With the end of my service quickly approaching (time flies, what?), I’ve been working pretty hard and basically non-stop so I figure I deserve a bit of relaxation, a break. African Bucket List, what have you got for us this time?
Showing posts with label Adventure. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Adventure. Show all posts
Monday, June 6
Accro-Baobab Adventure
With the end of my service quickly approaching (time flies, what?), I’ve been working pretty hard and basically non-stop so I figure I deserve a bit of relaxation, a break. African Bucket List, what have you got for us this time?
Thursday, May 5
Liqueurs de Warang
It’s time for another bucket list check mark! I found myself accidently walking into the perfect opportunity to participate in a fun activity simply by being in the right place at the right time. Waking up in Dakar, I was presented with three friends headed to Warang- a destination not too far from Mboro- for the morning. Located just east of a popular tourist town, off the road headed to lesser known sightseeing treasures, is the distillery and tasting room of the Liqueurs de Warang.Thursday, February 24
Palmarin to Mar Lodj
Well, I’ve done it again. A friend of Christine’s came to visit and we just couldn’t resist another great kayaking experience. But this story has so much more to it. Wednesday, January 26
Camels
As the end of my service draws near (only 1 year left?) I decided to make a “bucket list” of all the things I want to do, visit and see in Senegal before I kick my African bucket. A list was born. I won’t be divulging its contents, because I’m no spoiler, but I look forward to sharing the exploits one by one with friends and family.
Wednesday, January 12
Kayaking the Delta
As part of the African adventure I planned for m sister’s visit, I combined visiting a friend, seeing a new point in Senegal, and doing something I’d never done before… and that’s how kayaking came about. We went to see the beautiful sites of five or so villages known collectively as the destination of Palmarin.
The adventure started when we left Mboro, took a two hour detour to see the mosques of Tivaouane (collecting Christine), and then passed through the Thies and Mbour garages before finally arriving at our destination. Along the route, I’d showed my sister the art of shopping for food via garage as we collected fruit, nuts, bread, and water. In addition, they got to experience the magic that is a seven-place ride with its heat, smells, lack of space, and breast feeding passengers. As an added bonus the car broke down on the road affording us that mini adventure too. By my recollection, we went three villages into the collection of Palmarin before disembarking at the intersection of two dirt roads. Before getting there we’d crossed the delta and the seemingly infinite span of salt flats, choosing to actually drive on the salt flats because, as the name implies, it was significantly less pot-holed and bumpy than the actual road itself. The resilient pools of water made it easy to imagine the flooding that would have occurred during the rainy season making travel to and from the area a nightmare, if not completely impossible only a few months beforehand.
In the village of my friend, we passed time at a local restaurant sipping on cold cokes, tasting mint ice cream, meeting my friend’s host family, searching out more drinks, and gossiping in the shade until more volunteers joined our party. In total we became a team of seven ready for kayaking, camping, and a great time. So we started hiking, in the later afternoon sun, down an endless dirt road toward water, our guides, and the boats. And this lasted for about an hour, or maybe two miles, until we arrived at a shallow bank of water. There were two guides for the adventure who would navigate the waterways of the delta, set up camp, prepare dinner, and act as a bevy of knowledge about the area. 
We pared off for the boating part of the excursion, although not all that smartly, with Christine and I in our own kayak, my sister and her boyfriend in another, the boys in a third, and the remaining volunteer to pilot a solo kayak. Disaster struck Christine and I almost immediately after pushing off from land. The water was only 5 inches deep, but we managed to get ourselves completely turned around and floating backwards with the current in mere minutes. The rest of our party long gone, we piloted from one bush of mangroves to the next attempting some on-the-job acquisition of the skill. Where I had started in the front of the boat (the strong rowing position), we eventually found our groove with me in the back (the navigator position). 
Just before sunset we pulled into camp. Although it felt as though we were on a secluded island, we were told that walking farther into the bush one could find their way to another village and eventually the main road. But from where we were standing, we’d landed on one of the only banks with a clearing in the mangroves. A few tall trees, a flat surface for tents and brush already trimmed back a bit. The space of land was slightly elevated which augmented our view of the delta.Our guides handed us peanuts and blankets so we sat down to enjoy the sunset with a celebratory cocktail; a good time ensued. For dinner we started with an appetizer of clams served with an onion sauce and pieces of fresh veggies. Dinner was grilled shish kabobs of lotte, a type of white fish, with more veggies. It was outstanding. The guides had even brought a cooler of cold sodas and beers to share. By the time dinner was done we were ready to call it quits and climbed into our already set up tents with air mattresses and sheets and blankets; very hospitable.
The next morning we woke at dawn to the sounds of hyenas in the distance. A French breakfast consists of bread with butter or jam and coffee, which is what we ate picnic style once more plus some juice and fruit. A little bit later we’d packed up camp, loaded the kayaks, and set off once more to navigate the delta.
After the debacle that was our experience the night before we begged the guys to split up their kayak to save Christine and I the hassle of forging once more through the unfamiliar experience. They refused. Perhaps they thought it was funny. We disagreed but had no choice to brave it again. And it was going quite well, even though we were now going upstream, until it occurred to the guys that our kayak was ahead of theirs; typical male egos. So they picked up the pace, and just as we were going around a close quarters type of corner in tandem with my sister’s kayak the guys slid their kayak between our two, slamming into ours midway down the length of her effectively pushing us into the mangroves. It was all over for our confidence after that. We couldn’t get ourselves out of one bush without landing again in another. Sigh. The guys thought this to be hilarious, so at the first chance we got we splashed them with as much water as our paddles would throw. It seemed justified at the time.
Before making it back to the main road, we took a detour to a small island covered in shells that were protected grounds after being looted for the shells that could be used to build roads out of the delta to Dakar. There we learned more fun facts and found our way to a giant baobab tree. The guy was so big that 8 of us could climb inside of it. Literally. And we did. And after the hilarity of that, we had a nice cup of coffee inside before climbing back out. Then back to the kayaks. And then we made it back to the main road, thus completing our entire experience. Well done, well maybe except the actual kayaking part.Wednesday, November 17
It Happened One Day...
My friends and I were scheduled to go on yet another long road trip to explore the Senegalese country side. And so we gathered in the garage in Thies, a mutual meeting point, to find a driver worthy of our adventure. As it turns out we had more than one car’s worth of people… and me and a good friend, lets call him Sebastian (for the sake that using his real name would be awkward), found ourselves as the two guinea pigs biting the bullet and agreeing to jump in a car with a few of the locals.
And so the trip began, the two of us crammed in the very back seat with a thin Pulaar man, made more uncomfortable by the mountains of luggage stuffed into the trunk space and overflowing onto the roof. The wind barely made it through the cracks in the windows to our stuffy corner of the car but at least the sun was blocked by the silky black curtains. The radio played the sounds of Islamic priers chanted to sound like music.
