July 10th, 2009
“Bonjour classe” I say in my loudest voice, trying my best to project to the back of the room. Normally this would be no problem for me but today it’s raining. The thousands of fat raindrops hurling down on the ceiling make it sound like we’re in a stadium full of thousands of cheering fans. I look around at the students in the room, taking stock of my future students. Because this is the IT class we have students of all ages, from a boy I would guess to be 15 to a man who looks as though he is pushing 60. They stare at me expectantly.
I dive into the French headfirst, trying my best to be heard over the rain. I tell the students who I am and my plans for this summer (teaching them in Model school) and for after (teaching IT in Toma). This is my first time talking to real Burkinabey students. I look around the room and am thrilled to see looks of recognition, they understand my French! I smile, but then remember that I’m going to have to read half of the lesson I had prepared today. This is going to be painful.
In the back of the class sit the other IT trainees as well as our IT PCVFP (Peace Corps Volunteer Facilitator Permanent), Vincent. During training a large number of PCVFs cycle through telling us their experiences and facilitating our discussions. The PCVFs usually stay a couple of weeks, PCVFPs do the same thing, but stay for six weeks. Vincent points up, signaling that I need to project my voice louder. I feel like I’m almost screaming, but I manage to put out a few more decibels, straining my voice.
After reading a sentence I look up to confused Burkinabey faces. I realize that I’m talking quickly, but can’t seem to enunciate, go slowly and yell. I try for two out of the three. I’m teaching today about the basics of mouse use, moving and clicking. Many of these people have never seen or held a mouse in their lives. It’s hard to put myself in their shows. I think using a computer is one of my first memories.
The fifteen minutes I need to teach today passes by slowly and painfully. Reading French is painful. I give up halfway and retreat into my somewhat small but familiar memorized vocabulary. I can’t say quite everything that I wanted to say, but at least it seems like more people understand me. For a few moments, I almost forget that I’m teaching in French as the lesson seems to click together at the end. I think I could get used to this.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Site Placement
July 9th, 2009
The excitement in the air is palpable. This is the day we’ve all been waiting for. I look around the room at the thirty-one other faces. It’s hard to imagine that just one month ago all these faces were unknown to me. Time here is a funny thing. I feel as though I have been in Burkina forever, yet at the same time it feels as though I just arrived yesterday. During the day, the US seems like a distant memory yet a glance at a letter from home brings the memories rushing back as though I just left.
After some pomp and circumstance we are told to go outside where our fates await us. On the ground is a giant outline of Burkina Faso with thirty cities marked out. One of those cities is soon to be mine. The SE volunteers are going to go first. As a blindfold is tied over my eyes I take one last glance at the map. I am overwhelmed by a sea of unfamiliar names.
Once we are all blindfolded we are lead to our locations by our language teacher. Awa grabs me by the arm and I step forward, paper crinkling under my feet. After a few steps I come to a stop, waiting, listening. Everyone is in place, take off your blindfolds. I look down, Toma. It means absolutely nothing to me. Much the same as Burkina Faso meant nothing to me three months ago when I opened my invitation, but this time I can’t turn to Google for information, not that I’d be likely to find much.
Looking around, I notice that one of the married couples, Tyler and Jessi are my closest neighbors. They seem to have the same look of excitement and bewilderment that I must have on my face. I smile at them, they smile back. Someone takes a picture and we step off of the map. Awa gives me a map of Burkina and an envelope. In it, my site description:
“Congratulations, you are on your way to Toma, the capital of the province of Nayala! The Center d’Animation et Formation de Toma, or more simply the CAFT is a private school with two fully equipped computer labs and a dynamic staff. Tired from a hard day at work? You are just a two-minute stroll away from your cozy studio with private tied bathroom and scenic view. You can cool off with a shower, or you can take a nap with your ceiling fan running. There is internet (in your lab), a post office (just down the hill), and a couple well-stocked supermarkets (in the center of town). Telecel, Telmob and Zain are available in Toma, so you can easily keep up on all the PC gossip. Need a break from site? There is daily direct transoport to Dedougou (your regional capital), Koudougou, Ouagadougou, Tougan, and Bobo-Dioulasso, but watch out! It’s a bumpy ride no matter which way you are going.
