But Seriously…Don’t Let the Bed Bugs Bite.

We’re gonna start today off on a slightly more sobering note, mostly because recently another volunteer said something to me that I think pretty accurately sums up the level of education available in Senegal. She said, “I always knew I shouldn’t take my college education for granted, but I never realized I shouldn’t take my elementary school education for granted.” For all the complaints we have about education in the United States, most of us really do get an amazing education, not just in reading and writing and arithmetic…but in logic, reasoning and creativity, areas that we might not directly address but nevertheless help us to become successful confident individuals. The kids here don’t learn any of these more abstract concepts and being here has made me realize how crippling that can be.


Anyway, moving on…my Senegalese family has amazed me twice in the past few months with small gestures that really made me feel like part of the family. The first surprise came at the end of a four day training I had helped organize. My moms were cooking and when lunch came and we opened up the bowls, I was amazed to find…my favorite Senegalese meal! Seems like a silly thing I know but this is a meal we never eat in village and I’m pretty sure my moms had to ask someone else to teach them how to make it – regardless, it was an extremely touching gesture. The second thing that happened was my Senegalese moms getting truly upset when I told them Kindii (my dog) would officially be going to the United States in about a week. I always thought they really didn’t like Kindii, and while that may be true for the vast majority of Senegalese people…apparently my family (minus my youngest sister who literally kicks Kindii whenever she approaches – to be fair I think it is because she is scared) really does like her. I offered to get them another dog, and they told me “no dog could ever replace Kindii, she follows us around, and she is part of our family.” I did try to explain that any dog would love them and follow them around if they fed it and didn’t kick it…but whateves.

So a while ago I attended my first partial Senegalese wedding. Well, the girl already came back to my village. She showed up late one night after apparently walking over forty kilometers. She said her husband wasn’t treating her well and was beating her…and of course she is already pregnant. This happened about a week after another woman who I had never seen before showed up in our compound and without a word walked into my Dad’s hut…then we all heard this terrible wailing. It continued for about ten minutes and then she came outside and walked away. I asked my moms what was going on and they said that she was my dad’s younger sister who was married to a man in a different village. He was not providing her a place to sleep or food to cook for her children. She showed up with twins, one on her back and one in her arms and it sounded like she may have walked just as far as the first girl. Later in the day a woman came into our compound with one incredibly malnourished child…and I called her out a bit…I stated a little harshly that it was irresponsible to have children you couldn’t take care of and that she needed to make more of an effort to take care of her one incredibly sick child. I know this seems more than a little bit mean but sometimes I get sick of seeing problems that could be solved with a little bit of planning on the parents’ part, things that aren’t so much about poverty as they are about a lack of foresight and education. Well this all blew up in my face, as this was the woman who had entered my dad’s hut wailing that same morning, I hadn’t really seen her face and since she was only carrying one of her twins I didn’t realize it was her. I felt awful, because in reality it was her husband I was upset with. She was doing everything she could to help her children and she probably didn’t want additional children but couldn’t do much about it since her husband already proved he couldn’t provide food or shelter for her and the children. She agreed to come over later and we talked about ways she could supplement her childrens’ nutrition for free. Now, to jump all the way back to the first pregnant girl who came back to my village…this time it seems things were her fault and not her husband’s. To her credit she is an incredibly strong willed girl, in fact she is a token teenage girl – knows everything. She wanted to get married and though everyone in her family, including her ‘adopted’ father told her not to she insisted. So she was married and went away, and she hates it. Her husband treats her well but she hates it. I learned all this because I saw her husband dragging her out of our village to take her back to his and I was appalled. I asked my moms why they were letting this happen and they explained. Yes – I do still have a problem with a man literally dragging a girl away…but here’s the thing. She asked for the marriage, her family paid her husband and paid a great deal of money to do what she asked, and within weeks she wants to take it all back. It’s a sticky situation but I understand where her family is coming from. It’s all very Kardashian.

Enough intensity. I was chilling by my hut the other day when what to my wandering ears should I hear…but the bouncing and pounding of ten big pestals. Turns out the kids were pounding in preparation for the Monde. Which is this very interesting tradition. It starts when the men head out into the bush. They walk for about twenty minutes to a seasonal pond where they then begin digging holes. Then the young boys fill the holes with water. They pour in a mixture of tree bark and salt that the women pounded up the night before. Then they crush up a tree root and wash it in the puddles they dug. I think they are also supposed to add a bit of soured cow’s milk to each puddle but this year Kindii got to the cow’s milk before they could add it to the puddles. Next we all stand to the side as a stampede of cows comes flying our way. Apparently the cows love this craftfully concocted puddle mixture. It’s basically the Senegalese version of giving a cow a salt block.

Generally village is a happy relaxed place but every so often ginormous fights break out…rarely, if ever, do I know the reason for these fights…but nevertheless they are generally interesting. In the last big fight one guy went after the other with a solid wood stool, and then with a 5 ft long, half foot wide tree branch…

Another story illustrating all the emotional growing I’ve been doing in Senegal. I was working in the garden with the women and trying to encourage them to use a technique they had already learned at least three times. I was rather furiously digging while trying to demonstrate the simple technique for the fourth time…and also rather furiously sweating…which meant the women started giggling at the silly sweating white girl. Usually I could take this in stride but since I was trying to help them and they really didn’t seem interested and I was exhausted I just threw my shovel down and walked away. I walked around for a while until I was calm enough to go back, but by this time only three of the older women remained. The ‘women’ who had been laughing at me were really all teenage girls – hard to remember since they all have kids and run households. Anyway when I saw the three older women I tried to explain myself and as per usual, started crying since I have zero emotional control in Africa. It was totally worth crying to see their reaction. They were at the same time incredibly touching and hilarious…meaning I stopped crying pretty much instantly and started giggling. They have no idea what to do about crying people so they both took off their head scarves and laid them on the ground and said don’t cry child, its ok child. I have no idea about the significance behind the tika removal but it worked  Also those women actually hugged me! Which is a rarity in Senegal and really made me feel better.

