From The Inside

August 20, 2013July 20, 2014 April R Year One Just Being Honest

What do you think of when you hear the words, Peace Corps?

Do you think of a crazy adventure? Do you think of amazing life lessons that can only be learned out there? Do you imagine new foods, breath-taking scenery, or tribal dances around bonfires?

From the outside looking in, the Peace Corps is an exclusive club filled with individuals brave enough and bold enough to take on a challenge that will change their lives forever. Volunteers are dedicated, selfless, and kind-hearted. From the outside, they are hardcore, they beat the odds, and they do things that the common folk could never dream of doing. Volunteers will change the world.

The view from this side, however, is quite different.

From the inside looking out, we’re tired, sweaty, covered in mysterious rashes or bug bites, and are used to feeling out of place or being stared at. Our clothes have stains and holes, finding a few ants in our food doesn’t irk us, and we’re experts at taking bucket baths. We understand how tiresome laundry is, how a care package can make or break the day, and we will never again underestimate a good cup of coffee or a slice of pizza.

From this side, your first world problems don’t concern us. (Your A/C is broken? Oh how tragic.) Advertisements for fast food and Facebook images of your dinner infuriate us. And call me a hater, but I sure as hell don’t want to see how cute you look in that outfit, or how hard you worked in the gym this morning. On second thought, I don’t think anyone does.

When I joined the Peace Corps, I envisioned an idea of what service would be like. It’s the same perspective that you, my readers, have. Throughout our ten weeks of training, as we began to make our adjustments and adaptations, we began see the Peace Corps differently. We were on the outside before, and now, we were moving to the inside.

I’ve been a volunteer for three months, and have been on island for a little over five. As someone who is officially “on the inside,” my perspective on the outside world (the life I left behind) is beginning to shift.

I like to think of it as looking through a rose-tinted window, aka: my computer screen. On one side of this window is you, a non-PCV, surrounded by everything that is familiar. You have your modern conveniences, friends and family at your fingertips, and you may even be a big shot in your law school class or at work.

But on my side, I live in a world where nothing makes sense. I am an outsider; judged and criticized by the very same people I’m trying to integrate with. I feel embarrassed walking past a shop, and feeling everyone’s eyes on me. On a regular basis, I ask my host mother questions that make me feel spoiled and elitist from having been from America in the first place. Questions like, how do I clean this toilet? Or, my hair clogged the shower drain. How can I unclog it?

From the inside, my only glimpse into the outside is what you post online or supply in an email. As I battle with feelings of insecurity, I watch you get married, pass your Bar Exams, or move into your new apartments. I get to hear your thoughts on the latest blockbuster film that I won’t get to see, and my mouth waters over images of your dessert or iced coffee. And because all these things remind me of how out-of-place I feel, I end up resenting your happiness.

A disconnect is occurring.

But on this side, I find comfort in the shared misery of other volunteers. Simultaneously, we also find joy in each other’s accomplishments. In the Peace Corps, we call these small wins, and from the inside, we understand how important they are. We learn how to share ideas, support each other when in need, and lend a hand where applicable. We will never judge each other’s body odor, or how long it’s been since we last shaved or showered. Most importantly, a fellow PCV understands why your diet consists of cinnamon rolls and mac & cheese, but will also understand why you refuse to share any of the food you received in your latest care package.

On this side, we stick together. PC training teaches us that we’ll encounter hardships, and that our friends and family might not always understand. This much is true. Training also warned about the inevitable divide that would occur between us, and those we left back at home. While I was still on the outside, I didn’t understand what they meant by that, but now that I’m on the inside, I get it.

The paradigm has shifted. I can’t say that Peace Corps isn’t all it’s cracked up to be (because that simply isn’t true), but I can say it isn’t what I expected. I came into this with certain expectations that feel as though they haven’t been met, but in some strange, paradoxical way, they have. My new world is crazy and it doesn’t make sense, and I both love and hate it. I want to go home every day, but I wouldn’t dream of leaving.

Try to explain these things to your friends back home, and they think you’re losing it. A helpful, empathetic friend might even try to give you advice. But the truth is they don’t understand. How could they? They aren’t where I am. I’ve crossed the threshold. I’ve moved over the line. I’m a Peace Corps Volunteer, and now that I’m on the inside, I finally understand what that means.

“From the outside looking in, you could never understand it. But from the inside looking out, we could never explain it.”
-Anonymous

Facebook Is Not My Friend

August 8, 2013July 20, 2014 April R Year One Facebook, Just Being Honest

Early Termination (E.T.) (verb) [ur-lee tur-muh-ney-shuh n]
1. When a PCV exits their service prematurely
Example:
“Another one bites the dust.”
“Oh? Who ET-ed?”
“No, I mean another friend just got married. But it’s the same thing.”

I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook these days. I enjoy that I am still connected with my friends, but the flipside is that every week, someone else has either gotten married or engaged. It’s a painful reminder of the fact that I’m still single, broke, and jobless.

“But April, Peace Corps is your job now.”

Oh please! I can’t decide if this is a never-ending version of riding the Tilt-o-Whirl, or It’s A Small World After All. And if I choose the latter, I’m not sure if I’m in the little boat, watching and learning about this new culture, or if I’m a little mechanical doll, and everyone else is staring at me.

The other day, I smiled at a curious child and made him cry.

