The Development of Ghana

It's not surprising I think about development constantly - I live in the developing world, work in the development field; I come face to face with the problems of development work on the daily (and I've grappled with their elusive solutions for the better part of two years). One would think it easy - it often sounds easy enough to accomplish, but that's from the perspective of an office with a view - on the ground it's a mine field, sometimes literally.

We all agree there must be balance, a middle ground on which to meet. Time and again I see the results of skewed, unbalanced relationships - well-meaning companies, groups, and individuals want to help the only way they know how: money, gifts and things in an abundance most communities have never seen. Lines are drawn and roles are accepted: the victim & the savior; the unable & the equipped; the ignorant & the enlightened; the giver, the taker, the charity & the help.

The legacy of these interractions create any number of things, from apathy to expectation. It's happened in many places for many reasons - we have a saying about the 'best laid plans' for a reason ... So what do we do? We change the way we give, sometimes we change the fact that we give, and we change what's given.

Peace Corps requires a community contribution of some kind; in fact, most organizations do. It impresses importance upon a community, implies responsibility, requires a committment; but this, too, isn't as easy as it sounds. Most communities need help for a reason - what if they can't provide the contribution, or cultural differences surround how a contribution is given? What if there isn't adequate infrastructure to fulfill the requirement (hence the need for aid)?
The plot thickens.

And sometimes the community lies; sometimes they don't understanding the concept; sometimes the entirety of the idea is lost on them. Back to square one.

In relation to what's given, more organizations are turning to a more Peace Corps-like model. We, first and foremost, use our skills to build capacity. We facilitate - teach people to do, rather than doing. It's much more relevant, but harder to accomplish (at least in ways that can be seen). It still almost always includes 'giving' (because someone, somewhere, will always need something or we'd all be out of a job; it's the way the world works).

We aren't always the first 'here,' however. Some people spend two years trying to correct the outcome of actions and behaviors before them. Visitors are often associated with one another, leaving behind them myths, prejudices and long-standing beliefs about the entire culture they come from. Short-term volunteers often underestimate the smallest action or spoken word - a gift given, a custom ignored (whether intentional or not) can upset the balance so quickly (and for so long) it will affect development in certain communities for years.

Development work is surprisingly delicate. Without the proper foundation, introducing something like plastic bags can have resounding affects, layers deep, that span generations and sectors. Similarly, handing out something as insignificant as candy, unprovoked and frequently, will affect the way a community views development work and volunteers completely; it may even affect their success.

The solution seems easy, right? Train volunteers. But how? And how well? When it comes to volunteers, there are several different types. How does one control quality in benevolence? And what's the role of benevolence in long-term development?

More than naught, volunteers are short-term, untrained, and largely uneducated about where they end up. Not many organizations have the time or money to prepare volunteers like the Peace Corps does. Many of them are young and inexperienced; some come to fulfill requirements for school or national service - the organizations they come with are largely privatized, unorganized, and spread very thin. Can you start to see a problem? It's not that their intent and motivation are wrong - altruism and volunteerism have a very significant place in the world - but good intentions often fall short in the face of such daunting social problems.

Trained individuals exist, but they exist behind a desk somewhere else, it's why volunteers are necessary. And when trained, long-term volunteers run into problems anyway, how can short-term programs expect anything different? It's probably why so many of us end up in development work - we keep trying to fix the problems we experienced on the ground.

This is what makes my job rewarding and difficult (and difficult to explain). It's not necessarily pessimism, but the inability to find the 'right answer' to long-standing problems; they solidify like a pile of collective trash - burn the top layers, sure, but until you dig down to the bottom there's no telling what problems hide underneath.

Would you believe this is only the start of problem, a tiny part of it? It already seems so convoluted, but this is only what I see from a community level - nevermind state politics, regional politics, or international politics; forget corruption or the short-comings of basic governmental structures in communities so far removed. What about economics, the world market, the willingness and ability of businesses to take advantage of a population without the proper knowledge or representation? And then we have culture wars, ethnic conflicts, social constraints and inequalities ...