Hours into the trip I found myself lulled into my usual haze of sleepiness developed by years of combating car sickness. My bobbing head would float into the invading rays of sun or rest on Sebastian's or the Pulaar man's shoulder. The road was winding and became hilly, but I’ve grown accustomed to the driver’s ways. He’ll speed down one hill then slam on the breaks half way down to miss the truck in front. He’ll skip passing the truck outright in favor of chugging behind him up the next hill, so slowly the car almost stalls out. And then suddenly I’m jolted awake by the more sudden than normal slamming of the brakes, the screeching of tires, and annoyed cries from other passengers.
We skid, without a glimpse as to why we’d veered into this pickle, sideways down the road into a slightly elevated speed bump. This slightness was just enough to tip the car, in a panic-inducing type of slow motion, into a roll resembling that of a tumble weed. Down the hill the car tumbled until engaging in a final roof to the pavement kiss at the bottom. The most awful screams were melded with the crunching of metal into one terrifying explosion of noise. I’d vice gripped my eyes shut, to avert them from the horrors, only to peel them open again to the upside down puddle of glass and blood I lay contorted in.
The desperation to break free from the wreckage struck me. The air felt dead, dense, unbreathable… and I was gasping towards the space, air, and rays of sunshine outside the car. I crawled under the overturned seat to follow the others through the window. I ran dizzily away from the car as fast as possible, going confusedly in at least three different directions; I didn’t actually know what I was looking for. Air. A place to collapse. Sebastian.
It hit me like another crashing panic attack: I’m looking for Sebastian. My throat hurt but I was screaming anyway. I spin in circles so fast that it takes multiple turns to realize he isn’t there. Where? Where is Sebastian? And then my stomach drops. And in dread I turn back to the car. I drop to my knees and cry out. He’s still in the car. He must be. And I rush back to it, to the shattered back window, and fumble for what feels like hours to pull the bags out of my way. He’s there, upside down in his seat next to my vacant one. His eyes are closed. He isn’t moving.
He’s dusted with blood, but they’re just superficial cuts caused by the glass. I reach out but can’t touch him. Sebastian. He stirs and moans. I move another bag out of the way and crawl deeper back into the wreckage. Sebastian. He moans again. In the tiniest heart breaking voice he squeaks out “can’t.” An eternity later he manages a second word: “breath.” I start to flail in zero free space to rid the back end of the vehicle of all remaining bags. It seems like there’s an endless supply. I wriggle further into the car and I finally reach him. He’s wedged between the seat and god only knows what else. I can see that his chest is unable to rise with his weak breaths. He’s barely awake.
Do something, anything, my mind is screaming. First aid! I grab for his pulse, which is weak but there. I roll onto my side and tilt my head. I breathe air into him. Again. I’m wedged in so close I can see that his chest is still barely moving. Again. Again, I breathe in. Again. I don’t know if it’s helping, but I won’t stop. Between breaths I start screaming for help. Where is everyone else? Why aren’t they helping? Breathe. “Help!” Breathe.
And then I feel something hot close around my ankle. Someone is there. They’ve come to help me get my friend out. They pull. They are pulling on my leg. No. No. I can’t leave. I grab the seat and kick the hand off my leg. I’m yelling so many incomprehensible things. The hand grabs hold again, and another on the opposite leg. They pull harder this time. I lose my grip on the seat. I flail desperately at something to hold on to, but I fail to grasp anything. They are dragging me back out through the trunk. Though my hands are still reaching toward Sebastian, I’m pulled in agonizingly slow motion away from him. I catch his eyes and they’re filled with tears and panic. He can’t say it, but he’s begging me not to leave him. And then he’s gone.
I’m out of the car, lying on the pavement. I jump up and back towards the car but my fellow passengers grab me around my waist. I kick and scream. Two men are dragging me ever further way from the car. I’m yelling things in every language I’ve ever learned… but none of it is the Pulaar that they speak. No one seems to understand me. Sebastian. I need to help Sebastian. Let me go. I fight as hard as it seems I’m possible to break free, but it’s a losing battle. All the adrenaline in my body has been exhausted. I can’t fight them off. My whole body is trembling and I can no longer see. I realize that I’m crying. Hot tears are pouring down my face. Sebastian. Sebastian. Sebastian.
And then I wake up. I’m in my bed in Mboro, under the mosquito net. The tears spilled out of my dreams, in to reality, and across my face. I shake uncontrollably and am covered in an icy cold sweat. My throat is raw and dry like I might have been screaming out loud. It’s just after dawn and there’s barely any light in my room, but I can’t help myself and I contact the real Sebastian. I need to know he’s ok.
This dream happened 6 months ago before the infamous trip to Kedougou… but I can still remember every detail like it just happened yesterday. The next time I speak of Mefloquine please remember this story; wildly vivid and horrible dreams top the list of side effects.
And so the trip began, the two of us crammed in the very back seat with a thin Pulaar man, made more uncomfortable by the mountains of luggage stuffed into the trunk space and overflowing onto the roof. The wind barely made it through the cracks in the windows to our stuffy corner of the car but at least the sun was blocked by the silky black curtains. The radio played the sounds of Islamic priers chanted to sound like music.
Hours into the trip I found myself lulled into my usual haze of sleepiness developed by years of combating car sickness. My bobbing head would float into the invading rays of sun or rest on Sebastian's or the Pulaar man's shoulder. The road was winding and became hilly, but I’ve grown accustomed to the driver’s ways. He’ll speed down one hill then slam on the breaks half way down to miss the truck in front. He’ll skip passing the truck outright in favor of chugging behind him up the next hill, so slowly the car almost stalls out. And then suddenly I’m jolted awake by the more sudden than normal slamming of the brakes, the screeching of tires, and annoyed cries from other passengers.
We skid, without a glimpse as to why we’d veered into this pickle, sideways down the road into a slightly elevated speed bump. This slightness was just enough to tip the car, in a panic-inducing type of slow motion, into a roll resembling that of a tumble weed. Down the hill the car tumbled until engaging in a final roof to the pavement kiss at the bottom. The most awful screams were melded with the crunching of metal into one terrifying explosion of noise. I’d vice gripped my eyes shut, to avert them from the horrors, only to peel them open again to the upside down puddle of glass and blood I lay contorted in.
The desperation to break free from the wreckage struck me. The air felt dead, dense, unbreathable… and I was gasping towards the space, air, and rays of sunshine outside the car. I crawled under the overturned seat to follow the others through the window. I ran dizzily away from the car as fast as possible, going confusedly in at least three different directions; I didn’t actually know what I was looking for. Air. A place to collapse. Sebastian.
It hit me like another crashing panic attack: I’m looking for Sebastian. My throat hurt but I was screaming anyway. I spin in circles so fast that it takes multiple turns to realize he isn’t there. Where? Where is Sebastian? And then my stomach drops. And in dread I turn back to the car. I drop to my knees and cry out. He’s still in the car. He must be. And I rush back to it, to the shattered back window, and fumble for what feels like hours to pull the bags out of my way. He’s there, upside down in his seat next to my vacant one. His eyes are closed. He isn’t moving.
He’s dusted with blood, but they’re just superficial cuts caused by the glass. I reach out but can’t touch him. Sebastian. He stirs and moans. I move another bag out of the way and crawl deeper back into the wreckage. Sebastian. He moans again. In the tiniest heart breaking voice he squeaks out “can’t.” An eternity later he manages a second word: “breath.” I start to flail in zero free space to rid the back end of the vehicle of all remaining bags. It seems like there’s an endless supply. I wriggle further into the car and I finally reach him. He’s wedged between the seat and god only knows what else. I can see that his chest is unable to rise with his weak breaths. He’s barely awake.