While lying on the floor in my hut one day I was suddenly joined by a gaggle of screaming women. Turns out the Conqueron was coming. The Conqueron is a basically a huge double machete wielding Cousin It. He comes around with a bunch of dancing drumming young boys when circumcision season comes around. A few nights later two other female volunteers were spending the night in my village and my mom called me over and said…look I know you have seen the Conqueron before and it hasn’t been a big deal but tonight is the real thing. When the Conqueron comes you must hide. Apparently if any woman sees the Conqueron he is allowed to machete her head off…luckily this isn’t really how it goes now a days. Anyway, myself and Kindii and the two other volunteers were conversing merrily outside my hut in the dark when we suddenly hear the drums entering my compound. We froze…I looked around…not a woman in sight. All the hut doors firmly shut. Sharon, Katie and I pretty much lost it. I grabbed Kindii (who knows if the rule applies to dogs?), Katie body slammed Sharon into a wall in an effort to get inside my hut first, and we all somehow made it into my hut in time to slam the door shut and fall on the ground in fits of giggles.

One of my recent car rides was filled with fun. First…the front door was tied shut with twine. Second I met a Korean from the Korean version of Peace Corps and he was able to understand me when I said I was hungry in Korean. Of course he spoke excellent English. Third…The keys fell out of the ignition while we were driving…but the car kept going. Fourth…I started out in the back seat of the station wagon but then there was extra space in the middle seat. Instead of getting out and back in via the door I just put my legs over the seat back and then was pushed the rest of the way over by the guy sitting next to me.

Senegalese people…even the ones I like and respect…are constantly trying to get as much money from Peace Corps as they possibly can…who can really blame them? I usually find their innocent attempts amusing…like recently when my counterpart tried to convince me that we needed a 25 kilogram pound bag of salt…for one lunch.

I recently woke up to find a line of three red bites running down my leg. Convinced that I had finally contracted bed bugs I frantically stripped all of my sheets and threw them in the washing machine on hot. Wait. I don’t have a washing machine. What I actually did was ask my mom to boil ridiculous amounts of water so I could then soak all my sheets in water and then wash them by hand and hang them out to dry. After I had everything back to normal…I learned that bed bugs bite in clusters of three…not lines of three. At least now I actually know what to do in the event of a bed bug attack.

I watched one of my moms cut her toenails…with a steak knife.

Also I watched my grandma get sick and vomit on the ground 3 feet away from the dinner bowl then drink water directly from the spout of a tea kettle. No one in my family even acknowledged the event and my grandmother scraped dirt over the vomit. Yum.

I think I’m going to leave you with that little bit of TMI.

How to Open a Ziplock Bag…and Other Useful Life Facts

First of all, for those of you who are crazy and read my blog…I’m sorry!!!!!! There is currently only one working internet connection for all the Peace Corps volunteers in my region and I have been doing lots of school applications. I have loads of updates which I will try to keep brief (and y’all know I’ll fail). I am going to write this post about funny happenings and day to day life/events in addition to another post (before this one) about my projects!

I learned the Wolof word (I speak Pulaar) for a big fish. This is the kind of fish you are lucky to catch, and the kind only eaten by the more financially stable Senegalese, aka the kind that I have never seen in Thiewal Lao. The word is Thiof (sounds a bit like choff) and apparently it can also be used to describe a sexy man. As in “I’m going to go to the bar tonight to score me a Thiof.”

At the start of Mango season while sitting outside my hut I suddenly saw 10 kids go screaming through my compound. I thought someone might be dying…no, no, just a fallen mango branch, gotta get those mangos while they’re hot! I walked over to the tree to see one of my Moms (who is a grandmother) emerging from the depths of the fallen branch/half tree with a grin on her face like a ten year old and a bucket of mangoes on her head…yea that’s right she outsmarted the kids and brought a bucket. We then feasted on boiled green mangos and mangos pounded with pepper and chicken bouillon seasoning.

I have seen a lot of ridiculous car care techniques in this country…one of the more recent techniques involved stopping the car en route, fishing out some laundry detergent, giving the engine a good wash? And then continuing on our merry way. I, for one, did not notice a difference post wash.

I saw a freshly born infant (I mean within the past 2 hours) with penciled in eyebrows.

I had a lovely Easter here. We went to a Senegalese catholic church in the morning and the music was a really cool mixture of traditional hymns, African instrumentation and gospel style singing. Then we discovered a random park, complete with a mangrove lake, beach, live music, yummy food, AANNNDDD a ridiculously nice show stable, complete with 2 large rings, full size, non-malnourished horses, jumps galore, wifi and food. Clearly I was a bit hyper. Right around Easter I also took a day trip to the beach where myself and two of my friends were joined by a Senegalese man. This is not very abnormal, but when he started singing either O My Darling Clementine or the Banana Boat Song (Daaaaay-O) – can’t recall which – things started to seem a bit fishy…and I don’t mean thiofy. We were mildly annoyed so we started to leave the beach. Our new friend accommodatingly followed us, at which point, while walking up the steps behind us, he says, “All the girls with the jai fundes…these I love.” For anyone wondering right now a jai funde is a big booty J

Despite what that man said my booty has not become more Senegalese, my bargaining skills on the other hand, apparently have. While in Ireland I somehow managed to accidentally bargain for a bagel and some ginormous meringues. Go me.

With the arrival of rainy season I have again seen the departure of my phone reception, but this year I have shown my status as a second year volunteer and have developed my skills as a bush messenger. While in the garage waiting to catch a car from my regional capitol back to my road town I met a guy who needed to deliver an important (or we’ll just pretend it was important) governmental message to my village and another near me. Never mind that he didn’t know me, he entrusted both letters to me, given that “I want to be a postal worker” vibe I so casually emit.