It becomes clear why so many difficulties face developing nations, why they simultaneously need and desperately need to be rid of outside help (of benevolence and guilt). Take into account a history of exploitation and broken promises, of leading by example, and suddenly it's like putting a shattered egg shell back together. The solution is multifaceted and always far from perfect, always needing improvement, always needing time and attention. In my case, I feel like I understand less about development than I did coming into it (writing lengthy blogs and muttering to myself in secret).

And still, after all this thought, the answers elude me. I sit up worrying at night that the time I've spent on building a sustainable project will find some reason to fall short. I can't help but wonder, all the time, about the complexities of this life I've found and the path I've chosen to follow after I leave it. How does it work? How can it work better?

... and here you just thought I sat around holding adorable babies.
(to be continued?)

xx

Ghana: A Love Affair

The most valuable lesson I've learned in Ghana has been in my continued love affair with life. The smallest thing strikes me as profoundly important with increasing regularity.

It's not as though my curiosity, my childlike naivity, did not exist before Ghana, but it is most certainly magnified. And I like it. It enables me to whole-heartedly, with all of my being, enjoy everything as though it were new. The color of powders lined side by side, bowl by bowl at market is intellectually stimulating; the textures of the world come to me through a camera lense; the beauty of pattern and fabric against smooth, dark skin is like a canvas in front of me just waiting to be painted.

In my love affair I appreciate other things, too, small things with no seeming significance; the fact that something as simple as dried flowers and leaves dyes the color of my tea in varying degrees - orange to green to blue - or that the pattern it makes before resting at the bottom of the mug is as intricate as any cloud I've ever seen in the sky.

I find beauty in a lot of things I didn't give much attention to before. A small ant, the triumph of bread crumbs heaved atop its shoulders, is whispered encouragements by me; he is as important to the whole as I am. I hold no disdain for him and he, making his way over my toes, doesn't even realize I'm here. Just he and a breadcrumb.

I lose minutes, hours, of my day to people watching. Sometimes I just close my eyes and listen to the sounds, clues to life. In the midday sun no other movement exists but the wind, squeezing around the chimes in my window, through the branches of the trees; leaves seem to whisper to each other as sun light weaves its way into spots along the shaded ground; laughter - a lilting sound carried up and into the sky, as if it would fly away and be as free as the child who made it, who uncaged it.

Vibrations come to me underfoot in the drumming and building and cooking; and I can feel the strength behind it, wrapping itself up and around my calves. It's a rythym like a pulse showing me Africa's heart, why the leaves and flowers and branches still find reason to plunge into the ground and take root; dryness in the air sets my hair alive like the rubbing of two balloons.

It whispers at night when thousands up thousands of stars sparkle to life - just how vast this universe is and how I will never comprehend its fullness, not even if I were to dedicate my life to understanding the beauty to every piece.

And when I can't see it, I bend my ear to earth and listen; and if it can't be heard, I place my palm upon dirt like the ripe belly of a mother, and I find that life is going on all around me; that I should be naive and curious in its beauty is a truth I cannot deny. This is as relevant a lesson as any. Perhaps it is the most important of all.
Ghana has become a kind of love affair.

xx

Pictures:

'Coming [Home] to America'

"I am King Jaffe Joffer, ruler of Zamunda."

In trying to find words to describe America I realize it's as hard as describing Ghana. I suppose I could use a list of adjectives, things like 'clean' and 'vast,' or 'deafening' and 'delicious,' but that doesn't tell you anything real, does it? A tumbling list of adjectives says very few things; and I'm just as afraid of saying too little as I am of saying too much.

Two weeks in America was too short and too long; 'overwhelming' is probably the appropriate word - the extent of which I'm finding hard to verbalize. After twenty consecutive months away from home I was completely unprepared for it's complexity. I tried to steel myself, I did, but against my best efforts everything was foreign  How could it not be? The first time I tried to use my best friend's phone - a touch phone not unlike one I used to own - it was like typing with my elbows. No one on the receiving end would have known the difference.

Except her, of course, watching in abject horror.