San is the local language, but you might be able to get by with Djola or Mooré.”
I smile. It sounds wonderful.
The excitement in the air is palpable. This is the day we’ve all been waiting for. I look around the room at the thirty-one other faces. It’s hard to imagine that just one month ago all these faces were unknown to me. Time here is a funny thing. I feel as though I have been in Burkina forever, yet at the same time it feels as though I just arrived yesterday. During the day, the US seems like a distant memory yet a glance at a letter from home brings the memories rushing back as though I just left.
After some pomp and circumstance we are told to go outside where our fates await us. On the ground is a giant outline of Burkina Faso with thirty cities marked out. One of those cities is soon to be mine. The SE volunteers are going to go first. As a blindfold is tied over my eyes I take one last glance at the map. I am overwhelmed by a sea of unfamiliar names.
Once we are all blindfolded we are lead to our locations by our language teacher. Awa grabs me by the arm and I step forward, paper crinkling under my feet. After a few steps I come to a stop, waiting, listening. Everyone is in place, take off your blindfolds. I look down, Toma. It means absolutely nothing to me. Much the same as Burkina Faso meant nothing to me three months ago when I opened my invitation, but this time I can’t turn to Google for information, not that I’d be likely to find much.
Looking around, I notice that one of the married couples, Tyler and Jessi are my closest neighbors. They seem to have the same look of excitement and bewilderment that I must have on my face. I smile at them, they smile back. Someone takes a picture and we step off of the map. Awa gives me a map of Burkina and an envelope. In it, my site description:
“Congratulations, you are on your way to Toma, the capital of the province of Nayala! The Center d’Animation et Formation de Toma, or more simply the CAFT is a private school with two fully equipped computer labs and a dynamic staff. Tired from a hard day at work? You are just a two-minute stroll away from your cozy studio with private tied bathroom and scenic view. You can cool off with a shower, or you can take a nap with your ceiling fan running. There is internet (in your lab), a post office (just down the hill), and a couple well-stocked supermarkets (in the center of town). Telecel, Telmob and Zain are available in Toma, so you can easily keep up on all the PC gossip. Need a break from site? There is daily direct transoport to Dedougou (your regional capital), Koudougou, Ouagadougou, Tougan, and Bobo-Dioulasso, but watch out! It’s a bumpy ride no matter which way you are going.
San is the local language, but you might be able to get by with Djola or Mooré.”
I smile. It sounds wonderful.
The Storm
July 7th, 2009
The wind hits without warning, the dirt it carries stings my eyes and makes breathing difficult as I hurry to clean up the remains of our medical session. The light had slowly faded from the sky in the last few minutes as the storm approached and though it was just after midday, an artificial night had fallen over Ouahigouya. I had seen several storms before but I had never seen darkness like this. Another gust of wind hit, overpowering our feeble kickstands and knocking over several of our bikes. This was going to be a big one.
Today we got a break from the usual class at ECLA and were meeting for a medical session at the house of Ryan’s host family. Medical sessions are always one of the more popular ones, as the PCMOs (Peace Corps Medial Officers) usually brought treats. Today we had been sipping cold orange juice under the thatched-roof porch while learning some basic first aid for situations we were likely to encounter here. We were learning basic do’s and don’ts with snakes and spider bites, scorpion stings, acid-beetle burns, dehydration, car accidents, cuts and some other basic first aid stuff.
As we went through the last scenario in the safety of the living room the power cut plunging us into darkness just as the first few drops of rain hit. Within seconds thousands upon thousands of drops were pounding in the tin roof above our heads. I looked out the window to see a tree bowing to the wind, looking very much like hurricane footage from Florida.
“So this is where hurricanes come from,” Ryan remarks. We all nod our heads in agreement, awed at the sheer power of the storm. After a while, conversations start up. After a month of being here, the topic on everyone’s mind is site placement. We’re scheduled to find out on Thursday where we are to spend the next two years of our lives. Some really want to be in the rainy green south. Some want an area where the local language is Djoula, some want Mooré. Personally, I hope that I get a site where I can learn Djoula but I would be fine learning whatever local language I need to.