My friends and family are supportive. They tell me what I’m doing is amazing, and that I am a role model. But I don’t feel like any kind of superhero. I’m not wearing a flashy outfit with a cape; I’m wearing a t-shirt with armpit stains and I smell bad. Showering is a hassle, because my hair clumps and clogs the drain, and the amount of dirt that comes off me would make you think I’m a real life version of Pig-Pen.

But I’m good, until I face the choice between taking a walk in the blazing sunlight, or camping out in front of my fan and playing solitaire on my computer all day. Reading on the veranda is always a winning option, if I can tolerate being interrupted by every other person passing by who wants my attention.

But between crowing roosters, oversized spiders, little black ants that will get into your food if you’re not careful, and the abundance of mosquito bites that adorn my body, I’m doing pretty well.

I’ve done a thirty-mile hike, I frequent the beach, I’ve attended a church service, and I’m finally remembering more community member names than I am forgetting them. I’ve made many Jamaican friends, my students occasionally stop by to say hello, and I keep myself busy by organizing dusty books in the library (when playing solitaire doesn’t sound more appealing). I’ve also managed to balance a social life with my responsibilities, which for many volunteers in other countries is considered a challenge. Then again, I’ve only been a PCV for three months, and it’s the summer time. Let’s see how things go when school starts up again in September.

My bitterness comes primarily from my lack of A/C and pizza. I also grow impatient while I wait for friends to reply to my emails or send out the care packages they’ve promised. Mom and Nana, meanwhile, are busy gallivanting through Italy on a five-star cruise. This friend is posting pictures of her dinner, that one is complaining that a specific television show isn’t on tonight, he’s boasting about that awesome concert he just went to, and – oh shit. Another friend is engaged.

It’s time to log off Facebook.

Four Crazy White Girls

August 1, 2013July 20, 2014 April R Narratives, Year One Blue Mountain Peak, Hike

Part 1 – Winging it

“Let’s just start walking and see what happens.”
“We’re all broke. We should try to spend as little money as possible.”
“How far is it to the Peak from here?”
“Who cares? This is our adventure.”

And so we walked from Bethel Gap to Ness Castle and waited for the fifth member of our party, a seventeen y/o Jamaican boy who is good friends with Sarah. He led us down a short cut that allowed us to by-pass forty-five minutes of road, and soon after we reached Hagley Gap.

With nothing but time on our hands, we waded through the river and sat by the bank on the other side, reapplying sunscreen, refilling our water bottles, catching our breath, and discussing the next part of our journey.

“The [Hagley Gap] Square isn’t too far from here. There is a shortcut, but it’s steep. Should we take it?”
“Nah. We should save our energy.”
“It’s only two o’clock, and we’re not hiking the peak until Eleven. We should use the road.”
“We’ll see if we can catch a ride to Penlyne at the square.”

We were able to find a ride, but it cost way too much for our tight budget. Besides, deep down, I think we all wanted to be able to say we walked the whole way. So we made the unanimous decision to hike the steep dirt road from Hagley Gap to Penlyne Castle, where we knew a lengthy and much needed rest awaited us.

Part 2 – We’re really cold

“Wow, it’s really cold up here.”
“I’d like to know how high up we are.”
“Hey, can I borrow that hat?”
“I don’t think anyone would believe us if we told them it was this cold in Jamaica.”

Approximately 3,300 ft in elevation, the wind blew around us and chilled our bones. But we had no idea what we were in for. Regardless, we hung out in a well-lit, out-of-use bus stop while we rested our legs and passed the time. Our goal was to resume our hike at 11pm, so we would reach the peak in time to see the sunrise. We acquired a sixth member; another good friend of Sarah’s who’d hiked the peak several times.

At around 10, we gave up our convictions and sought shelter in a shop to fend off the wind. For an hour, we hung out with a couple other locals, chatting over a variety of things to pass the time. We bought some snacks to keep us until morning, and finished off the sandwiches we’d packed with us. As promised, we set off again at Eleven.

Our next goal was to get to Portland Gap, which was 3.5 miles from Penlyne Castle, and exactly halfway to the top. We’ll take another break there, we decided. The nearly full moon lit our path for a mile, and then we switched to our headlamps.

Unfortunately, Portland Gap was not an appropriate place to rest. It was a small, open field, vulnerable to the fierce and icy wind. While icy might in fact be an exaggeration, I’d guess it was close to mid-forties up there. But in our defense, our clothes were soaked with our sweat and made of cotton, regardless. The grass had already collected a thick layer of dew, and so sitting was impossible as well.

We pressed on.

Part 3 – We must be crazy

At 6,500 ft, about a mile from the peak, I had my first asthma attack.

I am not asthmatic.

It was 2am and we’d been hiking since ten that morning. Exhaustion was setting in. Our muscles ached. We were freezing and victim to that cursed wind every time we stopped for a rest. It was around this point when we started questioning our sanity. We must have been crazy.

While we weren’t opposed to hiking the peak again, we all agreed that it would be done differently the next time around. Like spending the extra couple of bucks to catch a ride and not kill ourselves.

Up was the only way to go, and we’d been reassured by our unofficial trail guide that there was shelter at the summit. An hour and a half later, we finally made it.

Our shelter was the remains of a concrete house-like structure with a collapsed roof. We sat huddled on cinderblocks surrounding a pathetic excuse for a fire until sunrise. Miraculously, two members of our group found sleep, but I was not one of them.