Characterizing my experience in Ghana has always been a challenge; describing abstract ideas and emotions is the bane of my existence (I am a writer, after all), but I've never found it difficult communicating with myself. Knowing this, I gave no thought to the possibility that I'd become a stranger in my own life.

America isn't necessarily different; I am.

It would be no exaggeration to say the minute I stepped onto solid, American soil, I completely shut off my brain. Sure, I followed the polite, well-lit signs pointing me to an EXIT, but coping with the amount of motion going on around me required me to stop processing it. Until I sat down and observed individuals (*eh hem* their outfits, let's be honest here), I was like Terminator - determined to find a bench at all cost, without impediment and at pedestrian risk.

The first thing I noticed was a quiet anonymity, a feeling both blissful and isolating. Physically, being inconspicuous despite color, religious affiliation, or nationality was liberating. I closed my eyes to the stillness and took it in completely; car horns floated over the wind, a fast-moving highway hummed quietly in the distance, and not one person interrupted me or asked me what I was doing sitting alone with my eyes closed. And yet, having grown so used to a culture so thoroughly present I immediately felt Ghana's absence. Like my first months at site, I was completely aware of being separate from my surroundings (and if there's a place to throw twenty months of volunteerism into sharp relief, it's LA).

Usually volunteers notice how quiet America is immediately. Not all of my time in Ghana has been filled with noise, but the quiet is of a different kind. I didn't realize how acclimated I'd become to African sounds until my brain tried to over-correct them by reproducing the noises electronics make when they're confused. The airplane, the car, the houses I visited - all eerily quiet; my sense of comfort and familiarity had entirely changed (the ringing in my ears was just the proof).

Truthfully, I don't think I made one decision while I was home; I couldn't have handled the pressure. Heather and I were a disaster. We sounded like the vultures from Jungle Book: "Whadda you wanna do?" "I dunno, whadda you wanna do?" "I dunno, whadda you wanna do?" "I DUNNO! WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO?"

I didn't even care; I was so happy to be sitting next to my best friend that we could have watched paint dry, crack, and peel off the walls. There were so many different options, so many possibilities, that my only coping mechanism was to stare vacantly and pretend I didn't understand English  I forced everyone to make all of my decisions for me; this happened with movies, clothes, accessories, conversations, even a sandwich menu. I felt like a child - slightly frustrating, but only when people looked at me like I should know what kind of sandwich I wanted.

I felt obligated to explain my life in Africa, to thank everyone behind me for adhering to the social construct of a line, to randomly ask them about their sleep, their morning, their family, their house, their day, their job, their car, and their kids in quick succession. I was completely socially awkward, but without an obvious excuse. My line of thought, my type of conversation, my general life experience was totally inapplicable.

Writing a charming blog about volunteerism is one thing, being completely unable to relate in conversation like some hermetical cat lady is quite another.

In the Peace Corps we often talk about 'the glaze.' It's a look 'normal' Americans get when they've reached their limit in Corps-talk. This usually happens when they stop being able to empathize; it could mean too much detail or too little, too boring or too fantastical, and sometimes it just means too much. Some people last longer than others, but it always happens - at some point my experiences will just be too different to visualize. This isn't something I take personally, but it is something I recognize. Vigilance is key. If I'm going to catch the glaze soon enough (and save myself a mental wound), I've got to stay on my game.

Naturally, this makes conversation kind of a task. I don't think I realized how exhausting it would be to talk to people. It took a lot of mental preparation, continuously reassessing what was an appropriate topic; it was like exercise for my brain. (I didn't spend twenty months in Ghana to tell people about the mundane, culturally misunderstood, and sometimes depressing segments of the curtain-raiser called my life in Ghana, did I? No!) Still, I caught myself Ghanaian clicking mid-conversation; worse, I found myself engaging in Ghanaian English. I had to brace myself against things like materialism and melodrama, but also against the fact that I would inevitably 'glaze over,' too. (Just like that delicious chicken dinner on the KLM flight to Amsterdam - when did airplane food get so good??)