There are two different types of volunteers in our staging group, secondary education (SE) and girls’ education and empowerment (GEE). As one of three dedicated IT people, I am one of few likely to end up in a large city with a house with internet.
We talk for several more minutes before the sticks holding the water-soaked thatched roof have had enough and one of them gives way with a loud crack. Heads snap toward to door as wire, thatch, and sticks fall to the floor. I look around at the others, glad that no one was out there. They seem to be thinking the same thing.
“Clang, clang, clang” something a little more solid strikes the roof. Hail? Here? I laugh to myself, trying to remember the last time I actually saw ice. I look outside to see pea-sized hail bouncing off of the fallen thatch. Someone ventures out to grab a couple pieces and passes them around. They melt quickly. It is nice to feel ice again. I close my eyes, trying to remember what it feels like to be cold.
In time the storm passes. I step outside to breathe the air, cleaned by thousands of raindrops. I fill my lungs with deep breaths. It feels good.
The wind hits without warning, the dirt it carries stings my eyes and makes breathing difficult as I hurry to clean up the remains of our medical session. The light had slowly faded from the sky in the last few minutes as the storm approached and though it was just after midday, an artificial night had fallen over Ouahigouya. I had seen several storms before but I had never seen darkness like this. Another gust of wind hit, overpowering our feeble kickstands and knocking over several of our bikes. This was going to be a big one.
Today we got a break from the usual class at ECLA and were meeting for a medical session at the house of Ryan’s host family. Medical sessions are always one of the more popular ones, as the PCMOs (Peace Corps Medial Officers) usually brought treats. Today we had been sipping cold orange juice under the thatched-roof porch while learning some basic first aid for situations we were likely to encounter here. We were learning basic do’s and don’ts with snakes and spider bites, scorpion stings, acid-beetle burns, dehydration, car accidents, cuts and some other basic first aid stuff.
As we went through the last scenario in the safety of the living room the power cut plunging us into darkness just as the first few drops of rain hit. Within seconds thousands upon thousands of drops were pounding in the tin roof above our heads. I looked out the window to see a tree bowing to the wind, looking very much like hurricane footage from Florida.
“So this is where hurricanes come from,” Ryan remarks. We all nod our heads in agreement, awed at the sheer power of the storm. After a while, conversations start up. After a month of being here, the topic on everyone’s mind is site placement. We’re scheduled to find out on Thursday where we are to spend the next two years of our lives. Some really want to be in the rainy green south. Some want an area where the local language is Djoula, some want Mooré. Personally, I hope that I get a site where I can learn Djoula but I would be fine learning whatever local language I need to.
There are two different types of volunteers in our staging group, secondary education (SE) and girls’ education and empowerment (GEE). As one of three dedicated IT people, I am one of few likely to end up in a large city with a house with internet.
We talk for several more minutes before the sticks holding the water-soaked thatched roof have had enough and one of them gives way with a loud crack. Heads snap toward to door as wire, thatch, and sticks fall to the floor. I look around at the others, glad that no one was out there. They seem to be thinking the same thing.
“Clang, clang, clang” something a little more solid strikes the roof. Hail? Here? I laugh to myself, trying to remember the last time I actually saw ice. I look outside to see pea-sized hail bouncing off of the fallen thatch. Someone ventures out to grab a couple pieces and passes them around. They melt quickly. It is nice to feel ice again. I close my eyes, trying to remember what it feels like to be cold.
In time the storm passes. I step outside to breathe the air, cleaned by thousands of raindrops. I fill my lungs with deep breaths. It feels good.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Biking
July 3rd, 2009
I shift my bike up to 20th gear and it feels like I’m flying down the road, whizzing by both motos and bikes. My blue and silver Peace Corps’ issued Trek 820 ST sticks out like a sore thumb among the many other bikes on the road. The wind blowing through my cloths and drying the sweat on my arms and face feels glorious. I love biking on the paved road here. Unfortunately up ahead is my turnoff to go a home. I hop my bike off of the six inch drop off, which probably isn’t the best idea for the longevity of my tires, but I do enjoy it so. My bike immediately starts to kick up dust and rocks, just like every other vehicle here, but my mud guards protect me from most of it.