The other day, while adventuring via a small bus we like to call an alhum (short for alhumdulilah, or ‘praise be to God” in Arabic), I was fortunate enough to witness the towing of another alhum using…drumroll please…an old fishing net. Bet you can guess how well that worked out.

When you take a sept-place (old decrepit station wagon) around Senegal, you generally have to pay to put you baggage in the back. On my way home from Dakar a while ago I didn’t feel like swinging by the bank prior to heading to the garage. Cut to me, sitting in a sept-place with 7 other passengers and 4 bags in my lap. We drove this way for a while before the driver finally turned around, boggled by the toubab peering out from behind a small hill’s worth of luggage. When I explained my pathetic monetary situation he just started laughing, pulled over, jumped out, opened my door, took all my bags, and placed them in the trunk. It was incredibly kind of him as very few drivers would do that but I think he was also just getting a lot of enjoyment out of seeing the poor white kid.

When I finally did go to the bank I waited in line for over 3 hours to cash a check to myself while 100+ people went (thank you new ticket-number-taking-system-mabob) ahead of me. Why didn’t I just use the ATM conveniently located next door, you ask? Why, because despite being on order for the past 17 months, my ATM card has not yet arrived.

Going back to the subject of my decrepit apparently poor looking self, another time I was enjoying the delights of sept-place travel I started out in one car. That car got a flat tire. Switched to a new car. That car had a loose wheel. I know this because the driver had to keep stopping, running around to the opposite side of the car and tightening the bolts. During one of these repair intervals the guy sitting next to me started trying really hard to give me about 10 dollars in cfa. No idea why, but I guess my village clothes look every bit as bad as my Senegalese moms say they do.

Another time while waiting in the garage for a car I got asked on a legitimate date by the guy simultaneously trying to sell me phone credit for a phone provider I don’t use. Not once, but thrice. I get marriage proposals all the time…no big deal…but a date, now that’s fancy.

I watched my friend Chelsea’s aunt eat honey a while ago. No, not the lovely refined, clean honey you are thinking of. Honey with whole bees just floating around in it. Don’t worry, she didn’t actually eat the bees, just spit them out one by one.

The other night, while sleeping I started to notice that my rear end was feeling rather itchy. Yes…I scratched it. I finally decided it was not a mere mosquito bite. Upon mirror aided examination, I learned that I had developed a 2 inch scab. Apparently this is what happens when you fall asleep on an earwig.

Upon returning to my compound one afternoon I found my mom Alliou deep in thought, head bent over her lap, rubbing her hands together. As I approached I noticed she was holding a zip-lock bag in her hand. After I inquired what her goal was she informed me she was trying to open it, at which point I got to unveil the magic of the zip-lock. Given the lack of skills which accompanies most of my endeavors into Senegalese household chores, it was nice to feel competent for once.

Kindii, my lovely Senegalese dog briefly made a habit of carrying around a dead chicken foot. Not just carrying, noooo. She would toss it into the air, often in my unsuspecting direction and then try her hardest to catch it. Thankfully she has outgrown this stage…for now. She has been hanging around with a baby donkey who seems to be having a positive influence on her.

One of the girls in my compound recently got married. I got my hair specially braided and everything. Unfortunately, the bride leaves so I didn’t get to see the actual ceremony. But the bride’s preparation is pretty cool anyway. People start showing up in the afternoon bringing gifts; fabric, wash tubs, food bowls, etc. The old women set up a big display and make a big production out of counting and recounting and rerecounting the gifts. Then they yell out loud how many of each item she received. “6 small buckets, 4 large buckets, 3 wash tubs, 5 large eating bowls, etc etc etc. All this time you don’t see the bride, but as night approaches she comes out and sits on a stool and is bathed and dressed (with appropriate modesty) in front of a circle of women while she wails and cries and generally acts unhappy (though mostly it seems to be just an act). She continues to cry and hide behind a white veil while the women do one final counting and packing of the goods, they she and her family and friends all jump on a horse cart and roll off to the wedding. And that’s all I know cause they rolled away.

I think one of the hardest things about being here is not having my Mom to baby me when I’m sick. But recently, when I was pretty sick I village, I was extremely touched by the compassion my two Senegalese moms had for me. They said they knew how much I probably missed home when I was sick and they wanted to help. They made me juice (which I have never seen them do before) and prepared a special breakfast (again, one I had never seen) made from the yellow powdery inside of a medium sized seed pod, soured milk, millet and sugar. They told me it was supposed to help sick people and I know they went out of their way to prepare it. It was an incredibly thoughtful gesture that made me so glad I have this amazing village family!

The other night, I woke up to hear Kindii growling and barking more violently than usual. I was a little bit scared because I assumed something or someone must have entered my yard, I couldn’t see why else Kindii would act so crazily. I got out of bed and pulled back the fabric that acts as my door…no people or animals…wait, Kindii was directing her anger toward a brown pile over in the corner. Could there be a snake hiding behind a piece of bark. I worked up the courage to flip the bark over with a long stick…nothing. Kindii was doing absolutely nothing, except growling ferociously at a strip of bark that had fallen into my yard…silly dog.