With my hood drawn tightly around my head, my arms crossed over my chest, I rested my forehead on my knees and shivered my way through the next two hours.

7,402 feet.

The wind never stopped once.

Part 4 – Tired is an understatement

We didn’t get to see our sunrise. The wind had blown in a thick layer of cloud cover, and by 5am, the sky was growing lighter in gradients but we still couldn’t see anything. Eventually, we stretched our aching bodies and began to dance, if just to keep us awake and warm. Other hikers drifted in, shook their heads at us, and left. Only two girls from Europe stayed for a while to chat with us, and at Seven, we began our trek back down.

It was sunny and warming up when we reached Portland Gap, and this time, we were able to appreciate the view. A man with a donkey and a blanket sold apples, bananas, and Jamaican peaches, so we enjoyed a light breakfast while we thawed out.

And down we continued.

Before we returned to Penlyne Castle, our guide told us of a shortcut – a rocky dirt road – that would enable to bypass Penlyne entirely, and bring us back to Hagley Gap in two hours less time. So we did that.

With gravity against us, every step we took sent a shockwave of pain up our legs and into our bodies. The rocks were loose, and I slipped several times. Our previous reluctance to walk (and save money on a ride) had long ago been discarded, and we were now on the sharp lookout for a cab running on a Sunday.

We were not so lucky.

Part 5 – We’re badasses

Sarah’s friend, our trail guide, left us at Hagley Gap, but our perseverance had returned. We were so close to the end and it still seemed so early in the day. It just before noon.

At Hagley Gap River, we rinsed off and cooled down, taking another short break and filling our bottles once more. Now that we were back on a main road, maybe this time we’d catch a ride. Again, no luck.

The shortcut we’d taken the day before, the one that allowed to save forty-five minutes, was almost impossible now. It was a steep climb down the first time around, and coming up now, it nearly killed us. We reached Ness Castle and rested again at the school, trying to estimate when we’d reach home. I felt a twinge of guilt knowing that the ending point for me was five miles closer than for them. Bethel Gap marked the end of my hike, but Sarah, Jackie, Briana and Jamaican Schooler (I did not have permission to use his name) still had to return to their starting point.

One more painful incline later, we reached a shop at Ness Castle where we purchased bun & cheese for lunch and finally succeeded in finding a ride. I was dropped off in front of my house, and the others were carried down another mile or two.

Part 6 – Recovery

My host mother returned from church to find me sleeping on the loveseat on my veranda. We chatted for a few minutes before I slugged myself into the shower. Once cleaned, I collapsed into bed for an extended nap. I awoke at 7pm, spoke to my Dad for ten minutes, and then fell asleep again for another twelve hours.

On Monday, I was so sore it hurt to walk from my room to the kitchen.

Although it was rewarding to track our hike, count the miles, and take pride in our accomplishment, I still maintain that if I hike the peak again, I’m doing it differently.

Bethel Gap -> Penlyne Castle = 9.3miles
Penlyne Castle -> Blue Mountain Peak = 7miles
Distance hiked in one direction = 16.3miles
Total distance hiked = 32.3miles

Mad props to all of us, with a couple of extra points for Sarah, Jackie and Briana, whose ending point was five miles further than mine.

And many extra points for our Jamaican Schooler who hiked a grand total of 40 miles that weekend!

My First Site Visit

July 22, 2013July 20, 2014 April R CVPJHS, Year One Site Visit

Every once in a while, staff will come to a PCV’s site and check in on them. This is usually always a good thing, and while I can’t speak for everyone, most of us love them. We get feedback on our projects, help with ideas for further development, and if we’re really lucky, a care package.

Last week, my PM, my PTS, and one of the PC nurses graced me with their presence. For two of them, it was their first time seeing my site, and they were in absolute awe. I mentioned earlier that my school was exceptional compared to most other sites, and seeing their reactions only confirmed that belief. When I showed them my incredibly spacious classroom, they immediately launched into a frenzied discussion of its potential. At last, PM declared that PCV’s were not allowed to visit my site, because she’d get too many phone calls from angry people, upset they weren’t as spoiled as me. Evidently, I really lucked out.

Then I brought them into the library. First, I showed them the teaching materials I’ve been working on, and they were very impressed. They asked me if I would please take pictures of them so they could show Group 85 during their training! Then we reviewed lesson plans, and I received more praise.

Next we moved on to discussion of my library project. They liked all of my ideas and even threw in some more of their own. This launched a twenty-minute discussion that resulted in me having to take notes because they were all so good!

During the last part of their visit, I put PM and PTS to work moving some boxes, while Nurse and I drove up the road to my house to chat privately. She likes to have a visualization of where I live and keep health-related items in my room in case there is ever an emergency. Then we sat on the veranda and filled out a few forms and answered a few questions. One those questions included something like, “On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you say you feel on a regular basis; 1 being depressed, 5 or 6 is coping, and 10 is incredibly content?” I mulled it over for a moment and happily reported that I am at an 8 or 9.

Much later that day, long after they’d left, PTS called to commend me again on my ideas and progress. He told me to keep up the good work and he looks forward to visiting my site again in the future.

And to top it all off, my first site visit also came with my first care package. Thanks Mom!!