Near the end of my trip, we visited Quinn's (Downtown Colorado Springs) on a Saturday night. I forgot, completely, any reverse culture-shock I might be experiencing and jumped right in, belly exposed and arms spread wide. I found that my limit for group activities is roughly a dozen people; and the thought of more people coming caught me like Peter Rabbit with a carrot in my teeth. I felt my eyes go wide and the thoughts dropped from my head faster than I could pick them up again; I panicked so fast I didn't have time to recognize where the feeling came from. Anna, a friend recently nominated for the Peace Corps, squared her face to mine and asked if I was okay.

Ah. I remembered where I was, I realized why I'd started to panic - the sound of a hundred conversations rushed back into my head, a dozen of which were directed at me; live Irish music, drink orders, and general merriment came at me in layers as I realized, once again, that I was technically a visitor. This was not normal for me.

I had to reassess, and quickly. I realized it was easy to fall into a pattern of retreat; playing the role of an observer in my village had made me vulnerable to overload. I was vigilant, damn it. VIGILANT.

You know what else? I was lucky. Not only was I surrounded by some of my closest friends and family, I was actually enjoying being a visitor. Absence has this funny way of making the heart realize how lucky it is, how important certain things will always be, and how great it is to see life through fresh eyes. It sounds gooey and mushy and dripped-in-pink, but it's true. Feeling foreign to America means good things for integration, for my growth as a person and, most importantly, the opportunity to really appreciate my life. Both distinct parts of it.

Both distinct types of silence; both distinct types of 'queues;' both distinct types of conversation, friends, and experiences. It all came together sitting at the airport in Amsterdam. I was people watching, as usual, and I decided to run to the restroom. Not wanting to trek my bags back and forth, I turned to the Ghanaian woman next to me and asked if I could leave my bags with her. "Yes," she replied, "you go and come and then when you come, I will also go." My heart fluttered in my chest: finally, someone I understood.

I always miss America. I miss America because my family and friends are there, because Pikes Peak carved a giant ridge into my heart, because it's my home. Until a stranger spoke Ghanaian-English to me in a Dutch airport, I didn't realize how much I'd missed Ghana, too.

What better feeling is there than realizing you're coming home?
xx

RIP Gimpers; my home was you, too.

Observations of a Girl: On Being an Inspiration

Anyone who talks to me knows that while I constantly observe and appreciate my life's relative coolness, I consider it to be pretty normal. I know; I know it sounds contradictory, but it's true. My 'Holy crap I'm in Africa' moments exist within a constant state of actually living in Africa. It is for this reason that my blogs grow scarce (and my pictures rank lower in total number than my dad's did in a 10 day trip); I generally feel I haven't got much to say because this life has become my 'mean.'

Sometimes, though, I'm given the chance to see my life through someone else's eyes (something usually accompanied by compliments and praise, the likes of which make me blush like a rose in the spring) and it dawns on me that, like other Peace Corps volunteers were for me, I'm a kind of role model now.

I had the opportunity about two weeks ago to dine with some awesome, inspiring people; people making a living doing everything I'm interested in (One Campaign employees, political advisors, political lobbyists and campaign runners, etc.). I mean, I listened to these men and women talk about doing campaign work for people like Reagan and Gore, about their 'leg-up' positions as the personal assistants to famous Senators, about their involvement in very historical moments in Washington. It was fascinating; I could have listened to them talk all night. What I found mind-boggling was that they seemed to feel the same way about me.

As I casually discussed my projects, my daily existence, and my every-day working life, I realized that it was absolutely out of the ordinary for them. They considered it as inspiring and important as I considered their experiences (and let me tell ya: that's a kick in the teeth).

In truth, this happens a lot; I forget that (though coming to Africa was my choice and, therefor, doesn't seem very extraordinary to me) my job, my experiences, and the life I lead aren't considered normal  to most people. I'm living 'a life inspired;' a life inspiring.

I couldn't tell you exactly how this feels; like any lightbulb moment, it brightens my surroundings like a sonic boom and then it's gone. I could never claim to be inspiring, either - this whole experience has been one full of gratitude and child-like niavity from the from the start. I'm humbled by my work every day, and am often surprised at my luck in doing exactly what I came here to do. Opening an office or building a borehole is as equally awe-inspiring for me because I recognize the people around me who have created that success. Everything here is like a shot in the dark - one in every six attempts errupts into a sparkle of light, but most of the time I've no idea what I'm doing.