“Nissahara! Nissahara! Nissahara!” I see five toddlers waving and smiling at me up ahead to the left, chanting the Mooré word foreigner. I wasn’t quite sure how to feel about this the first time I heard it, but I’ve decided to think of it as my theme song. The smiles on the faces of the children who chant it show that they really do mean me well. Being recognized here is something to be strived for, and I think that is part of the reason why every kid I see says it. Also they just seem like they don’t really see a lot of foreigner’s whizzing by on a bike, wearing a helmet and sweating buckets. I wave to them, smile and say “Bonsoir!” as I pass them, careful to keep my distance, which is careful in the tight alley. Kids here see it as a badge of courage to come up and shake one of our hands, and I’ve had a couple try to dive at me and touch my hand while I was on my bike!
The rest of my two mile ride home is on dirt roads between rows of houses. Every house here has a walled courtyard, partly to keep animals in, partly to keep people out. There is a garbage pile for almost every third house, which is burned on a regular basis, usually in the morning as I am biking to school. Most houses have a dog sitting outside, and many have goats or a cow standing outside, munching on random things they find on the ground that look sort of like food.
The road itself is pretty bad shape, but is easily navigable during the day. Dry stream beds from the latest rain rut the road in random places, exposing rocks that look like they would like very much to shred my bike tires. Usually there is a pretty smooth trail that people have formed throughout the course of the day, and sticking to this is usually the best idea, I usually only leave it to pass someone or get out of the way of an oncoming moto.
The road opens up as I get further from town and the ruts start to get deeper. I pass a couple dirt fields on my way, inhabited by a random assortment of broken objects, garbage, rocks, sticks and dirt. There are very few plants here. I’m told that there will be more by the end of the rainy season, but I’m not getting my hopes up.
I cross the last field to get to my house. There are several small shops around the perimeter of the field, selling little bits of everything. I haven’t visited any of the shops as I’m saving up for a guitar. I’m hoping to get one when we go to the capital in a couple weeks. I pull up to the dusty red door of my courtyard and push my bike inside.
I shift my bike up to 20th gear and it feels like I’m flying down the road, whizzing by both motos and bikes. My blue and silver Peace Corps’ issued Trek 820 ST sticks out like a sore thumb among the many other bikes on the road. The wind blowing through my cloths and drying the sweat on my arms and face feels glorious. I love biking on the paved road here. Unfortunately up ahead is my turnoff to go a home. I hop my bike off of the six inch drop off, which probably isn’t the best idea for the longevity of my tires, but I do enjoy it so. My bike immediately starts to kick up dust and rocks, just like every other vehicle here, but my mud guards protect me from most of it.
“Nissahara! Nissahara! Nissahara!” I see five toddlers waving and smiling at me up ahead to the left, chanting the Mooré word foreigner. I wasn’t quite sure how to feel about this the first time I heard it, but I’ve decided to think of it as my theme song. The smiles on the faces of the children who chant it show that they really do mean me well. Being recognized here is something to be strived for, and I think that is part of the reason why every kid I see says it. Also they just seem like they don’t really see a lot of foreigner’s whizzing by on a bike, wearing a helmet and sweating buckets. I wave to them, smile and say “Bonsoir!” as I pass them, careful to keep my distance, which is careful in the tight alley. Kids here see it as a badge of courage to come up and shake one of our hands, and I’ve had a couple try to dive at me and touch my hand while I was on my bike!
The rest of my two mile ride home is on dirt roads between rows of houses. Every house here has a walled courtyard, partly to keep animals in, partly to keep people out. There is a garbage pile for almost every third house, which is burned on a regular basis, usually in the morning as I am biking to school. Most houses have a dog sitting outside, and many have goats or a cow standing outside, munching on random things they find on the ground that look sort of like food.
