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.

The Good, the Bad & the Sad

Police died. Probably my saddest moment in Senegal so far. Police is my nearest volunteer neighbor’s dog’s girlfriend. Yes, I know this is a bit of an obscure death, especially since a 10 year old girl died in my own village only a short while ago. The difference was that with Police I felt how completely helpless life in Senegal can be. The girl in my village was a kid I didn’t know and I heard about her illness after the fact. Police was a young friendly dog who even visited me in village with my nearest neighbor (Amanda) and her dog (Nacho). When I showed up in Amanda’s village on Dec. 23^rd I was just coming to see Police’s new puppies, and visit Amanda for the morning. I wasn’t expecting Amanda to tell me Police had been in labor for 2 days, was covered in blood and was so exhausted you could drag her across the dirt without a single whimper of protest. No puppies. And no options. We couldn’t take her to a vet; there aren’t any in a 4 hour radius, assuming the best traveling conditions. No one in Amanda’s village cared if Police died. We tried everything we could think of, searching through Amanda’s own med kit, trying to reach into Police’s uterus, and even considered trying to make a small incision in her stomach. In the end she wandered off and was found dead about an hour after I went home to Thiewal Lao. I cried that night…and not just because of Police but because I know that my sister-in-law Djonfollo could have a similar experience. She could be stuck, bleeding and exhausted, with no easy way to a doctor and I could be sitting with her feeling just as helpless. Granted a doctor is a little easier to come by than a vet and the family would be far more willing to make sacrifices to help her, but it happens.

To make things worse, Amanda’s own dog is now sick, and she isn’t sure he is going to be waiting in village for her when she returns. And there really isn’t much she can do about it. It kind of gets you down.

But while we are on the topic of dogs I want to move on to happier things (since I don’t like sad stories). Happier things being my new puppy! She is an adorable little brindle puppy with white paws, a white tip on her tail and a white stripe on her face. Her name is Kindii (Kin-dy) Sabaly. Kindii is a Senegalese name (short for Kindiima) and Sabaly is my last name here. The Senegalese think it is hilarious that I gave her a Senegalese name (everyone except the women she is named after, who is offended). Most dogs here don’t even get a name but a human name is quite the exception. They joke around and call her my baby and if she isn’t with me when I walk around the village they all ask where she is! She eats all the same food as we do and she is the pickiest dog that ever got to eat human food (see if that tells you anything about the food we eat here). She makes it so much easier to stay in village and do my job.

Getting Kindii to village was an adventure. She was born in the house of the family my younger sister lives with when she goes away to school for the year (middle school). This village is about 30k from my village. I showed up there as it was getting dark because the Senegalese transportation took forever as usual. When I arrived I went into the family compound (I have only met this family once for maybe a total of 5 minutes) and asked if I could possibly spend the night. They were more than accommodating, they begged me to stay another night and when I went back 2 weeks later they were asking if I would spend the night again! Right after dinner during my first extended visit, as we were drinking tea, they came up and dropped Kindii in my lap! They knew I had wanted her as I had seen the puppies the first time I visited. I was so happy. So after spending a fun night (we went to a random wedding to dance) in their village, I went to school with my middle school sister. It was math class…and I think it is safe to say that school here is pretty tough. The teachers lack creativity and the students have no idea what the teacher is trying to teach as they do not explain the concepts well. I am sure there are some very talented teachers here but the guy I watched wasn’t one of them…my sister agreed. After school I finally headed home, with a huge backpack of stuff on the back of my bike from my trip to Dakar and a Kindii...swinging in a purse…from my neck. So classy. I biked the 30k to village like that, alternating between shoving Kindii back into the bag and thinking she was dead every time she went to sleep. I even had to battle my way through a herd of cows on the main road. I arrived in village to a very surprised but happy Senegalese family (after being gone for two weeks I showed up unannounced with a puppy). That night Kindii whined her little head off in my hut - I think she woke up the entire village.

Kindii has also opened my eyes to an entertaining fact. Puppies, like us white folk, are greatly feared by Senegalese youth, not full grown dogs (all of whom are the size of Labradors), but puppies, and kittens also. On the other hand, my youngest baby sister has always been afraid of me, but she loves Kindii (from a distance). She sees Kindii on my lap now and she always wants to do what Kindii does so she, out of the blue, came over and ‘asked’ (her Pulaar is significantly worse than mine) if I would pick her up. I was overjoyed!

The Senegalese find my interactions with Kindii hilarious. Since I give her commands in Pulaar they seem to think she is learning Pulaar like me. They don’t understand that she can only really learn one command so they speak to her in sentences. They also like to give her Mandinka commands since that is what you say to get Amanda’s dog to shake, sit, lay, come, etc. They also laugh when I talk to her. In the Henkler family if you are being silly we like to call you a turkey…well I didn’t know the Pulaar word for turkey so when Kindii was being silly and scared to walk away from an area she was familiar with, I asked her if she was a chicken or a dog…the villagers around me pretty much feel to the floor laughing…apparently I’m funny in Thiewal Lao. The villagers also LOVE feeding Kindii; they get as upset if she doesn’t as if I don’t eat. She eats so much she can’t walk after meal times. And now when we do regular Pulaar greetings, How’s your family, how’s the sun, how’s the work, how’s your uncle, how’s your god sister twice removed etc, they say how is your baby to me…and then gesture at Kindii.

Senegalese people don’t celebrate Thanksgiving…but ironically enough they do celebrate Christmas. This is not surprising for the Christians…but kind of funny for the Muslims. They have no idea what they are celebrating; they just want to have a party! Gotta love it! The kids even get Christmas vacation from school.