I guess it's because we get dropped here - into jobs we've never experienced, a culture we've never explored, a language we don't know - and everything becomes trial and error; we spend two years of our lives in a perpetual state of free-fall until we're plopped back down into the lives we used to know. It's why this job is so unique, anyone who tells you different isn't telling you the whole truth. It's a part of the appeal and it's a part of the struggle.

To wake up one day and decide to be inspiring is backwards - that's never the order anything in life happens. All I can do is lead a life I'm proud of and, so far, I consider myself pretty lucky in that regard. Maybe I inspire someone to apply for the Peace Corps, maybe I help get someone involved in an NGO or research about certain social and political climates - all of these things are wonderful and humbling, but all I've really done is pass the torch and continued living.

It's a fleeting, beautiful thing, you see; captured in blinding, fuzzy moments that stop time, but it's also a cycle. We each keep on living, doing the things we each find amazing; it's the great thing about life: potential - the power of doing. Maybe I've inspired, but that's not really the point, is it? The point becomes, what will you do with it?

xx

The Celebrity of Being a Volunteer

Narration of an escape:
They swarmed like bees; giggling bees with opposable thumbs; shouting and jostling for a place to grab, they ran alongside her frantic escape-pedaling. For the first time in Ghana, the volunteer truly feared ... for her bike.

I don't know if I mentioned this, but I'm kind of a big deal. A star, in fact. The bright, shiny kind - exploding from light years away and directing your attention, always, to its existence in the sky.

Take it how you want (a metaphor for my whiteness, perhaps?) but the above description is exactly how I feel all the time. A bright spot attracting attention; an electronic sandwich board welded to my chest: "OUTSIDER," it blinks. "DOES NOT HARK FROM THIS LAND!" (Naturally, my sign board only speaks in Old English.) The battery never runs down, it's novelty never wears off, and for the life of me I can't pry it away. I'd be no less ostentatious if I stole the chief's horse, glued a uni-horn to it's head, and taught it to shoot laser-beams from it's eyeballs (and that's just when I'm minding my own business).
... Of course, If I managed to do all that I'd probably deserve the attention, but it's an overwhelming thought, no?

Unfortunately, I don't have the skill-set to bestow laser-beam eyes (YET), but I am foreign and, usually, that's enough. More important than being 'foreign,' however, is the fact that I'm white. Where I live this is not only obvious, but blindingly significant. After a lifetime of chasing uniqueness and going against the grain, I have the daily urge to sink into the loving embrace of blissful anonymity. It's an urge that comes with the realization that a parade of children wherever I go will kind of always be ... conspicuous, you know?

On Whiteness:
Sometimes it's embarrassing (when everyone watching and greeting sees me trip over air and fall on my ass); sometimes it's awkward (when I try to pretend I don't notice the stranger next to me taking my picture on his/her phone); sometimes it's humbling (when I'm escorted to a location because the person I asked directions from wants to ensure my safety); sometimes it's the exact experience one would expect when being reduced to a color (when I'm talked about in a language it's assumed I don't understand as if I am invisible  - even though I do, and I'm not; when I'm pointed and laughed at like a circus attraction for no obvious reason; when I'm targeted as nothing more than a bank account, a marriage visa, or a status object).

This is the average day in my life; surreal interactions ranging from innocent (children yelling, sometimes from miles away, "SOLAMIA!! SOLAMIIII-YA!!!! BAH-BAYEEEEEEE!") to intrusive (random man stops my on my bicycle to insist I take him as a lover because he's always wanted to "take a white for a wife"). In fact, my skin color is so exulted (I wish this weren't the correct adjective, trust me, but it is) that not only am I sought after, but constantly on display. I couldn't blend in if I tried.