The road itself is pretty bad shape, but is easily navigable during the day. Dry stream beds from the latest rain rut the road in random places, exposing rocks that look like they would like very much to shred my bike tires. Usually there is a pretty smooth trail that people have formed throughout the course of the day, and sticking to this is usually the best idea, I usually only leave it to pass someone or get out of the way of an oncoming moto.
The road opens up as I get further from town and the ruts start to get deeper. I pass a couple dirt fields on my way, inhabited by a random assortment of broken objects, garbage, rocks, sticks and dirt. There are very few plants here. I’m told that there will be more by the end of the rainy season, but I’m not getting my hopes up.
I cross the last field to get to my house. There are several small shops around the perimeter of the field, selling little bits of everything. I haven’t visited any of the shops as I’m saving up for a guitar. I’m hoping to get one when we go to the capital in a couple weeks. I pull up to the dusty red door of my courtyard and push my bike inside.
Benga
July 2nd, 2009
I scoop some beans up from my bowel of rice and beans. It feels hot in my hand, even compared to the heat of the day which I take as a sign that everything was cooked properly. Most of the eating here is done with hands, and at this benga (beans and rice) vendor my friend Chris and I do the same, though mostly because we don’t trust the cleanliness of the spoons provided here. This particular stand offers two choices, chickpeas or rice and kidney beans, mixed with a small amount of vegetables, a bit of oil and some salt. At 100 CFA (1 USD = 465 CFA), it is one of the better deals in town for lunch.
Sounds of motorcycles idling and accelerating fill the air - this benga stand is located next to one of the few traffic signals in town. It seems the majority of the population here has motos as they are called here. The rest have bikes or walk, and a very few have cars. Occasionally a truck or two rumbles by, billowing out thick black smoke. I was never quite explained the full rules of the road, but the rule I follow is to yield to anything that is bigger than I am.
We are usually joined by a few locals on the rickety benches around the small wooden table beneath the make shift tin roof that looks relatively stable. Because we are in a larger city, most people here speak French as well as Mooré, one of three widely spoken local languages. My French isn’t good enough to carry on any sort of conversation beyond the basics of name, location and occupation, and for the most part none of them seem especially anxious to talk to us.
Today we are joined by a few goats as well, seeking shelter from the sun. Animals here are allowed the roam free for the most part. I’m not quite sure how everyone keeps track of their animals, but it seems to work. The goats here and a bit skinnier in the states, and they look as though they wish that they didn’t have so much hair.
The two ladies that operate the benga stand are almost constantly busy, serving benga, fish, and fried cakes to a steady stream of customers. There is usually a clump of people in front of the two tables that serve as the serving station, some waiting to be served, others chatting with the ladies who run the stand. We are so conditioned to the US concept of a line that for the first few times we came here we just waited behind the group of people. After a few minutes of doing this the ladies running the stand laughed at us for waiting so long and mentioned for us to come forward to be served.
Across the road from the stand is one of the few large open areas in the city, and I’ve heard that it serves as a parade ground for the military, though I’ve never seen anyone out there in the midday sun, let alone someone in full combat gear. The heat radiating from the sun-baked concrete makes it seem especially uninviting. Despite the sweat running down my face from the bike ride here, I’m starting to get used to the heat here. A policy of staying out of the sun whenever possible and a regiment of hydration have both helped a lot.
After eating we don our helmets and hit the road. Peace Corps requires that we wear helmets, and I think PCTs and PCVs are they only ones in Burkina that wear a helmet while riding a bike. When we travel in groups on our bikes we must be a strange site indeed.
I scoop some beans up from my bowel of rice and beans. It feels hot in my hand, even compared to the heat of the day which I take as a sign that everything was cooked properly. Most of the eating here is done with hands, and at this benga (beans and rice) vendor my friend Chris and I do the same, though mostly because we don’t trust the cleanliness of the spoons provided here. This particular stand offers two choices, chickpeas or rice and kidney beans, mixed with a small amount of vegetables, a bit of oil and some salt. At 100 CFA (1 USD = 465 CFA), it is one of the better deals in town for lunch.