A few nights after this incident, it poured all night. Kindii was not in my hut when I woke up so I decided to look for her. Apparently, though I had slept right through it, the 10ft by 15 foot thatched awning attached to my house collapsed during the night. I have no idea how I can be so talented at sleeping. After worrying that Kindii was stuck under the fallen structure, I finally found her wandering around by the women’s hut. Phew! My mom then told me I should go to the faro (the seasonal creek where they do rice farming). She said I wouldn’t believe it and that you couldn’t even see the women’s garden, which is right next to the faro. I wandered on down. It seemed that almost all of my village was there yelling and screaming and cheering! It was like a carnival. We had a river…and a dam…and even some mini rapids! Whoot whoot! People couldn’t cross the faro to get to our neighboring village Bassoum, which is also how we get to the dirt road we use to get out of village. All the kids where playing in the water which was just great cause I am sure I am the only person who can swim for miles. In fact, later in the day my counterpart walked up to me soaked up to the neck. One of the kids had wandered too far and my counterpart had to go in after him, had the water been a foot deeper I have no idea what would have happened. People here just seem like they can’t be bothered with watching their kids which is both frustrating and worrying, but luckily everyone was ok. Apparently this magnitude of flooding only happens every few years so I hope there is nothing to worry about for a while. It was a rather joyful day though in most respects.

While walking through one of the women’s groups’ presidents houses the other day I noticed some very pretty fabric which I stopped to exam closer. It was decorated all over with different sex positions. I thought this was relatively amusing given that showing my knees here is considered slutty and when I mentioned this to Mymuna (the women’s group president) she didn’t seem the least bit perturbed. She even seemed to say, “why shouldn’t I use illustrated sex position fabric in my interior décor”…I couldn’t think of a reason.

I’ve also recently been pulling up A LOT of grass, in the women’s garden, and my Master Farmer garden, which has led me to remember…I am allergic to grass. Clearly not in any kind of intense way, American grass really doesn’t do a thing to me. But ripping big handfuls of meadow grass out by the roots for a few hours, that does. It’s quite itchy, and kind of like mowing the lawn by hand…fun J

While working in the women’s garden I also had a chance to demonstrate my impressive ax swinging skills. There was a tree in the way and of course no one was doing anything about it so I rather angrily wandered on back to the village, returned with an ax and started hacking away. The women asked me to stop but I refused, trying to prove a point that it wasn’t ok to just ignore trees that fall on the new fence. I also wanted to prove that I was not in fact completely useless and could actually use an ax. Well I got so riled up that I swung, missed and gave my big toenail a trim. Luckily it was an incredibly dull ax and my toe does not now match my half thumb! Also, needless to say, my village still thinks I have the motor skills of a two year old child.

On my way into Dabo (my road town) for the weekly market I was convinced I saw Siamese twin dogs, joined by the back leg. When I returned three days later I saw the same odd creature and decided I needed to investigate. It was not Siamese twins. No, no, it was in fact 2 dogs stuck together in the act of doing it doggie style, except they were now butt to butt in an odd, incredibly painful looking kind of tug of war. I tried to see if I could help but they wouldn’t let me get near them, yikes!

Finally, while heading into Kolda on an alhum, the guy across from me asked his neighbor if he could borrow some matches. He took three matches and placed them in him mouth like he was going to chew on some pieces of straw. He waited like this for a good ten minutes then one by one started chewing the matchsticks and rather absentmindedly spitting the remains at my feet. I have no idea what to make of this as it was completely random and not actually directed toward me, my feet where just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Hope you enjoyed my update JI’ll try to get another one up before toooooo long!

WHISTLING WHILE I WORK (THEY FIND THIS HILARIOUS AND ALL MOCK ME)

My biggest project at the moment is called the Master Farmer program. It’s a Senegalese-wide program involving local farmers, and Peace Corps volunteers and trainers. My Master Farmer was just selected this spring so we have been scrambling to get everything in place during rainy season. Though my Master Farmer has been working diligently, it has been a bit difficult. The goal is to develop a one hectare display garden that uses experimentation to determine and showcase successful gardening techniques. I know approximately nothing about gardening and Amadou Gano, my Master Farmer is equally knowledgeable regarding the scientific method. So what it comes down to is the two of us standing in the Master Farmer Plot looking confused. No…actually we are getting a lot done. Gano has taught me more about farming than I will ever need to know and I have been able to start explaining how to run an experiment with proper controls. Although our millet demonstration can be considered nothing but an epic fail, our corn and rice plots are kind of on schedule and our bean field has the potential to be officially on schedule. The garden construction is almost complete, we have started a live fence (closely planted, often thorny trees for when the new chain link fence wears out), and will be outplanting 24 fruit trees in addition to the ones he already has. This project is still in its terrible twos, and there is a lot left to do, but it’s looking good so far!

I am also working on a garden with the two women’s groups in my village. Picture your least technologically gifted and least rational minded grandmother…now multiply her by 30 and imagine building a garden from scratch with her and her 30 clones. That’s kind of what this is like. Truth is, these women are amazing, they get up at the crack-o-dawn, make breakfast, take care of their ten children, wash clothes, go to work in the rice fields, come back, make lunch, go back to the rice fields, then back home, make dinner, clean the kids, and go to bed. For the past month they have been doing all of that WHILE fasting for Ramadan and they still somehow managed to come out and finish their garden, aka dig 400 holes, mix and pour cement, put up the actual fencing, weed A LOT and start planting 5 kilos of beans BY HAND. They are just lacking a bit in the logical reasoning department. I’ve mentioned before that reasoning was always something I considered rather innate…well now I’m fairly certain its mostly not, we just learn it from an early age in school. Actually going to the garden can also be a bit of the challenge but ever since I gave one of the presidents a whistle things have gotten a little better. This darling elderly woman goes harrumphing around the village, whistle ablaze, business face on, and the women miraculously listen! I really do enjoy working with the women even though I go through more emotions during one afternoon with them than I did during a whole month in the U.S. I realized just how much my rowing coach had influenced me when the site of my women sitting and doing nothing instead of working made me a wee bit crazy. I was instantly reminded of all those fun afternoons loading up the boat trailer – holy Hannah Montana we were efficient.

