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I once had a boyfriend in college who insisted on having a full-size, black leather office chair at his desk in his dorm room.I found this utterly ridiculous (especially when I found said chair entrusted to my care one summer and became responsible for moving and storing it).I just didn't see the point: the school year really only lasts nine months, and besides - our school provided us with decent desk chairs.But what I've realized in recent months is what a difference making yourself comfortable in your surroundings actually makes.
It started with one of my neighbors, Eda, asking me for money.(I wish such a percentage of my stories wouldn't begin this way, but unfortunately…)It's rainy season, which, despite producing showers every single day, also brings an onset of, essentially, famine.Villagers have planted but are waiting for their crops to grow and have mostly finished up the corn, potatoes and beans from last year's harvest.So the requests I've received for assistance have increased. Eda has been coming over and basically criticizing my house in order to find an odd job she might perform.At one point, she actually took to dancing in the habitual puddles forming on my porch to demonstrate my failure at upkeep.I already have a lady, Patricia, who carries my water, so I don't really need another employee.But, before the puddle polka commenced again, I caved and told Eda she could wash my floors and windows.
I'm ashamed to admit, even after seven months, I didn't even know my windows could open.They were so grimy, I didn't want to touch them and why risk letting in more bugs?But (Meg, especially, will be pleased to learn) I literally did "open up the dirty windows."After Eda's work, I was so inspired by the subsequent breeze from throwing them open I decided to let a sense of freshness prevail overall.Thus I began a period of "nesting."
I suddenly realized how much I hated my curtains, how nothing in my rooms reflected me, how I'd convinced myself the situation, Peace Corps itself, was only temporary - so what did it matter?I opened my eyes to how bad I'd let things get.It wasn't just Eda, I realized - my other friends and neighbors had been trying to point this out.Noticing the state of my overgrown lawn, my broken fence and so forth, their methods ranged from gentle chidings to outright contempt:
"You will be here a long time," said Sister Ruth.
"Two years is not a joke," said Square, the health center's ambulance driver.
"Why are you living this way? You are not refugee!" Mr. Moya yelled.
So I went all out, buying fabric and having furniture built.It just so happens that Ali, the JICA (Japanese version of Peace Corps) volunteer is a master seamstress.I mentioned I wanted to make pillows, and she produced zippers (of all things) to make fancy coverings.Working together, we made floor cushions, pillows and curtains.I now see that owning my space means owning the experience, agreeing to get comfortable, to invest and get down to business.
I am struggling, though, with feeling taken advantage of.I want to believe my neighbors are my friends, but then they beg and I wonder if they're just securing themselves a benefactress.Mr. Moya, for instance, has recently become my watchman.Most PCVs and NGO workers employ local men to guard their homes at night, but I've never felt insecure enough to believe I needed one.One day, though, Patricia's husband stopped over to warn me thieves had stolen buckets and food items from another neighbor's yard the evening before.I still didn't like the idea of a nightguard (how is having a strange man sleeping on your porch any less creepy?), but I figured, why wait until something bad happens?
I was duped, however.I casually mentioned that day at the health center I was looking for a guard, and not two hours later Mr. Moya showed up at my house during lunch hours.His wife, a maternity attendant, told him I was hiring and he was there to offer to interview potential guards.Surprised and pleased for the help, I told him what I was willing to pay and to let me know if he found anyone.
Mr. Moya returned later that day."Madam," he said. "I could not find anyone willing to work for your wages.Can it be increased?"
Frowning, I thought about it for a moment.I knew the salary I'd suggested was reasonable.Still, I wanted to solve the problem so I increased the amount just slightly.
"OK," said Mr. Moya, beaming. "I will take the job!"
Not only do these situations make me feel like a fool, but desperately lonely as well.I know all PCVs face the same issues, but somehow knowing that doesn't help when I'm by myself in the village, confronted by what feels like demands with nowhere to turn.I want to support my local economic system, but I'm not here for handouts.I feel guilty and angry, then anxious about whether I'm doing the right thing or making it harder for the next volunteer.Compounding these emotions are still more complex feelings, mostly related to the fact that I am still a novelty, that I still get questions about what I cook, what I'm wearing, where I'm going and a daily chorus of, "Katie! 'Bo! Katie! Shapu!" equivalent to "What's up? What's new? How are you?" from dozens of children.And the constant staring.Oh, the staring…
But it's illuminating, if nothing else.I surprise myself daily with over-reactions, under-reactions, thoughts, emotions and memories that surface.
I was running the other morning (the same path I always do, at the same time, wearing the same clothes, in the likely futile hopes of sensitizing people along my route to the bizarre spectacle of a white girl wearing pants without an obvious destination) just after sunrise, observing the beautiful colors of the sky.To my surprise, a huge mountain appeared on my right!Further down the road, I clearly glimpsed what I know to be the Zomba Plateau, one of Malawi's signature landmarks, situated maybe 50 miles away.But I'd never before seen it from my running route before, nor this other mountain.
I visited Ali that afternoon. "Ali," I said, "What mountain is that?I've never seen it before!" (Did I mention I often feel like a fool?)
Ali's English is a little broken, so she answered me simply, as always: "Rain," she said. "Rain clears dust."
She meant that the new rainy season was improving visibility.
Maybe that's the truth.Maybe the mountains, the beauty, what's real, what's true and what isn't just isn't completely evident yet.
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