There is an African man in my ceiling

I have officially moved to my village, otherwise known as the place where I will be living for the next two years. After three months of having my days planned for me almost down to the minute, myself and all my things were dropped off at my house by a taxi driver who I’m not sure knew what he was getting himself into when he signed up to move two Peace Corps volunteers, all their stuff and one puppy. No schedule. No plan.

My school year doesn’t start for another couple of weeks, so until then, my goal is to leave my house each day. Talk to neighbors. Go to the market. Take a walk.

The effort to accomplish this is why I am now standing in my front room listening to the thuds of the electrician as he crawls around, looking for the answer for why my light doesn’t light.

To get to this point was not as hard as I thought it would be. I did what has helped me the most since I’ve moved here: I asked someone.

As a general introvert and advocate for general independence, this solution did not always occur to me first, nor was it the most desirable. However, admitting that I have no idea what to do or where to start is normally the place where I have to start. 

So this morning, I locked my front door and walked to the boutique of my host family (left the house!) and asked the son if he knew of anyone. He returned ten minutes later with the electrician of the village on the back of his moto.