The Fourth

July 14, 2013July 20, 2014 April R Year One Devon House, July 4th

Let’s face it, I’m not the most patriotic American. And on July Fourth, I’m probably the last person you’d see wearing our nation’s colors. It’s not that I don’t have pride – it’s that I choose not to make a big deal. For me, July Fourth has always meant four simple things: camp-wide relay races, popsicles, barbeques, and fireworks.

But this year, as I spent my first Fourth of July outside of the United States, I felt incredibly somber about it. I was encouraged by fellow volunteers to wear red, white and blue, and to use this opportunity to educate those around me. After all, the Peace Corps is a CROSS-cultural experience.

But I chose not to, because for me, the Fourth just didn’t feel the same.

Then, when I wasn’t paying attention, something incredible happened.

July 2^nd“Are you coming to graduation tomorrow?” A teacher at the school asked me.
“Yes I am.”
“And how about dinner on Thursday?”
“I don’t know anything about a dinner. This is the first I’m hearing of it.”
“Oh! We’re taking the Sixth Grade class to dinner in Port Royal to celebrate. You should come.”
“I think I will.”

July 3^rd – Graduation
The Cedar Valley Primary and Junior High School Graduation was held in the school’s auditorium, and followed the traditional Jamaican fashion of beginning an hour behind schedule. Like American graduations, the ceremony was exceptionally long and no one really paid attention.

There were two noticeable differences, however. The first was the graduation march. In America, the students form a straight and orderly line, and file into the auditorium to the boring tune of Pomp and Circumstance, a melody I would never recognize otherwise. I mean seriously, who uses it anymore? For Jamaican students, the march is one of the most anticipated parts. They chose an upbeat song with inspiration lyrics about loving life, and performed a dance routine as they entered the room. The second noticeable difference was that the entire community was present to show their support, whether their child was graduating that day or not.

Prior to the ceremony, I’d been briefed that the Principal would be introducing me during her speech – and what an introduction she gave me!

Last but not least, earlier that day, I received text messages from two other volunteers in the parish to let me know they’d be coming to the graduation, so I got to spend some time with them as well!

After the ceremony, there was a mingling session, some pictures, an opportunity to meet parents, dinner, and a ride home at around 10pm.

July 4^th – Port Royal & Devon House
I was told to wear a dress, so that’s what I did. And at 2pm, we piled onto a bus and began the long and bumpy ride down the mountain. After making frequent stops along the way, we finally reached Port Royal a little after four o’clock.

Dinner was delicious. Our choices were fish, or fish, (I know, crazy right! How could I choose?) with a side of either rice & peas, or french fries. While we waited for our meals, and afterward, for our check, we played a couple of school ground games. How can I better describe this?? Have you ever been at camp, sitting at the dinning room table, and you begin clapping your hands and singing a song, and the lyrics are the instructions, and if you mess up, then everyone boo’s you? Yeah, something like that.

Anyway, it was great fun, and really cool to see similar types of games played in a different culture. It didn’t take me very long to catch on, and one of the songs even got stuck in my head for hours afterward.

When dinner was over, the students frolicked on the beach. We all kicked off our shoes and ran around in the sand by the surf. As I stood on the beach and watched the kids chase each other, the waves lapped at my ankles and a breeze tangled my hair. It was only then that I remembered it was the Fourth of July.

By eight o’clock, we were at Devon House to get ice cream. In honor of America’s Independence Day, I treated myself to a double scoop of cookies & crème.

Perfection.

July 6^th – The Party
I left Cedar Valley at 8am, made three transfers, and reached St. Ann’s Bay (the capitol of St. Ann) by a quarter to two. When I woke up that morning, I was clean, but by the time I arrived, I was a hot sweaty mess, and so dirty that you could see the grime in the crease of my elbows and my palms. My hair was… well I don’t even know.

I went to St. Ann to visit my girl, Christina. I haven’t properly introduced her yet, and I promised to leave her some anonymity, but she’s my best friend. By day two of training, we were already buddied up and cracking inside jokes. Let me put it to you this way; I would not and will not be able to get through my service without her. It’s important for us to have support within our group, and Christina and I are there for each other.

We met up at her site and grabbed lunch immediately, dining like queens at the five-star establishment more commonly known as Burger King. Afterward, we picked up some nosh from the grocery store, and went back to her place to sit for five minutes. There, I met her adorable new kitten, cracked open a beer, and splashed some water on my face. An hour later, we were off again.

Two more transfers later, we arrived in a small community in west St. Ann for a July Fourth PCV get together. I spent the night with twenty other volunteers, snacking on bean or beef burritos, potato or breadfruit salad, oreos and chips. There was an assortment of beverages, card games, dancing, and a strobe light.

That night, we crashed where we landed, and I landed in a hammock on the veranda.

July 7^th – The River
The next morning, after a meager breakfast of eggs, toast, and coffee, everyone slowly drifted out and returned from whence they came. When Christina and I finally reached her place again, we sat down for a movie and promptly fell asleep.

After waking, we decided to take a walk and try to find “her river.” She’d explained to me the day before; it was river that ran behind the houses, out of sight from the street, and there’s a part where you can jump in and swim, almost like a pool. We were determined to find it.

When at last we did, it was serene. The water was teal, and cool, surrounded by trees with long hanging limbs, a baby waterfall, and one solid wall of rock. We sat by the water at first, enjoying the scenery, but before I knew it, my shoes were off and I was jumping in!

Later that night, we ate penne with mushroom sauce, played with the kitten, and watched some episodes of Portlandia before falling asleep.