My third big project, which I consider all my random bits of work at the health post has also been going well. In a week, we will hold our second big training for the health workers. The first training went well. I did a condom demonstration and for some mysterious reason my demo condoms kept disappearing. I felt like a fifth grade teacher. Ok, I am going to walk out of the room now, when I come back I expect the condoms to be on my desk…although in fifth grade the problem is probably related to smelly magic markers, not condoms. Anyway, back to the health post, the new doctor is, as far as Senegalese healthcare workers go, AMAZING. He is interested in all my projects, while being critical and involved. He is constantly taking notes, assuming responsibility, and addressing the areas need for dynamic well-thought out healthcare. My only complaint…that big beautiful nutrition mural I painted for a week last December…obliterated. They decided to do some remodeling, though apparently the only wall that needed to go was also the only wall I had painted a mural on. They felt bad but that didn’t quite appease me.

Next up, a scholarship for middle school girls! Myself and one of the new volunteers interviewed and visited the homes of nine girls selected for an annual scholarship, called the Michele Sylvester Scholarship. In the end, three winners were selected. Volunteers all over the country can do this, and at each school they choose to participate with, they can select nine applicants. We will hopefully be doing some kind of leadership camp with all the girls later this fall. The scholarship pays for the school fees for all nine candidates and pays for books and materials for the three winners. It is really cool to go talk to the families and tell them in person how proud we are of their daughters. It makes the families realize how important education is, especially when two toubabs are willing to bike deep into the African bush just to congratulate their daughter.

24 Hour Bus Rides

Before I talk about my amazing bus trip, some random updates.

There is a new fashion in Thiewal Lao now that it is “cold.” Sometimes villagers wear the hood from a winter jacket. Not the jacket, just the hood, you know the zip off removable kind.

One of the 3 women’s groups I am working with started their project, which is the production of ceramine, an enriched porridge that can help prevent malnutrition in kids. Making ceramine is a nerve wracking experience. I walked next to Mymuna (the women’s group president) while she carried about 10 kilos of ceramine flour on her head with no hands in an open container. I was nervous walking next to her because I thought I might somehow trip, causing her to fall as well. This was a foolish fear, women here are so good at what they do that she could probably trip and fall without a drop of the powder falling from her head.

The idea with ceramine is that eventually they will sell it to pharmacies and medical centers, but that is a long way off. For now I am just excited that they sold their first trial batch in 1 day! People here call it medicine and now the adults tell me that it cures chest pain (it is nothing but flour made from a variety of grains). It is supposed to be for the kids but hey, at least my village women are making money! The porridge is made from rice, millet, peanut butter, beans and corn, all of which are grown locally. The women also add sugar and moringa (the miracle leaf – since it is loaded with vitamins and grows like a weed) to boost the nutritional value and make it taste better. The woman made a second batch which they sold on their own and a third, larger batch that I sold during the Kolda “Donkey Rally,” a 100k donkey back ride across Kolda to educate villagers about nutrition and moringa. Due to all the luggage we had to carry I had to wear the same outfit for 5 days straight. I also slept outside a few nights with no mosquito net to keep the bugs out. On the last night I woke up with a big frog chilling on the back of my knees. Gross. While the donkey riders did causeries about nutrition I walked around selling ceramine. When a white person sells it goes a LOT faster. I was pretty much mobbed on the second day of the ride and sold about 100 bags in 10 minutes. People were shoving money at me, which is unheard of in this country! Hopefully they will like it and continue to buy when new women’s groups start marketing the ceramine. My friend Wilma magically showed up to help me while I was under attack. We decided there is definitely a market for ceramine so we are going to train a bunch of women’s groups to make it sometime early September!

Ceramine has also made me realize (again) how much we take our amazing education for granted. Basic skills here, like counting money or keeping a balance of your funds are beyond the skill and understanding of most villagers. Simple addition and even recording numbers is impossible for all but one person in the women’s group I am working with. The other group in my village has to ask one of the male teachers to keep track of their funds. And even then, teaching them to act as treasurers is extremely difficult. After 4 batches I still need to do most of the book keeping even though it only involves simple addition and subtraction. When counting our profit it took 3 women counting together about 5 minutes to total up about 20 dollars worth of funds. This is the kind of thing most of you can do it your heads in 20 seconds. So the point of this is just to express how ridiculously happy I am that America makes us go to school. Here school is not mandatory and even if you want to go to school, if you fall behind you might not be allowed to. Even those who finish school don’t get an education comparable to what most Americans get.

Thiewal Lao did have its first “adult class” though. The village adults asked for a weekly class where they could learn to read and write. So far the class only goes down if I teach it, but I’m hoping that will change. My counterpart is supposed to teach this week and he is pretty reliable so I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

Word on the street (or more like the dirt path) is that my health post is opening TODAY! I am going back to village and there is supposed to be a big welcoming party for the nurse that will run the post! So exciting. I believe the idea for this health post started all the way back in 2004. The volunteer before me spent her whole 2 years working to see this post completed and she did an awesome job. For the past year we have just been waiting for the nurse to finish up school!

I had my first small fight with my Senegalese family and it was mainly due to my frustration with the women’s unwillingness to stand up for themselves. I am so glad to have grown up in a society where women stood up for their rights before I came along. I believe it took an incredible amount of courage for those first women to challenge gender roles and I’m really glad they did. I just wish there was a way to get the women in village to start challenging their own roles. They are really held back by gender roles and it is sometimes extremely frustrating to see the struggle. On this particular occasion all of the women in my family were angry about a decision made solely by the village men. They were talking about it but refused to do anything. The men made the decision and even though the women didn’t like it they didn’t challenge it. It’s a situation I can’t do much to change unless the women themselves will work with me and when they refused to it was hard to take. I know it’s hard, and it’s something I never had to deal with but that doesn’t make it any less frustrating.