It's slightly jarring (sometimes amusing) and has forced my understanding of what Peace Corps called a 24/7/365 kind of job. I now empathize with celebrities; I regularly feel like Bono (though I'm pretty sure this is the only place someone like Bono feels 'normal' for the same reasons I don't). And it's probably the difference between visiting a place and living there. As life regains a sense of normalcy for me, I remain an object of curiosity for everyone else. What used to be endearing when the job was new is now a constant reminder that I'm still seen as an outsider in a country I now call home: I figure they should be bored by now; they figure white people are always from somewhere else, somewhere better. Ghana could never be my 'home' - it's where black people live (several people have explained this to me), which is why my novelty actually makes sense. Someone, laughing at the child parade, once said, "If you lived here one hundred years, you'd still be different because you'd still be white, Emma," and I can't really argue with his logic.

This doesn't mean that I don't have friends or that they don't want me to stay, it just means that no matter how long I stay, I will always be the focus of most interactions. (It is a strange, alternate reality to fall into; coming from a land that sees pointing out differences as politically incorrect - you can imagine most of us react negatively to the connotation of 'being white.' It's truth notwithstanding, it's considered insulting.) My skin is both a curse and a blessing; the catalyst for many experiences, to be sure. To have one's race pointed out constantly (as in, "White girl, come here," or "Hey! White!") isn't something our generation is used to. We see it as demeaning and find it difficult to come to terms with. I swear it's the 'cure-all' to racial slurs and stereotypes. It would do wonders for the average racist, finally understanding what it's like to be the 'blunt end,' so to speak. Perhaps we could eradicate all hatred through simple experience (I told you I'd save the world when I joined the Peace Corps).

In the very least, I've got some great stories (and a new perspective). When I finally get to tell my grandchildren that I was famous one day, it won't be due to senility or jest. It'll be because, "Damn it, I taught the chief's horse to shoot lasers from it's eyeballs! I did! I'm not lying!"

xx

More Things to Know ... In Ghana

1. Flies are like vampires. They never come in unless invited (upon the tops of childrens' heads).
 2. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT succumb to the temptation of looking into your latrine; you will rue the day. Better to treat it like the worst sexual experience you've ever had: ignore it completely.
 3. In regards to the above - tell your father you've no idea what I'm talking about. "Sex? Never heard of it ... must be something french ..."
 4. No matter how long you've lived in Africa, waking up in the middle of the night to Jumanji-like drumming vibrating through the floor will always be creepy. (No one is hunting you; zombies do not exist.)
 5. I do not recommend zombie-themed books, shows, movies or jokes. As soon as the thought is entertained, mefloquin-induced dreams will occur. (See number 4)
6. Reading by candle light: terrbily romantic; terrible for your eyes. Decide your fate: blind romantic, complete with adorable seeing-eye pet, or otherwise normal human being deprived of lots of self-love.
7. In regards to the above, standard answer should be: "Of course I don't know what 'self-love' means, dad. Who's JILL? She fell down the hill, right?" *walks backwards from the room*
8. Sewing, knitting, crocheting are all now pasttimes. Call me Aunt Mildred because, apparently, I'm 76 years old.
9. Read enough novels and you will start to talk like one. People like that don't have friends; people like that talk in iambic pentameter to their three-legged cats. Get ready for a long winter ...
10. America, even in thought, is completely overwhelming. Period.
11. Teo years is hardly long enough, trust me.
12. Looking forward to the task of handwashing two or more loads of laundrey is what we call 'Hitting the Pathetic Precipice." Now go fetch your water, loser (said the three-legged cat).
13. Harmattan (translation): biking against the wind both to and from the house; African terrain (translation): up hill both ways; Hot Season (translation): simultaneous heat rash and heat stroke. I am officially an Old Wive's Tale for whiney school children ...
14. A rain shower in Ghana is not a 'rain shower,' it is the Apocalypse - torrential downpours of tsunamic proportions. There will come a day (sometime in April) that all volunteers will pray for one lasting at least 1000 days.
15. Only in Africa will you wish upon a shooting star for the Apocalypse. But you will - Hot Season is upon us ... thank God it's 2012?
16. (Speaking of Hot Season) Beware of the Harmattan snot-rocket. It often comes, unannounced and with astounding aim, from around two seats up. Window seats always run a high risk, but snot-rockets hold a special place in squirm-worthy, Harmattan Hell.
17. Three separate cell phones (positioned at either side and behind you) playing three different songs simultaneously without headphones is totally acceptable; you've been misinformed. NOW ENJOY THE MUSIC.
18. Toffees are completely legitmate currency.
19. The more weirded out you are by the white people you see will directly correlate to your reverse culture-shock upon returning to America. You should probably get out more.
20. Stop!!! Stop, stop. Just stop .... you're still white.