I returned to Cedar Valley the next day.

What I loved the most about celebrating July Fourth outside of the US, is the way I didn’t even realize I was celebrating. I went to a graduation and had a ball. Then I went for dinner and ice cream, and thoroughly enjoyed myself. A pre-planned outing to St. Ann turned into a wild adventure filled with spontaneity and shenanigans. For my first Fourth of July spent in another country, I’d say it was pretty fine. Actually, I couldn’t have asked for anything better.

Except now that I’ve set the bar, next year’s Fourth has to top it.

Let’s Talk About The Rooster

June 30, 2013July 20, 2014 April R Year One Animals, Rooster

There is a rooster that lives across the street, adorned by his many clucking hens. Throughout the day, they make quite the ruckus, and oftentimes I find myself pausing to lift my head and think, what on earth is going on over there?

The avians are always partying. At least, one would think so, due to the amount of noise that comes from within the henhouse.

But I am never jealous at having been excluded from festivities. After all, I am human, and have no business attending a rooster’s wild frat party. I have no quarrels with the rooster either, because come nightfall, the party always winds to a close. The birds settle in for the night, and for once, all is quiet.

Until 3am.

That is when I take issue.

My first night sleeping at site, I was rudely awoken by this vicious, inconsiderate beast of a bird who clearly didn’t own a watch. 3am! Let me sleep!

But alas, he did not. He started up again at 4am, 5am, and 6am, pretty much on the dot. With bags under my eyes, I rolled out of bed and consigned that I would not be getting any more sleep that morning.

Come nighttime, I was exhausted, and immediately fell into a deep sleep. Although this was over a month ago, I still remember the dream I had that night. I was at home, with Mom and Devon, and they were arguing with each other. But instead of words, they were crowing like roosters. Sometime later they stopped, and the house became calm. Then suddenly, there was crowing again. I squeezed my eyes shut and covered my ears with my hands. Make them stop! I cried out in agony.

April, what’s wrong? Mom asked me.
The roosters! Can’t you hear them! Make them STOP!!!

I have been at site for six weeks now, and like clockwork, the rooster starts up at 3am every morning. How, you wonder, am I handling this situation?

First, I told my host mom and my supervisor that I was comfortable and happy with the exception of the rooster. I was assured that I would grow accustomed to it, but so far, that hasn’t happened.

The next thing I did was reach for my earplugs. I have never in my life used earplugs, and it was only at the suggestion of a currently serving volunteer that I thought to purchase and pack them. They worked like a dream. I slept through the rooster’s incessant bellowing and enjoyed pleasant dreams night after night.

But the earplugs are uncomfortable, and I usually struggle to make them stay in my ears. Sometimes, if I don’t push them in deep enough, they don’t work as well, but if I push them in too deep, then they hurt and irritate me. So Plan B was put into action.

(Sorry, but it’s not as exciting as it sounds.)

I fall asleep without my earplugs, and allow myself to get woken up at 3am. By this point, I am usually in the midsts of a pleasant dream, one that is quickly made irksome by what is known as the “Wilhelm scream.” (You may recognize it when watching a horror film, as a pretty blonde usually produces it moments before she’s killed.) At that point, I’ll wake up, realize it was the rooster, and then grab my earplugs.

This plan is not foolproof. I would prefer having not been woken up at all, or perhaps that someone would eat the rooster and vanquish this evil entirely. But this is Jamaica, and I am city-bred girl living inna di bush. This is one of the many cultural adjustments I am making, and for what it’s worth, it’s not too bad.

However, when Plan B ceases to work, I’ll need to come up with Plan C, and I think for that one, I’ll get a little more ~~vindictive~~ creative. If he’s not paying close enough attention, Mr. Rooster will end up de-feathered and in my soup pot.

Here are some other examples of cultural adjustments were animals are concerned:

Insects
I’ve seen some pretty large insects here, and in many different shapes, sizes and colors. For the most part, they stay out of the way, and as long as it’s not a roach or a spider in my room, I’m good. However, there is a breed of beetle that emits a nasty stink when in distress, and it often likes to fly into my door (literally, with a bang), and end up upside down on the veranda. I usually know this has occured when I wake up and smell something foul. Also, there are crickets and cicadas that chirp so loudly, even my mother has heard them from the other end of the phone line.

Mongoose
In America, possums and raccoons frequently dart across the road. In some states, it’s a deer. In Jamaica, it’s a mongoose. They’re smaller than cats, and have a long, semi-bushy tail. I wish I could say they’re cute, but in honesty, I’ve only ever seen the back half of one before it disappears into the tall grass.

Cats & Dogs
These beloved household pets are not so beloved here. In fact, back during the days of slavery, dogs were used to keep the Jamaican slaves in order. As a result, there is an inbred, cultural fear of dogs. However, this is slowly disappearing. In Kingston and in other urban parts of Jamaica, people are beginning to allow dogs to live on the property to protect the home. An even smaller amount of people allow the dogs to live inside the house. For most dogs, however, they live outside, are underfed, and are perhaps more fearful of humans than we are of them. They are often fed our scraps and are shooed away.

Cats have the same stigma, and many are treated in the same regard, but they’re kept around because they chase off the mice and rats.