I did bring a Cosmo into village to read and I read it with my moms (they just checked out the pictures). This was hilarious because this particular Cosmo happened to have an illustrated sex position guide… Not the kind of thing Senegalese Muslim village women are used to seeing! I tried to balance out their new perception of America with a Smithsonian a little later on.

Kindii has picked up a new cow herding hobby. Yes Kindii is still a puppy (aka just about ready to start fighting goats) and yes, cows here are the same size as American cows…she is ‘cruisin for a bruising’ as my Mom would say. She has also kept me entertained by picking up about 10 mango fly bites. These lovely parasites lay their eggs under your skin and then the larvae mature in your skin, or Kindii’s skin in this case. Then I get to experience the joy of popping 2-4 cm long larvae out of Kindii’s skin. It is delightful. She also picks up an insane number of ticks, I have pulled at least 30 off of her in the last 2 weeks. I have escaped the mango flies and ticks so far!

Now for the bus ride….o so amazing…not. 24 hours total (this would take half a day in America), 3 break downs, 2 buses, 1.5 liters of vomit, boom. So this is how it went down. It started out like any normal sub-par Senegalese bus ride. We had pretty good seats next to the door (there is no AC so being next to the door is important). It also means you get more leg room. A Senegalese bus is basically a really old greyhound with no AC and no bathroom and no TVs. The isle is filled with fold down seats so once everyone is on you are stuck in your seat. When the bus started we were in pretty nice seats. My knees weren’t jammed into the seat in front of me and I was sitting with all my volunteer friends. We had food and computers to watch movies on…all looked good. About halfway into our ride, as it was starting to get dark, our bus pulled over. It was broken. We sat on the side of the road in the dark and on rocks, for about 7 hours, till around 1 in the morning, when a new bus came to pick us up. When the new bus arrived there was a crazy mob of people trying to make sure they got a place on the new bus. It was kill or be killed. Somehow we all got seats (no thanks to me) although now we were no longer all together. The new bus had approximately zero leg room. My knees projected about 6 inches into the seat in front of me, regardless of how that runs in the face of known physics principles. The new bus had gas line problems. The gas line was directly below my seat. We had to stop and fix that twice while I stood in the lap of the Senegalese person nearest to me. Then, my friend next to me stated to feel sick, but she was directly in the middle of the moving bus. So when she vomited, it was into the first thing she could find, a plastic bag with holes in the bottom. A good 1.5ish liters of vomit later, and the bus is still moving and she is still stuck in the middle. She did the only natural thing to do, which was to pass the bag to her neighbors and have them drop it out the window.

That was our bus trip to Dakar for WAIST, the West African Invitational Softball Tournament, aka WAISTed. Try and guess which we do more of, drink or play softball? All the teams dress up ridiculously, there were cops and robbers, German lederhosen, ballerinas and a variety of other costumes. Kolda (my region) was Space Corps. Clearly our costumes were the best. We pretty much just danced for 4 straight days.

Once I got back to village one of my moms informed me that someone had died. Only what she was really saying was that the wife of someone named “Died” (the Pulaar word for die is actually his name) had a baby. And actually two babies had been born in that household. I offered my deepest sympathies since I seemed to think that a mother had twins and then died right after giving birth. My mom looked at me quizzically and then left. About an hour later I figured out what really happened. Clearly my Pulaar is still a little rocky.

Someone actually did die in my village though. It was actually a distantly related family member (I actually didn’t know her) but she lived in my compound. She was an old lady who had been sick enough to travel to a large hospital in a different region of Senegal. She died there and they brought her body back for the funeral. This was my first funeral, not even just my first Senegalese funeral, but my first funeral anywhere. It was an interesting affair. Everyone was generally upbeat in the beginning, just enjoying getting together after so long. Kindii regaled everyone with her amazing tennis ball fetching skills for a good amount of the afternoon. We at oily rice thrice a day for a good 3 days (uuugggg). But when the body arrived at night the whole atmosphere changed. As soon as the car pulled in everyone rushed up and tried to help remove the casket from the roof while wailing loudly. When you enter the hut where the body lays you start wailing extremely loudly as well. Maybe I just don’t understand, or maybe letting out that sound is therapeutic in some way but the overall effect is very fake. You can tell there are some people who are really upset but mostly it just seems like an act. I have heard this from other volunteers, but maybe it is just cultural confusion on our part. The grief did seem real when they all sang though. It was late in the night after I had gone to bed, but I heard their eerie chant and could appreciate how they felt. The coolest part was that when I woke up the next morning, a baby girl had been born in our compound. It felt kind of magical. It also reaffirmed the impressiveness of Senegalese women. Dabu had the baby and she wasn’t in labor when I went to sleep. When I woke up the baby was clean and wrapped and sleeping. Dabu was sitting calmly in the same outfit she was wearing the day before (typical here) and looked as if nothing had happened. She had probably made breakfast that morning (no easy task here). All of the women were dressed up and sitting in the hut with her. Everyone who visits gets to hold the hours old baby. My last experience with a newborn in America was never. And the last American Mom I knew with a young baby made everyone wash with hand sanitizer before touching the baby, and that baby was a few weeks old I think. The people holding the Senegalese new born had definitely not washed with soap before touching.

More concerning babies. I mentioned before they are always on their Mom’s backs. But I am really impressed by the way the Moms never hit the babies’ heads on the huts while going in and out. I smack my own head on my low hanging roof approximately 2x a day so the fact that the infants heads stay safe when the mothers don’t appear to be paying a drop of attention is amazing to me.

And the last random closing statement is regarding injuries here. I am learning that my cuts take at least five times longer to heal here than in America. I guess malnutrition is messing with my blood…interesting.