Sounds of motorcycles idling and accelerating fill the air - this benga stand is located next to one of the few traffic signals in town. It seems the majority of the population here has motos as they are called here. The rest have bikes or walk, and a very few have cars. Occasionally a truck or two rumbles by, billowing out thick black smoke. I was never quite explained the full rules of the road, but the rule I follow is to yield to anything that is bigger than I am.
We are usually joined by a few locals on the rickety benches around the small wooden table beneath the make shift tin roof that looks relatively stable. Because we are in a larger city, most people here speak French as well as Mooré, one of three widely spoken local languages. My French isn’t good enough to carry on any sort of conversation beyond the basics of name, location and occupation, and for the most part none of them seem especially anxious to talk to us.
Today we are joined by a few goats as well, seeking shelter from the sun. Animals here are allowed the roam free for the most part. I’m not quite sure how everyone keeps track of their animals, but it seems to work. The goats here and a bit skinnier in the states, and they look as though they wish that they didn’t have so much hair.
The two ladies that operate the benga stand are almost constantly busy, serving benga, fish, and fried cakes to a steady stream of customers. There is usually a clump of people in front of the two tables that serve as the serving station, some waiting to be served, others chatting with the ladies who run the stand. We are so conditioned to the US concept of a line that for the first few times we came here we just waited behind the group of people. After a few minutes of doing this the ladies running the stand laughed at us for waiting so long and mentioned for us to come forward to be served.
Across the road from the stand is one of the few large open areas in the city, and I’ve heard that it serves as a parade ground for the military, though I’ve never seen anyone out there in the midday sun, let alone someone in full combat gear. The heat radiating from the sun-baked concrete makes it seem especially uninviting. Despite the sweat running down my face from the bike ride here, I’m starting to get used to the heat here. A policy of staying out of the sun whenever possible and a regiment of hydration have both helped a lot.
After eating we don our helmets and hit the road. Peace Corps requires that we wear helmets, and I think PCTs and PCVs are they only ones in Burkina that wear a helmet while riding a bike. When we travel in groups on our bikes we must be a strange site indeed.
An Evening in Ouahigouya
June 30th, 2009
I’m lying on a bench on the concrete porch outside my house on my back. The cool night air flows over me, giving me some respite from the heat of the day. The bench feels cool, especially in comparison to the dirty hot concrete floor I have just been standing on. I can see the moon above next to the concrete overhang - its full brilliance obscured by the clouds, dust and smoke that seem to permanently reside in the skies above.
Inside, Bernadette, the other boarder at this house, scolds Bulgeisa, the serving girl. Her usually soft and kind voice takes on a sharp tone as she scolds in Moore. I hear the sound of the tables being set. One table will be for Bernadette, Bulgeisa and my two host sisters, Gidoni, 7, and Dorine, 8. Their table is a proper kitchen table with six chairs. The other table is for me, my parents, Jacques and Felicete, and my brother, Faniel, 3. It’s not an arrangement that I hope to keep for the whole three months that I’m here, but at the moment I lack the necessary language skills to say anything else.
Geckoes crawl on the wall behind me, their small feet clinging to the wall so effortlessly, for a moment I feel as though I am hanging upside down, looking down at the floor upon which they crawl. Four of them appear from around the wall in a line, as if waiting for the leader to make sure that the coast is clear before venturing any further themselves. Their large black eyes shine the light of the florescent bulb which is their goal. Or more correctly, the insects and moths that fly haphazardly around the bulb.
Lizards here are very common, so far I’ve managed to identify and find names for three kinds: margouya, geckoes and salamanders. Margouya are by far the most common – when I’m outside they are a constant reminder to me that I am indeed in Africa. Not that I really need a reminder, the constant heat around me is reminder enough. Most of the time when I talk to people in the states it is hard to know where to begin. The heat is usually where I start. The first week here you can hardly stand it, sweating all day and all night. My skin, so used to the dry, clean Montana air, does surprisingly well the transition. Other trainees haven’t faired so well. Cases of heat rash, caused by the clogging of overworked pours, are fairly common, evident by red itchy bumps appearing on the skin. Spiny heat afflicts a few more. I’m told it feels like being stabbed by small needles every time pressure is put on the affected skin. It doesn’t sound fun.