Goats & Cows
Goats are everywhere. They are most often seen on the side of the road, either eating, sleeping, or playing. Little kids like to dart across the road, and taxi men are quick to avoid hitting them. Most often a goat will be seen tied to a stake to keep it from wandering too far, but other times, the goat will come free, and it can be seen walking down the road with a length of rope trailing behind it.

Cows follow a slightly different story. In order to get from Cedar Valley to Morant Bay, the road drives right past a diary farm, with fields and fields of cows. Occasionally, one or two of the cows will get loose, and will be seen on the side of the road grazing as well. Forget free-range goats; we’ve got free-range cows!

Pigs & Donkeys
Many Jamaicans who live inna di bush have farms, or large plots of land in which they grow their own fruits and vegetables. They also keep donkeys to help with the plow, and to carry loads of produce from one place to another.

And let’s not forget how delicious a pig is. It is also pretty common for a family to own a piglet, raise it, and then, well, you know…

Chickens
Need I say more?

You Don’t Overcome Arachnophobia By Beating It With A Shoe

June 22, 2013July 20, 2014 April R Narratives, Year One Animals, Arachnophobia, Spider

Meet Anansi. A trickster God from West African folklore, Anansi takes the shape of a spider and has made his way from oral tradition, to popular children’s literature in the Caribbean. As a teacher, I’ve been made familiar with him.

But this is the real anancy.

He’s about the size of your palm, and luckily, completely harmless. However, for someone with arachnophobia, this knowledge doesn’t help much. Besides, all logic flees when you’re preparing for bed and you catch a glimpse of him scurrying down your curtains toward your nightstand.

I felt my heart literally lodge itself in my throat. I felt the blood drain from my face and became momentarily paralyzed. It was 11:45pm and my host mother was asleep. What the hell was I going to do?

But in that instant, I knew two things; If I didn’t kill that spider, I wasn’t going to sleep that night. And if I couldn’t kill that spider, I wasn’t going to last two years in Jamaica.

I snatched my phone from my desk and called a PCV friend from Group 82. “I’m freaking out! There’s a giant spider in my room and I don’t know what to do!”

“Ohhh! An anancy. So you’ve finally seen one. Don’t worry – they’re harmless.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is you can relax.”

I screamed again, a blood-curdling scream that probably forced my friend to pull the phone away from his ear. “He’s on my bed now! He has to die!”

“Then you’re going to have to kill him.”
“How do I do that? I’m scared out of my mind.”
“Well you’re going to have to get over that. Do you have a shoe handy?”
“I have a phobia! You just don’t get over that by beating it with a shoe!”

We went back and forth for a little while before I finally decided that a broom might work. I could chase him out the door perhaps… But that didn’t work out as well as I’d planned. Anancy scurried back and forth across the wall and went everywhere but back outside.

I could tell that he was tiring though, because the broom was coming closer and closer to him before he moved again. Finally I took a deep breath and stepped back. “Alright. I’m going to put the phone down, and I’m going to beat him with the broom. I think I’m ready. I can do this now.”

I swung like a madwoman and howled like a banshee. Just like my Ewarton host mother with the slipper and the cockroach, I came down on Anancy several times with the broom, then finally stepped back to admire my work.

Stuck to the wall was a squished Anancy, his legs folded up around him. With the broom, I brushed him off the wall, on to the floor, and swept him out the door. Then I reached for my phone and collapsed into my desk chair.

“I did it,” I whispered into the phone, still a little shaky. “I got the bastard.”
“There, see? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

I erupted into a fit of laughter. I felt pretty accomplished, but I couldn’t possibly imagine what I must have looked like. A grown woman, cowering in fear of an insect, and then chasing it around the room with a broom. I’ll spare the details, but my war cry was more like a string of obscenities that flew freely from my lips. Most importantly, I’d overcome a fear, at least for the time being, and my laughter certainly helped ease the tension.

images — Not that I’d ever want to see Spiderman killed, but this was pretty comical

I can tell that Jamaica is going to change me. Scared though I was, and convinced that scared I will be again, should another Anancy decide to visit me, I found the courage to take care of the problem. My determination to tough it out won again.

Back in Ewarton, after an incredibly close call with a cockroach, I decided that now is the time to overcome my fear. After all, Jamaican women exterminate them without batting an eyelash, and my biological Mom comes to my rescue every single time. At some point, I’m going to have a family and I’ll need to be the hero brandishing a can of Raid. Since making that vow, I have not yet successfully killed a roach on my own, but I no longer feel that sense of panic when I see one. I will rise to the occasion soon enough.

And the next time I see an anancy, I’ll rise to that one again too.

FAQ.1

June 16, 2013July 20, 2014 April R Year One FAQ

Over the last few weeks, I’ve gotten emails from many of my friends. First and foremost, I want to say THANK YOU, because a blog is a little one-sided, and it’s been really great to hear from all of you! Please, keep it up!

Every email, however, has one thing in common with the next. I seem to be getting the same kinds of questions regarding my life and time spent in Jamaica. It seems like now is an appropriate time to post my first of many Frequently Asked Questions.

What do you do?
My official title is “Literacy Advisor.” I work with the children who have difficulties reading and writing, either 1 on 1, or in small groups. I pull students from their regular classes for 45 minutes at time for some private tutoring. All of my students read below their grade level, some in extreme cases.

But these tutoring sessions will begin in the Fall, when school starts up again. So what am I doing now, with only three weeks left in the school year?

