The First Few Days

Hello to all my people back home! 

It is officially week two of my life in The Gambia and let’s just say, it has been a rollercoaster so far. Nothing can prepare you for such a drastic life transition, no matter how hard you try. My meticulous packing list alleviated certain discomforts so far, but there is no way to prepare for the complete culture shock of being dropped off in a village, alone, at your host family’s house without any basic language skills. 

After one week of training at the Peace Corps Training Center in Masembe, we all moved to live with a host family for the remaining three months of Pre-Service Training (PST). Based on need, I learned the language I’d be learning was Mandinka and my training village was a Mandinka village not too far from Masembe. Nine other volunteers would be in this village with me and we would meet up daily for language lessons, but live with different host families. 

On Saturday, I loaded my bags onto the Peace Corps bus and the other volunteers and I headed out. I was jittery; butterflies fluttered around my stomach as if it were the First Day of School. The reality that I was in West Africa, about to move in with a Gambian family who spoke little to no English, had not set in. I could picture what this would be like, but there was no way to ever know. 

“Olivia!” I was the second person called to get off the bus and meet my host family. I’ve never been skydiving, but I imagined that I was being brave as the second person to jump off the plane and show everyone it was okay. My butterflies ballooned, and I was pure adrenaline. 

I’m not even sure what happened next. I walked into my compound with my host brother carrying my bag alongside me. As I turned the corner, I was met with about twenty sets of eyes and lots of Mandinka thrown at me. “Salaam maleekum, salaam maleekum!” was all I knew how to say. 

Within ten seconds, a two-year-old screamed and sobbed at my presence, shrieking and hiding behind her mother. She was terrified of me. I learned later that I was the first white person she had seen, and I’m sure I looked like a freakish alien to her. She kept screaming, people kept staring at me, and I had absolutely no idea what to do. There was nothing I could say - I didn’t even know how to introduce myself, I could only say “Kayira be,” or peace be onto you. I felt like a complete idiot. 

So I sat down. In the middle of the compound with everyone looking at me, talking to me in Mandinka and then being met with my blank, embarrassed stare. I sat there for probably 30 minutes to an hour, getting my sticker book and attempting to win some of the kids over. I felt so awkward, foreign, and uncomfortable. You might wonder, now Liv, why didn’t you practice your Mandinka before arriving to your host family? That’s a great question. Even though Peace Corps had only announced our language assignments the day before and I had learned general greetings quickly, in hindsight, it would’ve been a brilliant idea to know how to say “my name is Liv, what’s your name?” before arriving. 

Instead, I felt an overwhelming sense of panic and dread from not being able to communicate, at all. To make matters worse, my new home was in a dead zone and I had zero service. After about an hour, I eventually went into my room and started to cry. My phone wouldn’t work, I couldn’t communicate with anyone, and I had never felt this alone. The reality of the situation started to sink in. I was alone, in West Africa. My friends, family, boyfriend, and everyone I loved was halfway around the world. I had such a happy life at home, yet I chose to be here, and now I was crying alone, with a feeling of panic I had never felt before. I felt utterly helpless. 

My new home and front porch, bedroom, and my little host sister, Fatima.

And so it goes. Little by little, I am finding my groove. I am good, but it comes in waves. I love the stillness of the morning from 6:30 to 7:30am, where I find quiet and time to myself. I love holding this one baby, Sedu, whose mom just lets me hold him when I walk to her house, as if she knows it’s therapeutic for me. I love the baobab trees and I love laughing with my cohort of volunteers who hold me steady. My morning bucket baths with Chris Stapleton and Taylor Swift in my ear calm me. I love calling my mom and boyfriend back home, who tether and ground me, listening and reminding me so easily why life is good. 

I’m finding a strength in myself I’ve never known before. In my initial first few days of panic and culture shock, I questioned if I was cut out for this. There were many reasons I thought about calling it quits. The heartbreak of being so far from my loved ones, the lack of electricity in my home, the spotty cell service, the cockroaches and spiders, the constant dirt and sweat and feeling of discomfort in my own body, the growl of hunger in my stomach despite heaps of rice on my plate, and my next-to-nothing language skills. My life in the U.S. is so good. There are a million things that give me joy, and I love my people SO much. Why did I leave that? 

I keep reminding myself that a diamond is created under pressure. It’s cheesy, but I try to think about that diamond version of me. Day by day, I have to choose to be positive. I make time for the things that give me joy, so that I can keep going when the going inevitably gets tough. I will fortify the strength, resolve, resilience, and the empathy within me. I try to remind myself that the adaptation period will surely be the hardest. In Mandinka, they like to say “domanding, domanding,” or slowly, slowly. Little by little, Liv, with time. Easy does it.

Sunsets, baby Sedu, and an early morning run.