Today was a wonderful rainy day. With my classes all finished and the wind whistling against my window, I stayed warm inside all day -while studying for that fateful public health final. I’m in this cozy homebody mode that makes me think of fuzzy hats and steaming tea. Mmmmmm. This comfort comes, in large part, from absolutely adoring my host family and feeling quite at home amongst their soft comings and goings. I can drift into my host mother’s room to sit at the side of her bed as she reclines, knitting a nice café colored sweater. Brown is the only color she will wear this year, having promised this token of thanks to the Almighty for having helped her eldest son through the pains of cancer. I admire her strength. We sit, chatting aimlessly as my mind decompresses from the hours of endless studying: estudios de caso y control, factores protectores psicosociales, tasas crudos y naturals…I’m working on putting neat little mental labels onto this torrent of information.
I am here, and yet I am gone. I’m blissfully comfortable, and yet I have my frustrations. I will return to this home of mine, but I don’t know when. I am here, but my mind is already moving onward to my travels, excited for Robert’s arrival to this lovely country. I’m so comfy with my host family and Chilean customs, and yet the bureaucracy and inflexible educational system have given me enough end-of-semester stress to last a lifetime and make me long for Scripps College. The difficulties that have come with my public health class are certainly part of why my mind has already left Chile to reside in, perhaps, Bolivia or Peru; since I’m toiling to complete my school work and have dropped nearly all other activities to do so, it feels like I have already left the life I created for myself here and entered into a new one. Or, rather than a new one, a transitional phase –that gray waiting room that leads to an expansive patio of brilliant colors; it’s no wonder that my mind keeps skipping on ahead to that vibrant expectancy! But as I say, the gray waiting room is tinged with a rosy hue thanks to the love I have for my host family and the endearing reprieves that they provide for me around mealtimes and study breaks.
Yes, I love this place. I love its colors and I love its people. I adore the joking and playfulness that permeate the climbing gym atmosphere. I appreciate the spectacular oceanic views that arise around those golden sunsets and after all nightlights have been lit, like a starry blanket draped over undulating land and water. I am tickled pink by my cute little room and the greenery that garnishes my wide-window view. And I can’t help but feel quite at home with another neat-freak in the house; me and my host mom get along very well in this regard! I’ve loved the children who I’ve taught and learned from through my internship, and I just might sell my soul for a lifetime supply of pan amasada. The people are quirky and unique –nothing like Spain or Senegal, Thailand or the USA- and I really enjoy coming to understand their tendencies and their perceptions of themselves. And, of course, I’m head over heels for Spanish. *sigh *
But what would I change about Valparaíso, Chile if I could? They are few. I would: 1) Instill flexibility in the educational system. 2) Give every stray dog on the street a loving home. (This goes beyond benevolence and straight into the realm of public health.) 3) Put a smile on every bus driver’s troubled face. And 4) Replace every cigarette with a potted plant and every smoker with a tree-hugger.
Yes, Chile will always hold a piece of my heart, just as Spain can claim my love and California will always be my home. Thank you for the creative space you have given me, Chile. Thank you for your disregard to time and your strong pride. Thank you for your graffiti-smattered allies and your hills of children-blocks primary colors. You have instilled your colors in my heart and your delicious fresh produce in my appreciative stomach. I would that I could contain My Chile and My California all in one country, but alas, they are both too full and beautiful to collide and loose themselves within one another. At the very least, I can let them meld together within me and let my eyes reflect the loving sustenance that each has to offer.
The next time you see me, give me a hug –and that hug will be, in part, from Chile.
Love,
Jocelyn
Showing posts with label classes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label classes. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Monday, September 7, 2009
A Day In the Life \\ CULTURE SHOCK
The watch beeps at 7am to tell me its time for Jocelyn’s private yoga, crunches, pushups, and dancing extravaganza, soon to be followed by a short shower that would be more appropriate to call a short drizzle. The washing of underwear occurs at this time since each person is responsible for her own socks, bras, and underwear. After my brief but refreshing rendez vous with the cold water and detergent, I dress myself and head down to a breakfast of baguette, with butter or chocolate spread, and milk. I could have hot chocolate or nescafé, but I prefer the powderized, boiled milk that, if served to me hot, leaves me drenched in sweat before I even leave the house. I could do without that sweat.