I’ve been at site for four weeks, and I’ve been very productive with my time. First, I observed classrooms, watching Language Arts lessons, how the teachers taught, and how the students behaved and learned. Then I asked teachers to submit the names of those who required extra attention. Now the fun begins!

For the following week, I pulled out each student, one at a time, to test them on their levels. I needed to find out what I was working with so I could plan my lessons accordingly. Once I’d done that, I could begin making my teaching materials.

And that’s where I’m at now. I work out of the library everyday, making flashcards, sounding-out dominoes, rhyming bingo boards, word wheels, and other materials to help them learn. I’ll also be looking at leveled readers to work on reading comprehension and coming up with writing assignments to help engrain everything. I expect I’ll be doing much of this throughout the summer.

As mentioned in an earlier blog post, I also plan to begin my library project during the break. The school’s library is well stocked, but the books lack organization. Some are in good condition, others not so much, and some need to be discarded completely. There are textbooks and encyclopedias that are out of date and have collected a thick layer of dust. I plan to take some time to make an inventory, organize books, and further brainstorm ideas for improvement. Some ideas already include patching a hole in the roof, building more shelves, implementing a smoother book-borrowing system, and establishing functional library hours that students can rely on.

What are you eating?
One of the biggest adjustments I am making is my diet. There are many things I see in the shelves of supermarkets that we have in America, but they are not within my price range. Sometimes there is a Jamaican equivalent, other times there is not. And I have a budget, coupled with a currency exchange that sometimes makes shopping a challenge.

Another aspect to this adjustment is that I have gone vegetarian. I am still eating fish, but I do not eat chicken or any other meat. Because I am so new to this, I am learning how to make up for the missing nutrients in my diet, but I hit red tape everywhere. For example, nuts make up an excellent source of protein, but they are expensive here. Peanut butter has become a staple for me. So have beans, which is something I never enjoyed eating back at home.

I do have not the luxury of eating out, or picking up some Chinese, sushi, or pizza, as I am so accustomed to doing in America. I also do not have my usual variety of frozen meals or other pre-prepared foods. Therefore, I have no choice but to finally buckle under and learn how to cook. Sooner or later, I’d have to learn to do that, right? So I buy fresh fruits and vegetables at the market, and I am learning the different ways that Jamaicans season and prepare their dinners. I started easy, boiling or steaming most of what I eat, but I finally bought some teriyaki sauce and I’ll soon be playing around with the sauté pan. Once I get used to doing that, I’ll get more creative.

Substitutions also play a big role. Let’s take coffee for example. I buy Blue Mountain Instant, and sweeten it with creamer. But CoffeeMate powder creamer is all they have, and it wasn’t long before I realized how expensive it is, and how much of it I use. So I asked around and discovered that most Jamaicans use sweetened condensed milk with half crème. It’s a far cry from a Starbucks latte, but I am not complaining.

Lastly, I am slowly but surely making typical Jamaican meals a larger part of my diet. Rice and peas are big here, and so they have also become staples for me. I enjoy popular Jamaican dishes like ackee & saltfish, and chicken foot soup, minus the chicken foot. I’ve fallen in love with the bun, which is a type of sweetened bread that comes in different flavors, sometimes with cheese or raisins inside. You can buy them just about anywhere, and it’s super filling. Bulla, or coconut bread, is also quite delicious.

What does it mean when you say, “I’m doing okay?”
In America, if someone says, I’m okay, that usually means that they’ve got something going on, but they’re not about to talk about it. For a Peace Corps Volunteer, that’s not what it means.

From the outside looking in, you couldn’t possibly understand, but I am adjusting and adapting to new things every single day in ways I can’t begin to describe. I’ve made changes I wasn’t ready to make, or choices that wouldn’t have been my first under different circumstances. I’ve given up certain comforts and favorites, and traded them for a culture at which I am slowly easing myself in to. There are times when I don’t know the right way to behave, or the right thing to say. I live in a fishbowl; everyone stares at me because I am the outsider.

But I’m not unhappy. I’m doing okay means that I am working through the obstacles in my path and processing this new world around me. It means that while I am not always the happiest duck in the world, that I am treading water and staying afloat. I’m not thinking about ETing. In fact, most days, I am pretty satisfied. Still, everything takes some getting used to, and I swear, I’m getting there, bit by bit. I’m doing okay means that I’m hanging in, and things are going all right. It should be seen as a good thing.

Can I send you a care package?
Yes please! But before you do, there are a few things you should know. First, all packages must be sent through the United States Postal Service, or more commonly known as “snail mail.” It absolutely CANNOT be sent through another currier, or it will get held up at the airport in customs, I will have to pay duties on it, and Peace Corps will not pick it up for me. USPS gets it directly the PC office and free of all charges. From there, the package sits in wait until someone from staff heads out my way, a volunteer from my parish travels to Kingston and brings it back, or until I come and get it myself. In some circumstances, packages have been known to sit for as long as three months!

240px-Troll_Face_small — I would not be surprised if I got a rubber chicken or a whoopi cushion from certain friends of mine.

Secondly, I will be in Jamaica for two years, so let’s not get overly excited. Mailing a package overseas has its costs, and I understand that my friends have budgets and bills of their own. No worries; I won’t ask you to spend a fortune on me. I have a running list of some things that I may want or need, and a method to the madness. I’d like to make a list of those who are willing to send me a package, and in due time, I will ask each person to send it. When it is your turn, I’ll provide you with a short (and cost-effective) list of things I’d really like to receive, and the address to mail it to. If you’re feeling creative or mischievous enough, you can always surprise me with a little extra something.

