Water

Water security is often a problem for Comoros. During my stay on Grand Comore water outages or shortages were common. Few people in Comoros have the luxury of turning on a tap and being presented with water. The fortunate and wealthy purchase water to fill cisterns or large water drums. The less fortunate beg for water from neighbors, wash in the ocean, siphon water from businesses, or generally scrape by. Grand Comore has no natural ground water. No lakes or rivers, or aqueducts. Water is imported in the dry season and collected in the rainy season.

I was told that Anjouan was different. An island of rivers and waterfalls. A waterworld. In Anjouan, I was told, water flowed free (literally, there isn't a charge). My (limited) experience hasn't supported that.

In my town, for many residents, water doesn't flow from anywhere. Not from the dry riverbed, or the unless pipes, or from the cloudless sky. It is dragged, unwillingly, from a rocky well at the edge of town. If you arrive at the blessed time. I have lived a privileged life. "Water conservation" was simply a buzzword. A favor I might do the planet to feel good about my karma. I might turn the gushing faucet off while I brushed my teeth in the name of environmentalism or global warming or, you know, one if those causes. Sorry California. Sucks to be you. Sucks even more to be an impoverished developing nation with limited resources and little infrastructure.

My life is radically different now. My hair hasn't been washed in days. I can bathe from a cup and feel grateful. That shirt can definitely go another two weeks without a cursory washing. When my water supply runs out I trek over the dried riverbed full of trash, across to the dusty edge of town, and down into the pit where sometimes water briefly resides. Dozens of women are there hauling water, washing clothes, and generally living their normal lives. For me it is a misery to drag my 20 liters of typhoid infested water home. Life shouldn't be this hard. This is how much of the world lives, but in this aspect I can't cut it. I'm waiting for a delivery of water, which I will measure cup by cup, no drop wasted, because every drop reminds me that many people in my town can't afford this luxury. They can't quit when the labor gets too hard. They'll balance their buckets and jugs on their heads and trek to the well because if they don't their families won't eat, bathe, or drink. Every drop counts.

Medina Life

My new home is in a medina, a maze of tight, narrow streets, shops, and homes that surrounds the mosque. The streets are wide enough for one person to walk down, which doesn't stop packs of wild children from barreling through the maze at full speed. This medina and the crumbling walls around it were built to slow and confuse raiding pirates. I imagine that it was effective. I still struggle to find my way home. Lucky for me the wild children of the medina can always lead me to my house. In fact, any white person who stumbles into the medina will likely be brought to my place. I'm thinking about naming it Wazungu House.

For me the medina is characterized first and foremost by sound. There is no quiet in a place where one can step from roof to roof. Children laugh and scream, women chat and bargain, men listen sports and play games. But here the dominating sound, the sound that rules over daily life, is the call to prayer. It comes from the iconic turret rising from the mosque. An eerie singsong chant calling "Allahu Akbar": God is great. Reminding the medina's inhabitants five times a day of the force that governs their lives. As the call sounds the male residents will make their way to one of the half dozen smaller masques packed tighly into the one kilometer maze. When the call to prayer falls silent the beating of drums  rises to take its place. Women practicing for the all important weddings that are bound to take place that night. Rhythm is life in the medina. Silence rarely comes, even in the deepest night. Music plays at all hours, until the 4am call to prayer signifies the start of a new day.

Journeys

Today is Eid, the long awaited end to Ramadan. I find myself stuffed into a traditional Comorian dress, jammed into a crowded mini-bus, and set off down the road to Fumboni. Today is my host mom's wedding. The distance to Fumboni is short, but the journey is a long one. The roads here were once paved, but that is no longer the case in many parts of the county. Great swaths of the little road to the southern tip of the island have been worn away by time and rain. Now all that remains are narrow strips of asphalt that a bus might set two wheels upon.

I think I first imagined that people in Comoros, being so low down on the development index, would have little idea of what they are missing. But people here remember when the roads were drivable and when the power and water flowed. Those things left with the French Colonial power. The price of freedom I guess.

What all of this means for me is that I  experiencing the second worst bus ride of my life. It's rather like a rollercoaster without the fun. Or the safety equipment. It is a two hour bus ride from Moroni on the central coast to Fumboni on the southern tip. I'm convinced that you could walk it in four hours.

The bus hugs as much of the pavement as it can during the journey. The exciting part is when vehicles approach from the other direction. Then a game of chicken begins. Who will be forced to give up their tiny segment of asphalt? I'm not really sure. I had my eyes closed most of the time. But at the end of all of this was the beautiful town of Fumboni. And a journey of a different kind began.

Home Cooking

Cooking in Comoros is a labor of love. In a country largely devoid of electricity, ovens, refrigeration, and running water quick homemade meals are unheard of. Dinner preparations begin early in the day. My host aunt is in charge of cooking for her family. She leaves for the market shortly after dawn to collect the food stuffs she will need for that night's meal. The market is crowded, noisy, and overwhelming, to me at least. She navigates it easily, as she has done all her life. She returns with fruits and vegetables from one market, flour and oil from another, and cuts of fish and meat from a third. Some of these items will become tonight's dinner. Some will be redistributed to other family members.