Do something, anything, my mind is screaming. First aid! I grab for his pulse, which is weak but there. I roll onto my side and tilt my head. I breathe air into him. Again. I’m wedged in so close I can see that his chest is still barely moving. Again. Again, I breathe in. Again. I don’t know if it’s helping, but I won’t stop. Between breaths I start screaming for help. Where is everyone else? Why aren’t they helping? Breathe. “Help!” Breathe.
And then I feel something hot close around my ankle. Someone is there. They’ve come to help me get my friend out. They pull. They are pulling on my leg. No. No. I can’t leave. I grab the seat and kick the hand off my leg. I’m yelling so many incomprehensible things. The hand grabs hold again, and another on the opposite leg. They pull harder this time. I lose my grip on the seat. I flail desperately at something to hold on to, but I fail to grasp anything. They are dragging me back out through the trunk. Though my hands are still reaching toward Sebastian, I’m pulled in agonizingly slow motion away from him. I catch his eyes and they’re filled with tears and panic. He can’t say it, but he’s begging me not to leave him. And then he’s gone.
I’m out of the car, lying on the pavement. I jump up and back towards the car but my fellow passengers grab me around my waist. I kick and scream. Two men are dragging me ever further way from the car. I’m yelling things in every language I’ve ever learned… but none of it is the Pulaar that they speak. No one seems to understand me. Sebastian. I need to help Sebastian. Let me go. I fight as hard as it seems I’m possible to break free, but it’s a losing battle. All the adrenaline in my body has been exhausted. I can’t fight them off. My whole body is trembling and I can no longer see. I realize that I’m crying. Hot tears are pouring down my face. Sebastian. Sebastian. Sebastian.
And then I wake up. I’m in my bed in Mboro, under the mosquito net. The tears spilled out of my dreams, in to reality, and across my face. I shake uncontrollably and am covered in an icy cold sweat. My throat is raw and dry like I might have been screaming out loud. It’s just after dawn and there’s barely any light in my room, but I can’t help myself and I contact the real Sebastian. I need to know he’s ok.
This dream happened 6 months ago before the infamous trip to Kedougou… but I can still remember every detail like it just happened yesterday. The next time I speak of Mefloquine please remember this story; wildly vivid and horrible dreams top the list of side effects.
Thursday, November 4
Mall Rats
There’s a brand new mall in Dakar. Where organized shopping did not exist once upon a time, it does now. I can’t help but smile when I walk in, and thinking about the old days of window shopping. It’s a marvel not to be harassed in the market; to just relax and take my time. And when I get a bit down about my current surroundings, and start longing for things found only at home, I plan my next trip to Sea Plaza Shopping Center.
The center is located on the coast; most literally it was carved into the side of it, just a few hundred meters down from the beautiful Radisson Blue hotel that boasts one of the best nights stays available in town. To access the center, your car must first pass through the guard post. I’ve personally never taken a car into the center as a taxi will drive you only to the curb near the guard post, so I really couldn’t tell you what kind of credentials need to be presented or if you’re just paying for parking. Parking is a part of the carved structure and doesn’t appear to accommodate the vast potential the interior amenities do. Perhaps the designers assume that most people will take a taxi like I do.
Once inside you’ll find two floors of boutiques lining the walls and an escalator connecting the two in the center. On the bottom floor you’ll find an information booth. It seems a bit odd considering my personal awareness of the Wolof culture… in which information is regarded with enormous value and thus deemed inappropriate for sharing under most circumstances. Hopefully all you really need is a map to find the store of your choice. At present, and about 40% capacity filled, there are a buffet of what appear to be designer European stores (though I wouldn’t know, I’m just assuming based on the price tags), a few electronics stores that remind you of the home theater section of Best Buy with their couches and “come and test” signs, a beauty salon providing the usual hair, nail, and massage amenities, a scented candle store (some things really don’t change, huh?), and even a beauty products boutique with Clinique items in the window.
I’ve spend time at the bowling alley that has all the lights, vinyl, bowling shoes and sounds to trick your mind into thinking you’re back in the States. There’s a restaurant with typical food and seriously over priced drinks, pool tables in the only smoking section in the place, and an arcade where all the games are in English. I almost didn’t even realize that last one until someone pointed it out to me after being there more than a half hour.
Like any normal mall there’s a food court at one end with a variety of dining options. If you choose Mexican, expect the food to appear more organic than Taco Bell, except for that melted single of Craft American across the top of your burrito. If it’s a fruit smoothie you crave, it’s hard to believe (or pay for) but this too can be found in the food court. Its seating area isn't entirely too expansive that the staff at eat food booth can’t deliver your tray to you. Indoor or outdoor seating will give you amazing views of the coast, but the formal restaurant in the far corner will give you all the sports you can handle with their numerous plasma screen TVs.
In case I’ve never told you about the most upscale grocery store chain in all of Senegal, now would be the perfect time since their newest branch resides in this mall. It is curiously named Casino although absolutely no gambling is to be had, whether your mind jumps to negotiating prices or worries about future food contracted illness of the bowels. The store boasts large aisles full of merchandise organized like you’d find at any grocer back home, amazing amounts of florescent lighting found in no other shopping venue in town, and air conditioning as cold as you can stand it. There’s a deli/ butcher counter, a bakery, an occasionally open sushi stand (I know, I almost don’t believe it myself) and a wine and liquor section. Imported products like corn flakes, chocolates, and beauty products can be found here, for a price slightly higher than you’d be charged back home.
It’s no secret that I’ve lost weight whilst I’ve been on this continent, but with it goes my ability to fit comfortably in every article of clothing I’ve brought here. It’s pretty easy to find pants or shirts in the chaos that is the market, or to have something new made up by a trusted tailor. What is difficult is underwear shopping because of the lack of privacy afforded while doing it. I had a family members send me a few items based on a mildly educated guess of my current size, but there’s no way of knowing for sure without walking into a store and its dressing room to perform some simple trial and error experiments. In this new mall, I got lucky. Not only are there multiple lingerie stores, but they have non-lacy everyday sections, a fitting room, and attendants that speak English. Admittedly, that last fun fact isn’t a necessary one to the operation, but certainly made the whole thing a bit more relaxing.
The pride and glory of the structure, in my singular opinion I’m sure, will be the movie theater to come. As someone who would count movie-going among her top favorite activities, I can say that going without the experience of the stadium seating, reclining folding chairs, annoying crying children, and overly priced and buttered popcorn… I cannot wait for this place to open. Unfortunately, information sharing what it is, I can’t tell when that will be. We’re on African time, so it might not even be in the next year. I also can’t tell you what kind of movies will be shown; American, European, or other, or which language they’ll be in or have subtitles in. I can tell you about my certainty that the cost of going will be similar to that found in the US (as evidenced in the bowling/ pool/ arcade experience). And of course that I’ll be one of the first people in line to see whatever show when the time comes.
