotional rollercoaster is going
to be pretty typical.
We were on ‘standby’ this weekend due
to the elections on Monday, meaning that we were told to keep a low profile. So
naturally, my family decided that this was the time for us to do everything! My
host sisters took me to the market, helping me barter down fabric from 16,000
CFA to 6,000; showed me how to grind peanuts on a hand grinder for the peanut
sauce (I left feeling like my arms would fall off and with a newfound respect
for the strength of African women); shucked corn directly from the cob (also
not nearly as easy as it sounds, particularly with the accompanying bruises on
my fingers); prepared a fish from market to table (de-scaling it with a knife
the size of my forearm; ripping out the inner gills, de-gutting it, washing it,
and then frying it); being taken to a neighbor’s house and left to fend for
myself in French (I helped a lady in Franglais to decifer the dosage for the
anti-parasitic medicine she’d picked up at the market); helping dry the cacao
beans (a huge cash crop here, but a smelly one at that – the fermenting bean
smell permeates everything, but also covers up some body odor smells, too,
so…); a dance party (think lots of Shakira, lots and lots of Shakira – they
were disappointed that I did not have any Celine Dion – what kind of American
am I that I don’t love and adore Celine Dion?!?); going to my family’s farm
(when I ask the distance, my family always says ‘1 kilometer’….10 kilometers
later and when we had walked past the election building and out of the Bokito
county line (all while walking next to a huge highway where the moto drives
make it a game to try and hit the white people, or at least get as close as
possible - everything a huge no, no), we arrived at the farm, where we cut down plantains and fertilized
my family’s maize crop; shelling peanuts on the veranda; and having a
discussion with my host brother and his friends about how no, I won’t be
marrying you, and no, I will not call my female friends to ask if they have
fiancés, and no, you saying ‘it’s not a problems’ in English to me saying that
we’re not allowed to date (a bold-faced lie to protect other female
volunteers), doesn’t really do much to encourage me to introduce you to them.
All in all, another eventful week!
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