“PCVs, they explained, were Peace Corps Volunteers, not as I supposed, a type of plastic pipe”

“On the way we stopped to pick up a lone white figure walking along the road. The sight startled me; white people hardly ever walked in Africa, and that there was someone white in Gamboula besides Gerard was extraordinary. The tall bearded figure got into the car looking equally surprised. He wore cutoff shorts and a ripped tee shirt; his very pale skin was dotted with red bites and abrasions. The total impression was that of a shipwreck victim who’d been barely surviving on a desert isle for quite some time. Our new companion said in horrendous French, “Who are you?” just as I asked the same thing in English. He was American, a Peace Corps Volunteer.”

If you want to read a book which was not written by me (I know my blogs may feel like books) but feels incredibly familiar to me and is relatively funny, get “Malaria Dreams – An African Adventure” by Stuart Stevens. Aside from that opening quote he also mentions the phrase WAWA…which is two-fold for me. First it makes me want a sweet cream cheese stuffed pretzel and second it apparently means West Africa Wins Again…a phrase that I would feel justified using liberally.

Among my other favorite quotes were the title of this blog, and an African he meets stating “But you are American. American’s have no problems.” Duh.

So it’s gonna be another long one – do not feel obligated to read it J I’m never gonna be like…what? You didn’t read my thousand pages of blog!?

I missed America like whoa during the holidays! It was far from your traditional holiday season here, which was a little sad. I did manage to make strange versions of my favorite cookies and listened to some Christmas carols but everybody else seemed more interested in listening to country music on Christmas Eve. I went to Senegalese Catholic church at “midnight” which was actually 10 PM but the church was full so we had to peek in a window and it was in French so I didn’t really know what was happening. New Years on the other hand, was pretty awesome. We went to St. Louis which is one of the prettier Senegalese cities and has a nice big beach. And the highlight was seeing Akon perform for free through midnight on New Years Eve. It was crazy but none of us died…many were groped inappropriately, and a few punches were delivered with love, but otherwise it was relatively un-riot-like. Akon was born in America but his parents are Senegalese and he lived here for a while as a kid. He spoke English for most of the concert which meant we were some of the only people who could understand him…thus “everybody put your hands in the air” turned into 20ish white kids throwing their hands in the air while everyone else looked on in confusion. Akon did speak the national language (Wolof) at one point but we’re pretty sure he was reciting a memorized script. Apparently he was interviewed in Wolof a while ago and it was kind of a disaster, the Senegalese don’t seem to understand why Akon has no real reason to speak Wolof.

We also went camel riding! Which was awesome as we stayed in tents in the “desert.” It was a small area relatively, but everywhere we looked all we saw were sand dunes. The sand was so soft and rolling down the dunes was awesome! Also, camels’ feet look more like paws than feet which I thought was interesting. The camels are really tall plus you are on the hump plus the saddle is at least a foot tall so you are balanced a bit precariously at an obnoxious height. When they stand up and lay down they either shoot up or drop down so that is quite the sensation as well. We only walked but I imagine trotting would have been pretty crazy. After riding camels there was a drum circle for the tourists. Considering ourselves as native Senegalese (which can be clearly seen from our skin tone) we decided to impress the tourists by busting out Senegalese moves during the drum circle…we succeeded…kind of.

The beach was fun except for the fact that a wave came out of nowhere and swallowed my ipod and phone, bringing me closer to living the life of my villagers. I have approximately no money now (until February anyway), no phone, no ipod, no computer if I am in village, and generally very little contact with other volunteers outside of the regional house (due to the lack of phone). I think this will only help me feel more Senegalese, and then in February I will become all technological again!

However, the locals still do not feel that I have integrated enough. On the way home from St. Louis I was sitting next to a Senegalese man who spoke English well (extremely rare). He was asking me how a Senegalese man could approach an American woman and get her to marry him. He wisely stated that it did not seem to work if he immediately met the woman and proposed. All this was of course so he could learn how to be most successful in marrying me. When he started becoming annoying I explained how gender roles are different in America and exactly why most American woman would not like a Senegalese husband. At this point he told me not to bring my culture to Senegal and that I did not understand the Senegalese culture. I informed him that I had a Senegalese mother, father, siblings, dog, job, etc etc etc and then put my headphones on (despite the fact that they were not even connected to my dead ipod). I think I will bring my culture with me wherever I want when it comes to my marriage proposals.

The end of my journey back to site involved 2 flat tires on my brand new tire tube and a lot of walking. When I got into village there was a professional wrestling troop there from Gineau Bissau. This is crazy – that a professional wrestling group would come to my tiny little village out in the middle of nowhere is seriously mind boggling! Also frustrating since apparently the villagers organized and paid for the event even though they claim they can’t afford to go to the doctor or petition an NGO for a new classroom. I didn’t go see the wrestling because I didn’t feel like playing plus it’s pretty boring to watch grown men waving their hands at like cats for decades, until one of them attacks and then the fight ends in approximately .23 seconds.

I made an attempt to patch my tire only to put somewhere in the neighborhood of 7 patches onto my tube and then learn that it was still flat. Between the 2 tubes on my back tire I have now patched the tire 11 times. Today the Peace Corps bike maintenance guy is going to magically make the tire happy again. The result of this tire problem though, was that I had the happy chance to walk the 18k out of my village with my backpack full of books and clothes, no ipod, and flip flops (I forgot sneakers would be the obvious choice). I did however read a good portion of my book.

I brought a paper brickette maker to village with the hope that we could make fire fuel using peanut shells, since we have a lot of peanut shells. I was a bit confused about how to assemble and use the machine. The villagers had never seen a machine like this nor could I accurately explain the purpose of the machine. This did not stop the villagers from helping me (helping here means taking the machine from me and assembling it on their own) assemble it. Clearly, they were not helping since they had NO IDEA what the machine was for. Also the peanut shells were not ready (they need to soak) so I really couldn’t even use the machine.