And now I'm already mentally planning my next trip to Dakar. Oh the simple things.
The center is located on the coast; most literally it was carved into the side of it, just a few hundred meters down from the beautiful Radisson Blue hotel that boasts one of the best nights stays available in town. To access the center, your car must first pass through the guard post. I’ve personally never taken a car into the center as a taxi will drive you only to the curb near the guard post, so I really couldn’t tell you what kind of credentials need to be presented or if you’re just paying for parking. Parking is a part of the carved structure and doesn’t appear to accommodate the vast potential the interior amenities do. Perhaps the designers assume that most people will take a taxi like I do.
Once inside you’ll find two floors of boutiques lining the walls and an escalator connecting the two in the center. On the bottom floor you’ll find an information booth. It seems a bit odd considering my personal awareness of the Wolof culture… in which information is regarded with enormous value and thus deemed inappropriate for sharing under most circumstances. Hopefully all you really need is a map to find the store of your choice. At present, and about 40% capacity filled, there are a buffet of what appear to be designer European stores (though I wouldn’t know, I’m just assuming based on the price tags), a few electronics stores that remind you of the home theater section of Best Buy with their couches and “come and test” signs, a beauty salon providing the usual hair, nail, and massage amenities, a scented candle store (some things really don’t change, huh?), and even a beauty products boutique with Clinique items in the window.
I’ve spend time at the bowling alley that has all the lights, vinyl, bowling shoes and sounds to trick your mind into thinking you’re back in the States. There’s a restaurant with typical food and seriously over priced drinks, pool tables in the only smoking section in the place, and an arcade where all the games are in English. I almost didn’t even realize that last one until someone pointed it out to me after being there more than a half hour.
Like any normal mall there’s a food court at one end with a variety of dining options. If you choose Mexican, expect the food to appear more organic than Taco Bell, except for that melted single of Craft American across the top of your burrito. If it’s a fruit smoothie you crave, it’s hard to believe (or pay for) but this too can be found in the food court. Its seating area isn't entirely too expansive that the staff at eat food booth can’t deliver your tray to you. Indoor or outdoor seating will give you amazing views of the coast, but the formal restaurant in the far corner will give you all the sports you can handle with their numerous plasma screen TVs.
In case I’ve never told you about the most upscale grocery store chain in all of Senegal, now would be the perfect time since their newest branch resides in this mall. It is curiously named Casino although absolutely no gambling is to be had, whether your mind jumps to negotiating prices or worries about future food contracted illness of the bowels. The store boasts large aisles full of merchandise organized like you’d find at any grocer back home, amazing amounts of florescent lighting found in no other shopping venue in town, and air conditioning as cold as you can stand it. There’s a deli/ butcher counter, a bakery, an occasionally open sushi stand (I know, I almost don’t believe it myself) and a wine and liquor section. Imported products like corn flakes, chocolates, and beauty products can be found here, for a price slightly higher than you’d be charged back home.
It’s no secret that I’ve lost weight whilst I’ve been on this continent, but with it goes my ability to fit comfortably in every article of clothing I’ve brought here. It’s pretty easy to find pants or shirts in the chaos that is the market, or to have something new made up by a trusted tailor. What is difficult is underwear shopping because of the lack of privacy afforded while doing it. I had a family members send me a few items based on a mildly educated guess of my current size, but there’s no way of knowing for sure without walking into a store and its dressing room to perform some simple trial and error experiments. In this new mall, I got lucky. Not only are there multiple lingerie stores, but they have non-lacy everyday sections, a fitting room, and attendants that speak English. Admittedly, that last fun fact isn’t a necessary one to the operation, but certainly made the whole thing a bit more relaxing.
The pride and glory of the structure, in my singular opinion I’m sure, will be the movie theater to come. As someone who would count movie-going among her top favorite activities, I can say that going without the experience of the stadium seating, reclining folding chairs, annoying crying children, and overly priced and buttered popcorn… I cannot wait for this place to open. Unfortunately, information sharing what it is, I can’t tell when that will be. We’re on African time, so it might not even be in the next year. I also can’t tell you what kind of movies will be shown; American, European, or other, or which language they’ll be in or have subtitles in. I can tell you about my certainty that the cost of going will be similar to that found in the US (as evidenced in the bowling/ pool/ arcade experience). And of course that I’ll be one of the first people in line to see whatever show when the time comes.
And now I'm already mentally planning my next trip to Dakar. Oh the simple things.
Wednesday, July 7
27th Birthday
As this past weekend was a plethora of fun stories… I will be forced to submit the following in 2 parts. First, let’s tackle my 27th birthday. I figure the official start was the 1st when myself and 5 friends piled into a car headed for Kedougou, a destination on the far east side of the country where everything is lush and mountainous... a complete change of scenery. While it was nice to catch up with them, the 14 hours of travelling sucked. A few bright spots included: amazing bread in Tamba, warthog and monkey sightings whilst driving through Niokolo National Park, lush greenery and grass (this is a first in almost a year!), and the smell of fresh nature that seriously reminded me of Northern Michigan. That last one in itself was enough of a birthday present for me. We hung out with the people at the Kedougou regional house for the rest of the night and I even received some birthday calls after midnight.
The next day I woke up early to head out on a bike trip with Alex, Christine, and Mary. We packed up water and a few things to nibble on, jumped on our bikes and headed further south towards the Guinean border in the direction of the waterfalls. The trip was scheduled to be a 30K ride and about 2.5 hours. We wouldn’t figure it out until much later, but about 40 minutes in… we got ourselves seriously lost. Around the time we found the field of termite mounds we called a local PCV asking for help. Go back to the main road or find someone to lead you there. We thought we’d done that; a few times.
On one of the detours, my bike decided to take on a large rock- leaving me as a victim. The bike seat was mangled, the rock broken into 3 pieces, and I received cuts and bruises on my knees and a gash on my elbow. The battle seemed to end in a three way tie, though I deem the whole thing unnecessary. Anyway, back to the story…
After following a few different paths until reaching dead ends we came across a small gathering of huts. Only one teenage boy spoke a little French; the rest of people spoke Pulaar and unfortunately everyone I was with had learned Wolof. We asked where two villages (consecutively lined up off the “main road”) and the waterfalls were… and received charade gestures pointing in three different directions. Where’s the main road? A 4th direction was pointed out and seemed to be a compromise of everything else, so we took it. It was as though we had an aversion to turning around and going back.
After another episode of following multiple dead-ending paths, we came upon farming field. A Pulaar man was standing in the middle of it… so we hoped the hedge to ask for directions. His French was a bit better, and when another man upon the field, they guided us into their village. We sat in the shade, greeted the people, drank cool water they’d drawn from the far away well, and headed off in yet another direction… towards the main road. This path became progressively larger and more promising. We did eventually make it back to the infamous main road, and I estimate the whole detour consuming 4 hours of our day.
By then, we found ourselves squarely in the heat of the day, lacking water, and hungry. The terrain turned to stretches of almost flat rock mixed with sand. We eventually made it to Segou, the home of a fellow volunteer, and got our second wind by the well. We were only 5K away (and we assume at this point we’d at least doubled the originally estimated distance).