The task begins with washing last night's giant pile of dishes in shallow buckets in the back yard. My host aunt hauls back breaking gallons of water from the cistern at the front of the house. The washing is cursory to my western sensibilities, but each dish washed requires significantly more effort than loading the dish washing machine back home. When this is taken care of, more women arrive to help. They bake root vegetables over coal fires in the yard, make Comorian bread in shallow pans over gas burners in the kitchen, and peel and juice various fruits while sitting on tiny little stools. Each little task is probably more effort than I would be willing to put into a whole meal. Spices are ground between rocks out back, and strange sauces are removed from a warm refrigerator that serves more as a cabinet than as a device to keep food cool.

I am tasked with taking a portion of the food they cook to Mama Linda, the less fortunate neighbor next door. I walk down the steep ledge to the tin shack in the compound next door and call through the scrap of cloth at the doorway. I am greeted with hugs and kisses and gratitude. Though she can hardly spare it, she sends me home with bread and fish made specially for me.

At the end of their labor they set a table with salad, baked bananas and cassava root, beef or goat, fish, flatbread, rice porridge, crepes, juice, and tea. The women don't partake in the feast they so painstakingly prepared though. It is for their male guests. They women will eat the leavings and burnt pieces from a communal platter in the backyard while others eat the fruits of their labor at the dining room table. I am given a seat of honor at the table with the men. I must admit that I am jealous though. The women's warm laughter from the backyard compliments the food much better than the men's silence.  

Comorian Voices: Yusuf

In the early evenings, before I set the table for dinner, I sit in the living room with my host father, Yusuf. It's during these times that he likes to talk about politics, his love for the people of Comoros, the Seattle Seahawks, and his new home- America. Yusuf grew up in Comoros, but like many young Comorians he had to seek higher education away from the tiny island country's blue waters. He traveled first to Egypt and then to Senegal. He returned home to Moroni for a time but his wandering feet soon led him to Europe, and finally to the USA. He is by all accounts a well traveled and well educated man. It has been gratifying, and often humbling, to see my homeland through his eyes.

Yusuf loves America. Loves it in a way that I think only immigrants can. America, to Yusuf, is a place where hard work can make dreams come true. His love for the Comorian people is boundless, but the poverty in his homeland is stifling. He hasn't given up hope, and looks for solutions to Comoros' many problems, but in many ways America has become his home.

I think Comoros has instilled in him an endlessly kind humor. His good-natured laughter fills the room as he recounts the time that a new coworker attempted to teach him to use the microwave, as if a man from Africa, no matter how well traveled or educated, could not possibly have seen a microwave. He tells me about the woman who expressed disbelief that people in Africa might have cars. She assumed that everyone rode some sort of animal for transport.

In fact, most Americans he meets talk about “Africa” like a single county, with one culture and one story. Yusuf accepts the duality in everything. He knows Comoros is beautiful, even if it is impoverished. In one breath he tells me about being berated as a thief for trying to help an man with his spilled groceries and in another he says “Shanna, the American people are a wonderful people. So welcoming to people like me- immigrants with dreams.”

I begin to cringe at these stories. He, still laughing, tells me to be kind to my countrymen. They simply know nothing of Africa and even less of Comoros. And neither do I, I have discovered. Everyday I find myself confronting my own assumptions and expectations, simultaneously shocked by the poverty and lack of resources and surprised by the ways in which the lives of Comorians and Americans are similar. Yusuf, with his kind laughter and never-ending patience, could teach us all a little about Comoros and about the assumptions we didn't know we had.   

The Longest Flight Ever

Let me just start by saying that I have done a reasonable amount of international travel. But if anything were to keep me in Comoros for the whole two years, it is the thought of taking that flight again.

After arriving at Dulles, our group of twenty, baggage in tow, was forced to wonder back and forth while the airline decided where we could check in. After they pointed us to the right place, they charged everyone who wanted to check two bags (nearly everyone in our group) $100 to do so. Since we lacked any official power there was little we could do to argue. We found out after everyone paid that, indeed, the airline was not supposed to charge us.

We had to wait around for about five hours before our flight to London. We had an 8 hour flight and then a pretty uncomfortable 10 hour layover at Heathrow. We then had another 8 hour flight to Kenya and a five hour layover. Our last four hour flight had an hour stop in Mayotte before we landed in Comoros.

We were all pretty much walking zombies when we arrived only to discover that most of the baggage never arrived. And apparently this is the best flight PC Comoros has ever experienced. I'll cross my fingers for next year's volunteers.

I will also add that the view of Comoros from the airplane was worth it. It's the kind of breathtaking thing you see in the movies.

Staging

Staging was a whirlwind affair. We all left for DC on the 8th. I meet up with another volunteer, Sam, in the airport. We commuted to the hotel together and shortly after check-in we had our first meeting. We received ATM cards with $165 on them to get us through the next few days. Staging is different for each country I am led to believe. Ours seemed to be very brief, perhaps a result of the expense of housing us in DC. Rooms during staging are shared and you use your ATM card to pay for meals. A last American meal with fellow trainees is a good way to say goodbye to home.

The morning after arrival our staging sessions really began. We learned about Peace Corps rules, policies, and regulations. Lots of ice breaking and team work activities so you can get to know your fellow volunteers. We also received our new passport and visa documents. After a few hours of sessions we left for the airport.

Having our staging in DC is apparently unusual. It is generally cost prohibitive but the DC staff wanted to be involved in our staging since we are the first cohort to be sent to Comoros since the program closed in the 1990s.

Most of staging is a blur. After barely 24 hours in DC we were on our way to Comoros.