After a few days in village (with a continuing sickness consisting of tiredness) I decided to bike out with my older brother to check out some potential new volunteer sites. Seeing as my bike was useless, I took my younger brother’s bike. Despite the fact that he just got the bike, it is in a terrible state of disrepair. The handlebars have very small and slippery grips which I realize doesn’t seem bad, until you hear that the seat had a tendency to tip backwards like a slide so the only way to keep yourself on was to hang from the handlebars. Additionally there were no pedals, only the pegs for the pedals, which spin (meaning your feet roll completely off the pedal every 2-3 revolutions), cut holes in your sandals and generally hurt your feet meaning you can’t stand to prevent the seat from sliding you off backwards. Also, seeing as there are no brakes the only option for breaking is the patented Fred Flintstone maneuver. This coupled with sandy and rutty trails for 20-30k and being exhausted before even starting made for an awesome day. And of course since I was with my bro we literally had to stop and greet EVERYONE we passed on the trail and every village we passed through. When we arrived in the village I asked what they would do to improve the village even if a volunteer didn’t come. They said “nothing.” That really makes me want to put a volunteer there – so they can do all the work for the villagers… Also, while visiting villages, I came across a man with a cow horn growing out of his back. As I was approaching I was rapidly deciding the probability of a genetic mutation that could cause a fully formed cow horn to grow out of a man’s back. It seemed incredibly unlikely but as I approached I could see the skin wrinkled around the base of the horn and for all my doubt I could not see any other explanation. Fortunately for this man, my delirious presumptions were just that, delirious. He was in fact undergoing medical treatment. He had back pain so the obvious solution was to suction cup a hollowed out horn to his back. The villagers think this works because the healers hide blood in the horn before attaching it, thus when it is removed the villagers think the bad blood has magically left their bodies.

Back in Thiewal Lao, the Sous-Prefet (big government dude) came to inform us that as soon as the solar panels are installed our health post will officially open. This meeting included 50-100 Senegalese men…and me. There was something distinctly different about me; skin color? Gender? Age? Also, Kindii felt that she had to be included and came to sit on my lap. She fell asleep on her back with all 4 legs straight up in the air which I think understandably made me laugh so hard I was crying. Although this might have been due to trying not to laugh since I was in an important meeting. When the Senegalese person next to me politely asked what was so funny, I pointed at Kindii…he didn’t think it was funny at all. Happily, 3 whole women showed up for the last 20 minutes of the 2 hour meeting. Interestingly, the Sous-Prefet wore a long white robe with a white pointed hood…

A kid in the neighboring village fell out of a baobab tree (this is considerably taller than any apple tree you are currently picturing). He broke his femur. I went over a few hours afterward (when I found out) to see how he was doing and see if he urgently needed to visit the hospital. No pain meds, a homemade splint, and no intention of going to the doctor. C-R-A-Z-Y. Anyway, since he clearly wasn’t bleeding to death, he could feel his toes, and his legs looked reasonably straight I decided not to push the doctor visit issue.

Kindii has continued to make my village life exciting. She is the world’s (or at least Senegal’s) best lap dog. Even while I am doing yoga she remains dedicated to her task. The moment any semblance of a lap forms she is there. I do downward dog with a little upward facing dog licking my face and chewing my ponytail braid. I do upward dog with a little dog flopped across my back, and sitting forward bends while inhaling copious amounts of dog hair due to the Kindii wedged between my legs and chest. And finally I do the final shavasana with a dog on my chest restricting my breathing. She is unwavering in her dedication.

So I want to give you some insight into the emotional ups and downs of working with Senegalese counterparts. First of all, I think that the biggest problem in this country (clearly this is up for debate) is not money but a lack of creativity, free thinking and drive. Senegalese people work incredibly hard in the fields, but this is what they have to do to survive. If you request that they “think outside the box” or try something new you immediately meet resistance. This has more to do with the way they are taught than anything else. Everything in the Senegalese school system is highly structured and creativity is essentially discouraged. This means the idea of starting a new business is just crazy. I think this really limits the country but anyone can feel free to contradict that thought.

This sudden rant and interest in the creativity problem developed while I was waiting for a meeting to start. I shouldn’t have been surprised that at 9 o’clock, when the meeting started I was the only one there. Nor should I have been surprised when a ½ hour later I was still alone, but regardless, I was angry. 5 of the 20 invitees live in the same village as the health post! When the person who invited people to the meeting showed up I launched into an extensive rant about how this kind of apathy would be dealt with in America, at which point I referenced a certain rowing coach J

At about 10, enough people had showed up and I had collected myself enough to tell the attendees that I was no longer angry but that this was a serious problem. They love making excuses for everything and I told them if they ever wanted money they had to stop. NGOs love to come into countries and hand out money so natives start just relying on handouts instead of themselves. I am fairly convinced that if America or Europe had been young countries with NGOs they never would have turned out the way they did. I referenced early America frequently, stating that America didn’t have any money when it was young but Americans didn’t make excuses, they were creative and they stepped up and did what had to be done. Clearly I have no idea if this is really how it was in early America, obviously I wasn’t there. Regardless, I think I got their attention. I was then completely filled with joy when the relais who had managed to attend (2 hours later a full 6 out of the 20 arrived) decided on a relatively strict attendance policy with zero prompting from me. I went from apathetic to steaming mad to rational to ecstatically happy during that 2 hour time frame, and I think it is a good breakdown of Peace Corps work.

And to leave you laughing, I have had a community group (in a village I have never even heard of – it’s where my older bro works) named after me, that is group Jenaba Sabaly. Also, a new volunteer in my region is working with a patisserie to bring bagels to Senegal. In his first attempt he explained everything and then left, only to return the next day to one giant bagel. The baker had apparently thought all the batter was to be used for one bagel, instead of several dozen.