However, the second wind died just as quickly as it came and at some point I lost control of the bike and went face first into the sand. I was no longer having fun… but stopping at every large tree to catch my breath in the shade. At some point I felt like I’d hit a breaking point and could not move any more. Christine and I sat there together, under a tree, discussing our levels of dehydration. I could swear I heard the waterfalls. She saw things that weren’t there. I had diarrhea. Neither of us had eaten much that day. And miraculously a car came alone. Even more amazing is that inside was a fellow volunteer who happened to be escorting a group of aid workers. They stopped and gave us some fruit to nibble on, as well as some words of encouragement.
Just a few minutes after we made it to our final destination, Dindefello, a thunderstorm came crashing in. We took refuge in a sandwich shop and pondered the 8 hour bike ride that should have taken under 3. I finally got something decent to eat. After the rain subsided, we took to the path by foot into the forest in search of the waterfall. We opted to go without the tour guide under the guise of “Well, we’ve come this far without one… why cheat now?”
Naturally, this means we came upon a fork in the road and had to make yet another decision about which direction to take. Simple reasoning took over. We shut up and followed the sound of water. This time I wasn’t imagining things. Eventually the path became less apparent as the recent storm had destroyed basic evidence, but subtle signs of previous visitors kept us encouraged. We crossed a stream a few times, holding hands for security as the recent rains were overflowing the beds. Eventually we came to another critical moment of despair. The stream seemed too dangerous to cross, and we couldn’t make out a path on the other side… but we’d come too far to go home without success. And low and behold, not more than a minute after making the treacherous cross did we catch our first glimpse of the falls.
When we finally got to the base, the sights were amazing. The waterfall appeared to be at the corner of two enormous walls coming together… and was so tall you couldn’t possibly see the whole thing from top to bottom in one look. We took a few quick pictures as the rain was still in the air and magnifying the gush of the falls, a recipe for the destruction of any camera. And, as mine is all but officially broken anyway, they were taken with someone else’s camera. This means you’ll all have to wait for the proof.
The next day, I considered a do-over. Back in Kedougou, I hung out by a hotel pool with my friends. We ate warthog sandwiches, drank beers, and listened to American music. After a nap, a few of us went to one of the nicest restaurants in town for a birthday dinner. While the 2nd attempt felt more normal, the official birthday is probably what I’ll remember as the most adventurous birthday of my life.
The next day I woke up early to head out on a bike trip with Alex, Christine, and Mary. We packed up water and a few things to nibble on, jumped on our bikes and headed further south towards the Guinean border in the direction of the waterfalls. The trip was scheduled to be a 30K ride and about 2.5 hours. We wouldn’t figure it out until much later, but about 40 minutes in… we got ourselves seriously lost. Around the time we found the field of termite mounds we called a local PCV asking for help. Go back to the main road or find someone to lead you there. We thought we’d done that; a few times.
On one of the detours, my bike decided to take on a large rock- leaving me as a victim. The bike seat was mangled, the rock broken into 3 pieces, and I received cuts and bruises on my knees and a gash on my elbow. The battle seemed to end in a three way tie, though I deem the whole thing unnecessary. Anyway, back to the story…
After following a few different paths until reaching dead ends we came across a small gathering of huts. Only one teenage boy spoke a little French; the rest of people spoke Pulaar and unfortunately everyone I was with had learned Wolof. We asked where two villages (consecutively lined up off the “main road”) and the waterfalls were… and received charade gestures pointing in three different directions. Where’s the main road? A 4th direction was pointed out and seemed to be a compromise of everything else, so we took it. It was as though we had an aversion to turning around and going back.
After another episode of following multiple dead-ending paths, we came upon farming field. A Pulaar man was standing in the middle of it… so we hoped the hedge to ask for directions. His French was a bit better, and when another man upon the field, they guided us into their village. We sat in the shade, greeted the people, drank cool water they’d drawn from the far away well, and headed off in yet another direction… towards the main road. This path became progressively larger and more promising. We did eventually make it back to the infamous main road, and I estimate the whole detour consuming 4 hours of our day.
By then, we found ourselves squarely in the heat of the day, lacking water, and hungry. The terrain turned to stretches of almost flat rock mixed with sand. We eventually made it to Segou, the home of a fellow volunteer, and got our second wind by the well. We were only 5K away (and we assume at this point we’d at least doubled the originally estimated distance).
However, the second wind died just as quickly as it came and at some point I lost control of the bike and went face first into the sand. I was no longer having fun… but stopping at every large tree to catch my breath in the shade. At some point I felt like I’d hit a breaking point and could not move any more. Christine and I sat there together, under a tree, discussing our levels of dehydration. I could swear I heard the waterfalls. She saw things that weren’t there. I had diarrhea. Neither of us had eaten much that day. And miraculously a car came alone. Even more amazing is that inside was a fellow volunteer who happened to be escorting a group of aid workers. They stopped and gave us some fruit to nibble on, as well as some words of encouragement.
Just a few minutes after we made it to our final destination, Dindefello, a thunderstorm came crashing in. We took refuge in a sandwich shop and pondered the 8 hour bike ride that should have taken under 3. I finally got something decent to eat. After the rain subsided, we took to the path by foot into the forest in search of the waterfall. We opted to go without the tour guide under the guise of “Well, we’ve come this far without one… why cheat now?”
Naturally, this means we came upon a fork in the road and had to make yet another decision about which direction to take. Simple reasoning took over. We shut up and followed the sound of water. This time I wasn’t imagining things. Eventually the path became less apparent as the recent storm had destroyed basic evidence, but subtle signs of previous visitors kept us encouraged. We crossed a stream a few times, holding hands for security as the recent rains were overflowing the beds. Eventually we came to another critical moment of despair. The stream seemed too dangerous to cross, and we couldn’t make out a path on the other side… but we’d come too far to go home without success. And low and behold, not more than a minute after making the treacherous cross did we catch our first glimpse of the falls.
When we finally got to the base, the sights were amazing. The waterfall appeared to be at the corner of two enormous walls coming together… and was so tall you couldn’t possibly see the whole thing from top to bottom in one look. We took a few quick pictures as the rain was still in the air and magnifying the gush of the falls, a recipe for the destruction of any camera. And, as mine is all but officially broken anyway, they were taken with someone else’s camera. This means you’ll all have to wait for the proof.
The next day, I considered a do-over. Back in Kedougou, I hung out by a hotel pool with my friends. We ate warthog sandwiches, drank beers, and listened to American music. After a nap, a few of us went to one of the nicest restaurants in town for a birthday dinner. While the 2nd attempt felt more normal, the official birthday is probably what I’ll remember as the most adventurous birthday of my life.
Wednesday, June 2
Pilgrimage
The annual catholic pilgrimage to Popenguine is quite the experience. I began my own pilgrimage on Saturday afternoon. I took the normal sept place to Thies and in doing so discovered a Pulaar man, who spoke no French and Wolof that seemed only slightly better than mine, also headed to Popenguine. At the garage in Thies, I would have normally gotten in another car to Mbour, which is a destination farther along the same route, and paid full price only to get out early and take a small taxi car to the beach. Instead, with help from the Pulaar man, I was escorted to another smaller garage, a ten minute walk through town, which hosted car rapides- like a large conversion van outfitted with too many bench seats to be comfortable- directly to the small town I would’ve gotten out at anyway. Doing this saved me 25% of the travel cost I was willing to pay. Score! It paid to be friendly with the elderly man, even though we couldn’t communicate. This would also serve as a sign to the light hearted atmosphere I was about to encounter during the event.