For anyone who ever noticed my half thumb at a strange time…prepare to feel less silly. Amanda, my neighbor, who I have now known for 8 months, just discovered my half thumb…and this is how it happened. I was standing in the garage with Amanda and Wilma waiting for our car to leave. My right hand was pressed against my leg and Amanda turns to Wilma and says look, doesn’t it look like Kelly’s thumb just ends there? Like it’s a stump? And Wilma stared at her for a second and I laughed like it was a joke and then Amanda was like how do you bend your thumb that far, I can’t even see it. At which point I showed her my thumb only for her to realize my thumb really is a stump. It was hilarious, for all of us!

I finished my first solo mural (the first mural I did with my language group turned out so poorly that I don’t think it can really be counted anyway). It is pretty big and depicts the 4 food groups (we teach a modified nutrition pyramid) and a healthy vs. a malnourished child. And let me tell you, Michelangelo, despite all of his fame, still doesn’t get enough credit. Painting a mural is physically, yes physically demanding, it should be a D1 sport. I can’t even imagine painting one on a ceiling. It took me 3 days full of work to finish mine. Granted, I was working with the worst, cancer causing paint money can buy, but still. The hard work paid off before the mural was even finished. The most important group to educate about nutrition is mothers. There happened to be a vaccination tourney in the health post when my mural was close to done. 30ish pregnant and nursing women were sitting in a room with my mural, along with a relais and the health committee secretary. I grabbed the two of them, briefed them on a nutrition causerie (which they were already familiar with) and then let them do their thing. It was great, I was grinning like an idiot. I only had to help get the audience to participate…which I did by stealing babies and not giving them back unless the mothers would get up in front of the group. I know this sounds absurd but the Senegalese thought it was hilarious.

The Islamic New Year (Tamkarit) happened during mid-Dec. It was among my favorite Senegalese celebrations. My dad came up to me with an unidentified cup and was like drink, and then wash your face, this is medicine. Understandably, I was a bit nervous about undisclosed Senegalese medicine, and I didn’t really want to smear anything sticky all over my face but my dad kept insisting so I did it. Turns out it was water, blessed by the Imam. The kids also trick or treat for real! On Tamkarit Eve the kids run around and sing and dance for rice and peanuts (I got to give out rice). They are far more entertaining than trick-or-treaters in America and all future trick-or-treaters in America who visit my house will now have to sing and dance for candy, I suggest you all do the same. The next day the kids get medi gerte – a rice and peanut containing treat! I also went to the Tamkarit service at the Imam’s house and they did the “Peace be with you” Greeting like in many Christian churches! But while shaking hands we were saying “Allah grant you a good New Year.”

As I sit here typing I am drinking tea, I just drank a bug…didn’t even spit it out.

Right around Tamkarit my little brother Djibi got very sick. It lasted for a few days and I started to get worried. I asked if they thought it was malaria and they said they did. When I asked why they didn’t go to the hospital they said they didn’t have the money. I said I would give them the money and they said they would wait until the holiday was over, at which point I said I would take him during the holiday. They agreed. This is completely unsustainable but I would feel terrible if something happened to Djibi. So we went and got the medicine, it cost me about 3 bucks although I did have to get the pharmacist to go the nurse’s home since the health post was closed for the holiday (on a holiday, even if you go the 18k to the health post, you might still be unable to see the Dr.). Ironically my family bought bananas and fish along with some other things that made it pretty clear that they did have the money…but I will try not to think about that. They can buy new clothes and other similar things but they can’t save to take their kids to the hospital. The upside of this was that I threatened not to pay if Djibi didn’t go to the mosquito net as soon as it got dark which meant I finally got someone with malaria to get under a net when it is dark, like they should! I also had a chance to show my Senegalese parents that I keep a stash of emergency money in my hut and to encourage them to do the same. I said I wouldn’t pay for the hospital in the future because they should save their money for medical emergencies…and I think they might actually do it. They might use the saved money to buy a donkey cart instead but at least they are saving.

A little Pulaar vocab for you – mentally handicapped is the same word they use for unrippened fruit or unfinished dinner; they say the person is ‘bendaani,’ or ‘not finished.’ I thought that was interesting.

I visited a new health post last week. I think this is my favorite health post so far. The Dr. was engaging; he gave full attention to his patients and gave thorough exams. He explained both preventative care and the diagnosis very well (comparatively). I saw a cool birth control idea called cycle beads. It is a ring of beads that are colored depending on the day of the menstrual cycle. You move a ring from bead to bead and when your period starts you restart the 28 bead circuit. I am sure it is not as foolproof as other methods but it is cheaper than most and culturally interesting since it kind of mimics prayer beads. I was looking at the registry of pregnant women who had been in for consultations and I found a 20 yr old with 4 kids! At least she sees the doctor?!

While showering the other night I thought I heard rain…which would be strange since it is absolutely not rainy season right now. When I finally went in front of my hut I saw that it was a HUGE fire. I asked my mom what was going on and she mentioned that it was controlled; they were just burning a field. Here we go slash and burn farming…anyone know a good alternative?! It did look cool though…

I am a huge fan of 101 Dalmatians, but I was not a huge fan of the reenactment the village dogs performed. Remember the twilight bark, where all the dogs are barking to send a message? Well the village dogs decided on the 4AM bark, it was ridiculous, all the dogs were just randomly barking for about 20 minutes, adding to the already loud sleeping environment provided by village. Kindii, the best dog in village did not participate, but when I switched on my headlamp to make sure she stayed inside (my family thinks the big dogs will eat her if she leaves my hut at night) I saw her crammed into a corner in fright…I guess maybe the big dogs really might not like the puppies.