The walk to school is 20 minutes along dusty, exhaust ridden roads lined by locals who I make sure to greet kindly. Greetings are incredibly important here, although I’m still trying to negotiate who exactly I aught to be taking the time to exchange the customary, lengthy, Wolof greeting with. It’s good and fine to make friends and be culturally sensitive, but being a tubab (foreigner), I attract a lot of (unwanted) attention. We all do. The number of times that I have been offered or requested a phone number is countless and one marriage proposal is already in the bank. Oh, that romantic day in front of the gass station when that tall, dark, and …I didn’t get a good enough look at him to know whether he was handsome… man called from beside the gas pump, “Hey, tubab! You beautiful! Will you marry me?” To this mix of English and French I deftly repied, “Oh, I’m already married! Buh’bye!” …Good times.
Having passed the fruit stands and multiple vendors, I arrive at Suffolk University Campus where I have a class or two in the morning taught by Senegalese professors before I head back home for lunch at 1:30pm. My host brother, Lou-Lou, comes home from work at the bank on his spiffy motorcycle and joins the rest of us in eating the largest meal of the day. It is heavy, oil-laden food that is absolutely delicious. Rice and fish is the norm but French fries are a popular rice-replacement and vegetables are usually provided. If everyone else is having meat then they still provide me with fish, pescatarian that I am. We eat in the living room alongside the active TV, either eating around a communal bowl with the use of forks and fingers or on plates over our laps. I’m incredibly grateful for the allowance of right-hand usage in the fish-eating business because picking out all those little bones with a fork is nigh impossible. Oh, and the fish comes whole –head and tail included.
Back to school I go, taking advantage of the wireless to post blog entries and the like, and I finish up my classes for the day. I’m taking Wolof, Advanced French II, Senegalese Culture and Society, The History of Islam, and a community internship course. For my internship, I’m co-leading a student-founded ONG working to provide tutoring and various activities to local girls as a means of furthering women’s education. Classes accomplished, I hang out with other American students, do homework on campus, or return home to hang with my family in the living room. The Wolof flies right over my head so I sit and listen, wishing I knew what was going on and keeping a lookout for the few words I do know. When they occasionally revert to French, my ears perk up. Dinner is at 8:30pm and it is followed by fruit for dessert –usually mangoes from heaven or watermelon. I usually go to bed right after dinner, but everyone else stays up a bit.
By this time, several planes on their way to the nearby airport will have coasted over the house so close that I almost want to plug my ears and the power will have been down for more than fifty percent of the day –on and off. Apparently this is a new phenomenon over the last three years that is a politically hot topic; the Dakar people are enraged at their President, Abdoulaye Wade, because the power outages are indicative of his failure to maintain a stable country. He was the opposition in the 2001 election, the Obama of Senegal, lighting up national hope that politicians would actually work for the good of the people instead of maintaining a façade of democracy in order to rule for twenty-year swaths of time without doing a thing, like the previous two presidents. Unfortunately, Wade did not live up to his promises, and since his election the price of food has skyrocketed and the quality of education has plummeted. People are angry, but he was reelected anyhow. You might compare this to Bush being reelected; we’re not really sure how it happened, but what can ya do? (I send out my apology to all American Republicans at this point in my post! :-D I come in peace!)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
CULTURE SHOCK
Being in a new culture is not always a breeze. Granted, I let my blog present my positive mental incline, laughing at myself and focusing on the good stuff, but sometimes I loose that ability to laugh at myself –and I cry. See, it is so critical to keep perspective and recognize the cultural differences constantly because, if you loose sight of that and try to copy/paste your own cultural presumptions onto a situation then you are doomed to conflict and misunderstanding. Easier said than done. This means that every time my host mother speaks to me, I must keep in mind that what might sounds like yelling and chastising in the US is actually suggesting and encouraging here. So, when a family friend compares me to previous American students here and says that they assimilated far better than I because they actually went out and partied like the Senegalese as opposed to being quiet in living room conversations like me, I need to keep in mind that he’s only trying to encourage me to “do as the Senegalese do.” Even as I recognize intellectually what is going on, my gut reaction is one of distress. Even if I know they mean well, I tense up. It’s a constant learning process: making mistakes, not understanding, letting go, correcting, forgetting, remembering, asking, listening, and watching. I have to navigate carefully through the busy market place in Marché Sandaga, guarding my belongings, fielding people left and right who are trying to sell me their wares or be my guide or both. Knowing who has good intentions and who just wants to earn a few francs is nearly impossible and staying on the cautious side inevitably leads to slightly offending some well-meaning people. A few off encounters in the market combined with a few misunderstandings or assumptions at home is plenty of stress for one day. This, my friends, is culture shock.