At the small road town of Sindia, I utilized a gendarme escort to cross the main road. Traffic was beginning to back up and people were crowding the streets looking for transportation to the beach. Even after crossing, a fight broke out and I found myself attempting to duck out of the way by jumping further into the street. It was nothing major, just a simple fight over open seats on another car rapide, and it was over in under a minute. At this point another kind person took notice and escorted me to a taxi with an open seat… and off to Popenguine we went.
In town, I utilized my knowledge of my previous visits to navigate through the hundreds of booths, tents and promotional stands that were half constructed to the far side of town where my friend was waiting for me at the bar with a cold beer. Relaxing and making future plans with his friend the tailor, we enjoyed our beers until it was time for dinner back at my friend’s house. We ate some truly amazing meal of chicken with veggies and just as we finished some mango slices for dessert another friend arrived in town. Back on the street we found grilled pork sandwiches and tried a new beer in Senegal called “33,” with a taste in between the current two- Gazelle (my favorite- like a light beer) and Flag (like a wheat beer). We continued to walk around town to checkout restaurant tents, watering holes, and promotional booths that we’d have to come back to the next day. The vendors of said booths were already fast asleep on the streets in blankets or tents made of rice sack bags.
We grabbed some fresh bottles of palm wine. It comes from the local palm trees (of which there are apparently many versions and I can’t tell you which gives wine and which gives dates, but I’ll get there someday). At first it takes like a sweet juice… but the longer it sits the more it ferments and before you know it a bitter tasting liquid is getting you very drunk very quickly. We took it to the beach, which I’m told is closed off for the weekend because people get drunk and end up trying to swim (when they apparently can’t) and drown. Somehow, we got down there for a moonlight gaze at the ocean. We continued to walk around the quiet, sleeping town and bought 3 more bottles of palm wine for the next day before calling it quits.
After a hot night’s sleep in my friends packed house (apparently every family member brought a handful of their friends for the event), it was back to the town to experience the pilgrimage. We started by hitting up the local cell phone company booth to look for free t-shirts (that would come “later”) and then quit pretending we weren't in it for the booze and found some beers. We pulled up plastic chairs and hung out with a view of the ocean and some cold drinks. People all around were still setting up for the fete. As afternoon came another friend arrived by car and we decided to grab some lunch; yassa pork and grilled pork. It felt great to eat pig again! We walked around some more, drank some more, and ate more sandwiches. In all honesty, it felt like tailgating. So naturally, we took a ‘post game’ nap. Upon waking up, we found that the walkers had started to arrive.
People walk from all over the area to Popenguine each year; arriving in packs from Dakar, the Delta region, and even from the north. The event is apparently well organized, as you pay an entry fee at your respective take off point which gets you a badge, free meals, transportation of your baggage, and tent space in Popenguine (Hello, Breast Cancer 3-day walk, are you hearing this? Senegal has organization skills. Think about it). The people walk because apparently a while back someone did this from Dakar to Popenguine and upon arriving saw the “Black Mary.” Yeah, I don’t know what that could possibly implicate, but as they found it an enjoyable experience so be it. The event has grown over the years so as to make necessary the following: organized walking (as described above), permanent infrastructure (in which to conduct mass for the masses), and even the printing of event t-shirts and other souvenirs. Port-o-potties (which I have never seen in country before this), massive amounts of pork and beer, and all the largest companies in country played a role in our entertainment.
We went to my friend’s favorite watering hole in the afternoon, sat on the roof (with more beer, is it possible?) and waited for our friends who were walking. Curiously, they were both female. Girls can walk farther than guys in Africa too? (Dearest 3-day organizers, seriously, are you listening to this?) We waited for the sun to set and started in on the sandwiches once again. We headed to the church and the market to view the merchandise… it is possible to purchase a glowing (even blinking- Vegas style) statue of the Virgin Mary. Score! One also found t-shirts proclaiming that “without Jesus there is no life,” and that Jesus wants you to “come to me.” They ran out of pink, so I choose to pass on purchasing one.
Later, we stopped by midnight mass. Thousands of people crowded under and around the cement pavilion built on top of a hill for this occasion. Multiple sets of sound systems were set up to broadcast someone I couldn’t actually locate. Mass was in French.
We went looking for a party, so headed to the beach once more, which was littered with couples doing things I didn’t care to investigate. Back during training we rented a house on the water and that night we wandered back to it. Apparently some people had rented it out, turned it into a club, and were open to a small group of white people crashing the party. Good times, with good music, until someone started throwing bottles and we got out quickly. And on the way home we got more sandwiches. Are you surprised?
The next day, it became clear there were too many people in the house as everyone went to shower in one bathroom. It was the first time I saw a squat toilet overflow. I have no idea how one fixes that (and I’m told it’s still a problem over a week later). People dressed to impress as they went to morning mass at 10a. More people than the night before attended the event. We couldn’t even get near the pavilion there were so many thousands of people. Someone had even organized the local boys/girls scouts to act as first aid… which we witnessed in action as they carried a passed out (probably dehydrated) pilgrim into a tent with a red cross on it. (3-day people, this is not your last chance, but come on!)
We walked around town some more checking out the souvenir merchandise and tasted a new promotional milk (it’s a big breakfast drink of choice). Mass went from 10 to lunch, then was to recommence until mid-afternoon. Intense, no? In an effort to beat the traffic, we left town around noon. Our final round of sandwiches was consumed as we hiked to the garage outside of town. There we negotiated a small taxi to drive us to Dakar (we were going for PC training the following day), and though he said he had to be back at a certain time, the driver was happy to oblige. Half way there, he decided he needed to turn around so he pulled over, bargained another taxi, paid the man, and helped us transfer to the new car… which drove us straight to the Peace Corps house. Best ride to Dakar by public transport I’ve ever had. And we even missed all the traffic! It was another awesome experience.
At the small road town of Sindia, I utilized a gendarme escort to cross the main road. Traffic was beginning to back up and people were crowding the streets looking for transportation to the beach. Even after crossing, a fight broke out and I found myself attempting to duck out of the way by jumping further into the street. It was nothing major, just a simple fight over open seats on another car rapide, and it was over in under a minute. At this point another kind person took notice and escorted me to a taxi with an open seat… and off to Popenguine we went.
In town, I utilized my knowledge of my previous visits to navigate through the hundreds of booths, tents and promotional stands that were half constructed to the far side of town where my friend was waiting for me at the bar with a cold beer. Relaxing and making future plans with his friend the tailor, we enjoyed our beers until it was time for dinner back at my friend’s house. We ate some truly amazing meal of chicken with veggies and just as we finished some mango slices for dessert another friend arrived in town. Back on the street we found grilled pork sandwiches and tried a new beer in Senegal called “33,” with a taste in between the current two- Gazelle (my favorite- like a light beer) and Flag (like a wheat beer). We continued to walk around town to checkout restaurant tents, watering holes, and promotional booths that we’d have to come back to the next day. The vendors of said booths were already fast asleep on the streets in blankets or tents made of rice sack bags.