A Box Of Yellow Fluff

June 14, 2013July 20, 2014 April R Narratives, Year One Animals, Chicks

Down in Morant Bay, I found myself sitting on the bus waiting for it fill up before we begin our long climb back up the mountain. For once, luck was with me, and I managed to get a seat in the front. With my bags on the floor by my feet, my lap was empty, and as nature’s laws insist, if there is space, something will fill it.

“You can ‘old dis for me please? It’s nuh heavy.. verra light,” a woman says to me through the open window. In her hands is a cardboard box that clearly would not have fit on her lap in the crowded backseat of the bus. In Jamaica, it is common for people to help each other out on public transit. I’ve seen women get caught standing, and have to pass their babies to a fellow passenger privileged enough to get a seat.

Having a good day, and feeling generous, I smile and say of course! So she lifts up the box and passes it through the window and I settle it in my lap. Only then do I take a moment to look down and see what was inside. I was expecting fruit…

…But instead I found myself looking into a box of baby chicks! Twenty-five little, yellow balls of fluff, all chirping and looking up at me with beady black eyes. I gawked, and my face melted.

The ride to Cedar Valley takes an hour, and most of the path is broken up gravel or tiny rocks on a dirt road. Every time we went over a bump, the little chicks would bounce around, chirp mindlessly, and flap their itty-bitty wings. When the road was smooth, the chicks would settle down and close their eyes for a snooze, creating a sea of yellow fuzz, only to jump up again with each new bump.

It was by far the most entertaining bus ride I’ve yet to experience. City-raised, I’ve never been in such close contact with baby chickens. I couldn’t resist myself as I reached in and picked one up, letting it sit in my hand for a moment, feeling its weightlessness. I giggled like a child, and did my best not smile and AW! like some kind of dork the entire ride.

For just a moment, I felt another taste of that satisfaction I was looking for – the kind that hits you when you least expect it and life reminds you that it’s beautiful. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to hold a baby chicken, and Jamaica placed twenty-five of them in my lap! Had I made it to the buspark five minutes later, they would have been in someone else’s. It’s amazing how such a little thing can make me smile.

And gawk in silent admiration of their cuteness for an hour.

Life In The Valley

June 10, 2013July 20, 2014 April R Year One Cedar Valley

Claiming that I live in the valley would not be entirely accurate. I live on the top of the mountain, with only a few towns further up than me.

Cedar Valley is a small community located a mere twelve miles from the tallest peak in Jamaica. I live in the Blue Mountains, made famous by the coffee it produces. Up here, the weather is 10-15 degrees cooler than on the rest of the island, and the sights are beautiful! From my vantage point, I can look down on either side and see the surrounding regions. Looking up provides a spectacular view as well. As a girl from the coast, accustomed to life at sea level, I couldn’t be happier with the change.

The mornings are a touch humid, but by mid-afternoon, a light shower cools down the area and come evening fall, the clouds settle in around us. There are mango trees aplenty, which the children love to climb and pick, and a walk in either direction is a great work out!

On Saturdays, I take a taxi down the mountain to Morant Bay, the capital of St. Thomas, to do my shopping. I meet up with the other volunteers in my parish and have lunch, visit the beach, Internet cafes, supermarket, and the fresh market.

At home, I live a quiet lifestyle with a woman in her seventies. She’s sweet and accommodating in many ways, offering assistance when I ask for it, and giving me plenty of space when I don’t. My bedroom is a comfortable size with an adjoining bathroom, and no lack of privacy. I have many windows for ventilation, and sturdy shutters to keep the bugs out when I close them. My only complaint is an icy shower that makes bathing a troublesome chore. But at least I’m not taking bucket baths anymore.

My school is amazing. A few weeks ago, during Site Orientation, I was greeted by welcoming teachers and eager students. Four weeks later, and that still hasn’t changed. The teachers and staff go out of their way to make sure that I am comfortable and happy. They feed me lunch daily, offer me little tips and advice that help make my stay in the Valley a pleasant one, and ensure that I always have a ride to and from school.

The students are just as excited to have me. They run up and hug me, shout “Miss!” every time they see me, and ask if they can study with me. Unfortunately, this can get a little tiresome. The kids often have orange powder from their cheese doodles on their fingers, and if I’m not careful, they end up wiping their hands on my clothes. Eating lunch in the library makes me a sitting duck for children to bring their faces to the window and call for my attention. The other day, I looked up from my meal six times in two minutes, and finally realized there were eight students standing outside watching me eat. Celebrity status?

The building is sturdy, made of concrete, and doubles as a hurricane shelter for the community. It has a science lab and a home economics room, which are mostly unused, and a library with some precious gems hidden away. During the summer, I will be frequenting the library and beginning work on one of my side projects; improvement. The first step is to organize the books, whilst seeing what material is present, what can be replaced, and what can be updated. Later I plan to patch the hole in the roof, and implement a more functional book-borrowing system.

I’ve been given a spacious classroom to work out of come the start of the school year in the fall, and internet is available on site. As long as it stays up, of course. I’m still working on getting it installed at my house.

The Next Chapter

My Peace Corps Volunteer Experience

Year: 2013