The walk to school is 20 minutes along dusty, exhaust ridden roads lined by locals who I make sure to greet kindly. Greetings are incredibly important here, although I’m still trying to negotiate who exactly I aught to be taking the time to exchange the customary, lengthy, Wolof greeting with. It’s good and fine to make friends and be culturally sensitive, but being a tubab (foreigner), I attract a lot of (unwanted) attention. We all do. The number of times that I have been offered or requested a phone number is countless and one marriage proposal is already in the bank. Oh, that romantic day in front of the gass station when that tall, dark, and …I didn’t get a good enough look at him to know whether he was handsome… man called from beside the gas pump, “Hey, tubab! You beautiful! Will you marry me?” To this mix of English and French I deftly repied, “Oh, I’m already married! Buh’bye!” …Good times.
Having passed the fruit stands and multiple vendors, I arrive at Suffolk University Campus where I have a class or two in the morning taught by Senegalese professors before I head back home for lunch at 1:30pm. My host brother, Lou-Lou, comes home from work at the bank on his spiffy motorcycle and joins the rest of us in eating the largest meal of the day. It is heavy, oil-laden food that is absolutely delicious. Rice and fish is the norm but French fries are a popular rice-replacement and vegetables are usually provided. If everyone else is having meat then they still provide me with fish, pescatarian that I am. We eat in the living room alongside the active TV, either eating around a communal bowl with the use of forks and fingers or on plates over our laps. I’m incredibly grateful for the allowance of right-hand usage in the fish-eating business because picking out all those little bones with a fork is nigh impossible. Oh, and the fish comes whole –head and tail included.
Back to school I go, taking advantage of the wireless to post blog entries and the like, and I finish up my classes for the day. I’m taking Wolof, Advanced French II, Senegalese Culture and Society, The History of Islam, and a community internship course. For my internship, I’m co-leading a student-founded ONG working to provide tutoring and various activities to local girls as a means of furthering women’s education. Classes accomplished, I hang out with other American students, do homework on campus, or return home to hang with my family in the living room. The Wolof flies right over my head so I sit and listen, wishing I knew what was going on and keeping a lookout for the few words I do know. When they occasionally revert to French, my ears perk up. Dinner is at 8:30pm and it is followed by fruit for dessert –usually mangoes from heaven or watermelon. I usually go to bed right after dinner, but everyone else stays up a bit.
By this time, several planes on their way to the nearby airport will have coasted over the house so close that I almost want to plug my ears and the power will have been down for more than fifty percent of the day –on and off. Apparently this is a new phenomenon over the last three years that is a politically hot topic; the Dakar people are enraged at their President, Abdoulaye Wade, because the power outages are indicative of his failure to maintain a stable country. He was the opposition in the 2001 election, the Obama of Senegal, lighting up national hope that politicians would actually work for the good of the people instead of maintaining a façade of democracy in order to rule for twenty-year swaths of time without doing a thing, like the previous two presidents. Unfortunately, Wade did not live up to his promises, and since his election the price of food has skyrocketed and the quality of education has plummeted. People are angry, but he was reelected anyhow. You might compare this to Bush being reelected; we’re not really sure how it happened, but what can ya do? (I send out my apology to all American Republicans at this point in my post! :-D I come in peace!)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
CULTURE SHOCK
Being in a new culture is not always a breeze. Granted, I let my blog present my positive mental incline, laughing at myself and focusing on the good stuff, but sometimes I loose that ability to laugh at myself –and I cry. See, it is so critical to keep perspective and recognize the cultural differences constantly because, if you loose sight of that and try to copy/paste your own cultural presumptions onto a situation then you are doomed to conflict and misunderstanding. Easier said than done. This means that every time my host mother speaks to me, I must keep in mind that what might sounds like yelling and chastising in the US is actually suggesting and encouraging here. So, when a family friend compares me to previous American students here and says that they assimilated far better than I because they actually went out and partied like the Senegalese as opposed to being quiet in living room conversations like me, I need to keep in mind that he’s only trying to encourage me to “do as the Senegalese do.” Even as I recognize intellectually what is going on, my gut reaction is one of distress. Even if I know they mean well, I tense up. It’s a constant learning process: making mistakes, not understanding, letting go, correcting, forgetting, remembering, asking, listening, and watching. I have to navigate carefully through the busy market place in Marché Sandaga, guarding my belongings, fielding people left and right who are trying to sell me their wares or be my guide or both. Knowing who has good intentions and who just wants to earn a few francs is nearly impossible and staying on the cautious side inevitably leads to slightly offending some well-meaning people. A few off encounters in the market combined with a few misunderstandings or assumptions at home is plenty of stress for one day. This, my friends, is culture shock.
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