Patience, our dog walks cautiously up to me. I hold out my hand to him, not expecting him to come much closer. To my surprise he does, and allows me to pet him. He is a good dog, but you can tell he has had a rough life. Scars cover his face from fights with neighborhoods dogs. He’s skinny, like everything else around here, despite the fact that he is fed every day. I think a lot of it is the need to have a large surface area to volume ratio to lose heat. He looks at me with his big brown eyes as I pet him, his tail slowly wagging. It took me a while for him to get used the idea of getting petted. Apparently dogs here aren’t petted. I asked Dorine why she liked Patience, she replied that he was a good dog and that he guarded the house. After a couple minutes of petting he has had enough, and curls up on the floor to sleep. I’m never sure if he comes to me for the attention, or the chance that I have food.
Part of the courtyard around me is visible in the all too familiar fluorescent light. This corner of the courtyard is home to the only tree, as well as the ominous hole which marks the opening to the well. The hole looks a little small for me, but seems a perfect fit for my three siblings. They seem weary of it, though the sisters do get water from it almost every day. The rope to the bucket is tied to the tree and looks strong enough to hold their weight. I’m fairly certain I could pull them up if need be.
Dinner is served and it is time for me to go inside.
Blag!
So I’ve decided to start a blog. I’m going to use this as a place to share my experiences here to give you a taste of what life here is like. I certainly can’t convey everything, even if I tried so I’m just going to describe small windows into my day. I think this is probably the best way to tackle the enormity of describing my experience here. A couple things to keep in mind while reading this:
1. The contents of this blog are not in any way affiliated with the Peace Corps and do not represent in any way an official view or opinion of the Peace Corps in regard to anything. This blog is for my personal use and is to share my personal experiences, and are not representative of the experiences. The contents of this blog can be read and used personally, but cannot be used or linked to commercially or in an official capacity without my express written consent.
2. The purpose of this blog is to share with you the culture and experiences I find myself in everyday. Respect diversity!
3. My English, which is already bad, will probably get worse as the months and years of speaking French bass by. I’m quite aware of this already!
4. Post comments! Post something lets me know that you are reading this and I’ll be much more likely to keep posting regularly if I know people are readying what I write. Also if you want to hear about something in particular, just let me know and I’ll try and get something posted about it.
5. Enjoy!
So I hope this can somehow share a part of my life with all of you. Also, I’d love to hear from all of you and what you are doing. Shoot me an email anytime! I’m going to be pretty busy for about the next two months so don’t expect an especially speedy response, but life is going to slow down for me a lot after that and I should have more time for correspondence. If any of you way to send me letters just let me know and I’ll give you my address. I’m hoping to get Skype up and working when I get to site, but for now I do have a cell which you can call me on, just let me know and I’ll get you my digits.
1. The contents of this blog are not in any way affiliated with the Peace Corps and do not represent in any way an official view or opinion of the Peace Corps in regard to anything. This blog is for my personal use and is to share my personal experiences, and are not representative of the experiences. The contents of this blog can be read and used personally, but cannot be used or linked to commercially or in an official capacity without my express written consent.
2. The purpose of this blog is to share with you the culture and experiences I find myself in everyday. Respect diversity!
3. My English, which is already bad, will probably get worse as the months and years of speaking French bass by. I’m quite aware of this already!
4. Post comments! Post something lets me know that you are reading this and I’ll be much more likely to keep posting regularly if I know people are readying what I write. Also if you want to hear about something in particular, just let me know and I’ll try and get something posted about it.
5. Enjoy!
So I hope this can somehow share a part of my life with all of you. Also, I’d love to hear from all of you and what you are doing. Shoot me an email anytime! I’m going to be pretty busy for about the next two months so don’t expect an especially speedy response, but life is going to slow down for me a lot after that and I should have more time for correspondence. If any of you way to send me letters just let me know and I’ll give you my address. I’m hoping to get Skype up and working when I get to site, but for now I do have a cell which you can call me on, just let me know and I’ll get you my digits.
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