xx

Madonna was Right: XPRESS Yo'self

There's nothing better than standing in a room full of individuals so bright they could light a fire. They're ready to take on the world and change the injustices they see - even when it means they must also improve themselves. I got the chance to work with forty-five such individuals at XPRESS Camp, a GYD-led initiative and the first of its kind, with Kimmy Smith in Wa. The purpose of the camp was to encourage leadership and volunteerism within the youth, while fostering self-expression through art. You can probably guess that last bit was my favorite part: I was all "ART ART ART!!!" all week (and we even threw in some theatre and song & dance); basically I was in Emma Heaven.

Because the first day coincided with World Aids Day, after crafts and icebreakers were over, Kevin Lenihan and I took the opportunity to share the stories of our uncles with the kiddos. By doing this, we were able to discuss stigma and life with HIV, after which, we were met with a rather interesting Q and A. The questions were interesting (and thorough), so I think it was a hit ... then again, I always say that :)

Over the next four days, we did an array of things - 'inner expression' masks, social problem brainstorms with coinciding skits, discussion of career development and leadership, a talent show (during which, PCVs preformed 'The Thriller'), and poster creations to encourage community volunteerism on a small scale. We culminated all of this in a public trash pick up in the Wa Market on market day. It was interesting, to say the least. Aside from the 'normal' kind of harassment that comes with picking up trash, I think the students found it hard to deal with accusations of reimbursement for work that was obviously voluntary. It was a common agreement we were all able to share and might have changed the way some of them saw the PCV leaders.

Despite a few hardships, I think most (if not all) students came away having learned a great deal. They made friends and opened up; they learned the value of respecting each other and the value of teamwork in projects big and small; they even got to use REAL flush-toilets. I think, in the very least, we taught them to be louder about their cause (ie. 'Hey! Don't drop that there: use a rubbish bin!" or "Hey! HIV is serious and stigma isn't something to laugh at!") which is always good when applied in the right way. 'Occupy Wall Street' would be so proud ... We also came to the conclusion that this model had to be repeated - you wouldn't believe the feeling of inspiration being thrown around by everyone; it was the perfect storm.

After being involved in such a thing, I can see why teachers do what they do - the potential of one young person (let alone forty-five) is enough to invest in thousands. And thank goodness these students have volunteers in their communities - it was amazing to see how good a positive role model could be in just a few days. Makes me proud to do what we do.

With the vision of a prophet, Kimmy (just call her Mohammed) organized our closing ceremony on International Volunteerism Day; five schools in the Wa district were invited to join in our festivities (and what's more, they all showed up!!) Three brilliant student speeches later (and a lot of certificates) we were finished without any serious hitches. Will Smith got to stay in his box.

Now that we're all back at our respective sites, planning has commenced for at least three more regional camps. I speak entirely for myself, of course, when I say that I've been channeling some serious artsy vibes, as well (which manifest themselves in Christmas decorations, if you must know). Personally, I'm as proud of us as I'm surprised that Christmas is a mere two weeks away (which is a lot). I can't wait to hold my own XPRESS camp in the Upper East! Nothing in the world sounds better to me than encouraging leadership and volunteerism at the same time as creative expression. Seriously. The only thing that could be better is another performance of The Thriller. Which is bound to happen some time.

Any way, I think we can finally change that old saying about shooting for the moon ... something like: "With so much potential in that sky, forget about the moon! Go catch some shinies!"

Whatever, mine's way better ... :)

xx