We grabbed some fresh bottles of palm wine. It comes from the local palm trees (of which there are apparently many versions and I can’t tell you which gives wine and which gives dates, but I’ll get there someday). At first it takes like a sweet juice… but the longer it sits the more it ferments and before you know it a bitter tasting liquid is getting you very drunk very quickly. We took it to the beach, which I’m told is closed off for the weekend because people get drunk and end up trying to swim (when they apparently can’t) and drown. Somehow, we got down there for a moonlight gaze at the ocean. We continued to walk around the quiet, sleeping town and bought 3 more bottles of palm wine for the next day before calling it quits.
After a hot night’s sleep in my friends packed house (apparently every family member brought a handful of their friends for the event), it was back to the town to experience the pilgrimage. We started by hitting up the local cell phone company booth to look for free t-shirts (that would come “later”) and then quit pretending we weren't in it for the booze and found some beers. We pulled up plastic chairs and hung out with a view of the ocean and some cold drinks. People all around were still setting up for the fete. As afternoon came another friend arrived by car and we decided to grab some lunch; yassa pork and grilled pork. It felt great to eat pig again! We walked around some more, drank some more, and ate more sandwiches. In all honesty, it felt like tailgating. So naturally, we took a ‘post game’ nap. Upon waking up, we found that the walkers had started to arrive.
People walk from all over the area to Popenguine each year; arriving in packs from Dakar, the Delta region, and even from the north. The event is apparently well organized, as you pay an entry fee at your respective take off point which gets you a badge, free meals, transportation of your baggage, and tent space in Popenguine (Hello, Breast Cancer 3-day walk, are you hearing this? Senegal has organization skills. Think about it). The people walk because apparently a while back someone did this from Dakar to Popenguine and upon arriving saw the “Black Mary.” Yeah, I don’t know what that could possibly implicate, but as they found it an enjoyable experience so be it. The event has grown over the years so as to make necessary the following: organized walking (as described above), permanent infrastructure (in which to conduct mass for the masses), and even the printing of event t-shirts and other souvenirs. Port-o-potties (which I have never seen in country before this), massive amounts of pork and beer, and all the largest companies in country played a role in our entertainment.
We went to my friend’s favorite watering hole in the afternoon, sat on the roof (with more beer, is it possible?) and waited for our friends who were walking. Curiously, they were both female. Girls can walk farther than guys in Africa too? (Dearest 3-day organizers, seriously, are you listening to this?) We waited for the sun to set and started in on the sandwiches once again. We headed to the church and the market to view the merchandise… it is possible to purchase a glowing (even blinking- Vegas style) statue of the Virgin Mary. Score! One also found t-shirts proclaiming that “without Jesus there is no life,” and that Jesus wants you to “come to me.” They ran out of pink, so I choose to pass on purchasing one.
Later, we stopped by midnight mass. Thousands of people crowded under and around the cement pavilion built on top of a hill for this occasion. Multiple sets of sound systems were set up to broadcast someone I couldn’t actually locate. Mass was in French.
We went looking for a party, so headed to the beach once more, which was littered with couples doing things I didn’t care to investigate. Back during training we rented a house on the water and that night we wandered back to it. Apparently some people had rented it out, turned it into a club, and were open to a small group of white people crashing the party. Good times, with good music, until someone started throwing bottles and we got out quickly. And on the way home we got more sandwiches. Are you surprised?
The next day, it became clear there were too many people in the house as everyone went to shower in one bathroom. It was the first time I saw a squat toilet overflow. I have no idea how one fixes that (and I’m told it’s still a problem over a week later). People dressed to impress as they went to morning mass at 10a. More people than the night before attended the event. We couldn’t even get near the pavilion there were so many thousands of people. Someone had even organized the local boys/girls scouts to act as first aid… which we witnessed in action as they carried a passed out (probably dehydrated) pilgrim into a tent with a red cross on it. (3-day people, this is not your last chance, but come on!)
We walked around town some more checking out the souvenir merchandise and tasted a new promotional milk (it’s a big breakfast drink of choice). Mass went from 10 to lunch, then was to recommence until mid-afternoon. Intense, no? In an effort to beat the traffic, we left town around noon. Our final round of sandwiches was consumed as we hiked to the garage outside of town. There we negotiated a small taxi to drive us to Dakar (we were going for PC training the following day), and though he said he had to be back at a certain time, the driver was happy to oblige. Half way there, he decided he needed to turn around so he pulled over, bargained another taxi, paid the man, and helped us transfer to the new car… which drove us straight to the Peace Corps house. Best ride to Dakar by public transport I’ve ever had. And we even missed all the traffic! It was another awesome experience.
Wednesday, May 5
Party!
I finally hosted my first party in Africa. A number of things came together just so… and a good time was had by all.
Last year about this time, the volunteers in my area decided to spend a day walking from one volunteer’s site to Mboro, as the crow flies, and ending up on the beach. The trip is somewhere around 20 miles. A few guys participated and they celebrated with beers at the end. A number of people showed interest in repeating the activity… but wanted to have a bigger celebration party at the end of the line. The volunteer whose site serves as the kick off point for the march is celebrating a birthday this past weekend… so, many more volunteers were invited to the after party on the beach in honor of said birthday.
It was left to me to organize a house on the beach where we could have a great time, and spend the night. I told my Dad weeks in advance I’d need to do this, and he promised to help by talking to one of my predecessor’s friends (who knew someone who knew someone…). We were looking for a house that could sleep 15 and was reasonably priced. A week out Dad and I went to look at a house. It was a 3 bedroom, with living, kitchen, bonfire, rooftop, and pavilion areas… not to mention the western toilet and shower. Only problem was that they renter wanted a lot of money for the house, more so than one would pay in an actual resort town, and was claiming it was because of the cost of bringing water and power from town down to the beach. Hmm… begin purchasing negotiations.
That week ended with the impression that we had secured the house I’d seen for just over half the original asking price, and a deposit was paid to secure it. This week I was focused on putting on a 2 day long class in town, and wasn’t too worried about the house or organization. When 4 other volunteers showed up Friday morning for the 2nd day of class, I got more excited to show off my town. That afternoon we started the shopping for the Mexican salad we were to make for the party. Pounds and pounds of veggies were organized. Drinks were reserved, as well as ice sellers located.
Saturday my father was working the morning shift at the factory, but we called him to arrange a car to take us down to the beach early. That’s when mass confusion started to become apparent. Turns out we’d actually rented another house near the original one. This one didn’t have much in the way of kitchen supplies. Mom was gracious enough to let us raid our family kitchen for pots, pans, bowls, strainers, utensils, and even a cake pan. We secured lunchtime sandwiches, meat for dinner, ice, and 9 jugs of 10 liter filtered water before the driver was schedule to pick us up. However, when he arrived with possibly the smallest car in town, my mother was kind enough to negotiate 2 trips down to the beach for a decent price. The beer was loaded first, then I and 2 other girls, and some of the other supplies and away we went...
The driver had not been informed of where our house was. I directed him to the first house I’d seen, which was “next to” the new one. The guard at that house had no idea what was meant by “next to” and we began more mass confusion. We unloaded all our stuff into the sand, and the driver went back for the other girls and the rest of our supplies. I pulled up a chair with the guard and our food and ice while the girls I’d come down with went off to find our house. Unfortunately, when they got back they reported that our house had no water or electricity. Not acceptable. I called Dad in a panic (for probably the 5th time already that day) and asked him to call the first guy and see if we could have the house I’d originally seen and was currently sitting outside of (with all of our melting ice). At this point, we didn’t care if he was over charging us, and I just wanted my friends to have a good time. While waiting for him to get back to me, the second car load arrived, another renter appeared out of nowhere soliciting girls to check out his house, and two more volunteers arrived from elsewhere in Senegal to start partying. Our driver tried to demand more money claiming we had too much baggage… but wouldn’t be respectful enough to listen to my argument as to why I disagreed. So I told him to fuck off and refused to acknowledge him after that. He eventually left, and my not-so-finest moment passed. I continued to sit with the ice.
When Dad got off work he drove straight to us stranded foreigners on the beach. Some Wolof was thrown around, and Dad said he needed to go find the guy who could rent us the house we sat outside of, but in the mean time we could bring everything in and relax- he’d be right back. And he would work out changing the deposit around so that we wouldn’t lose it. After dragging everything in, beers were cracked and food preparation was started. That first beer went down so fast it was gone by the time Dad got back with more Senegalese guys in tow.
Sheets were dragged out of storage, the cooking gas was refilled, and money was organized for another trip made by Dad to town for supplies (more ice, more water, and gas to work the water pump). Dad would be back in a few hours. The 6 people who’d walked the 20 plus miles arrived in tact; dehydrated and tired but proud. Their walk had been successful. Salsa, guacamole, and tortilla chips were served. It was like heaven without the euchre. There was even birthday cake- which never technically made it off the oven rack (pulled out of the oven) before we devoured it hot with spoonfuls of melting icing. 3 other volunteers also arrived. A hookah was set up and enjoyed. We continued to party and cook food.
When Dad did come back he brought everything we’d asked for plus my Mom and 4 youngest brothers. I was really proud to show off my family as the boys carried all the supplies in from the car and my Mom became a social butterfly while Dad got the water pump running (does this sound anything like my childhood to anyone else???). But after introductions and chatting a bit, my family had to take off to continue with their own Saturday night plans.
The cooking continued. In what was the first and probably last time in my life that I hosted a party and had minimum, if not zero, contribution to the food. I was there when we bought it. I did offer to help, but the girls of the Thies region were on top of it all. It was incredibly relaxing; mostly because it means I wasn’t stressed, but also possibly because I don’t like Mexican food so that would have added to normal food preparation chaos. They did an amazing job of cooking beans and rice over a gas tank with one pot. They fried up ground beef and diced more veggies than I could imagine. They even bleached the lettuce so that we had an end result of the tastiest Mexican salad I’ve had in quite a long time. We all over ate and I give special thanks to the chefs.
Around dusk it became apparent that somehow the electricity wasn’t working. We called my Dad in a panic again (this may have been the 12th time already that day?). He and Mom came back out. We gave them food. My mom (who’d been interested in this so called Mexican food that was not the Chile my predecessor had made) was delighted and asked me to make it for the family another time. Then Dad once again focused on fixing our party to perfection. Turns out the solar panel that normally powered the house had not been set up to charge during the day as the house wasn’t scheduled to be rented… so it was empty. Batteries were found to power portable LED lights and something somewhere was jury rigged so that we could power the speakers for our music. I tried to stay out of the chaos while the importance of music was communicated to my family. My mom did mention later that usually they have drum circles at their parties on the beach… and that’s why they don’t have to bother with electricity and speakers of their own. Thanks, but we do it like crazy Americans. When all was right with the world, my parents took off for the last time (and yes, we stopped calling them). The dance party got started. And for the guys who didn’t enjoy that, we brought in an incredibly large communal table for beer pong.
And if that weren’t enough, at some point we decided it was time for a dip in the ocean. I threw on my bathing suit and headed for the beach. There wasn’t a moon in sight and the trudge through the sand wasn’t easy in the near total darkness, but as we hiked within in eye sight of the ocean all we needed to see became apparent. Each wave rolling in seemed to be radiating white light. Then as it crashed into the shore the light would spread across the sand in the most hypnotic way until it faded moments later. The ocean was literally glowing! Someone who enjoys biology would tell you that it was bio-luminescent microbes or something like that, but none of that mattered. The water was somewhere between just cool enough to be refreshing and warm. And each wave splashed us with tiny twinkling lights like nothing I’ve ever seen before. After falling down in the waves too many times I stood for a few extra minutes on the shore just staring, but eventually it was time to get back to the party.
And that’s when flip cup started… and shortly after that we ran out of beer. Although we did try to solicit the house guard to buy us some more from the neighbors, he came back with only a liter of soda. Hmm. It didn’t matter; we were sufficiently happy and entertained. I stayed up dancing and talking to fellow volunteers a bit longer before passing out sometime around 2am.
The next day I was in a bad place. A cold plus a hangover equals a totally useless member of the cleaning crew. Luckily I seemed to be the worst of it… even the walkers were doing better than me. Maybe they’d paid more attention to hydration. In any case, the house got put back together and volunteers began to trickle out. My Dad came and drove the rest of them to the garage… then came back for Christine, Chris, myself, the pots and pans, and the rest of the water we didn’t drink. We left the empty bottles there and Dad (amazing miracle worker that he is) arranged for a car to go back, load up the bottles, and return them to the boutique by the house.
I can’t wait to have another party as even though at times it felt like a disaster and I couldn’t apologize enough, it was a great experience. One made all that much better by the support I didn’t know I had from my African family. I hadn’t realized just how a part of the family I’d become until I needed them. And they were there.
Last year about this time, the volunteers in my area decided to spend a day walking from one volunteer’s site to Mboro, as the crow flies, and ending up on the beach. The trip is somewhere around 20 miles. A few guys participated and they celebrated with beers at the end. A number of people showed interest in repeating the activity… but wanted to have a bigger celebration party at the end of the line. The volunteer whose site serves as the kick off point for the march is celebrating a birthday this past weekend… so, many more volunteers were invited to the after party on the beach in honor of said birthday.
It was left to me to organize a house on the beach where we could have a great time, and spend the night. I told my Dad weeks in advance I’d need to do this, and he promised to help by talking to one of my predecessor’s friends (who knew someone who knew someone…). We were looking for a house that could sleep 15 and was reasonably priced. A week out Dad and I went to look at a house. It was a 3 bedroom, with living, kitchen, bonfire, rooftop, and pavilion areas… not to mention the western toilet and shower. Only problem was that they renter wanted a lot of money for the house, more so than one would pay in an actual resort town, and was claiming it was because of the cost of bringing water and power from town down to the beach. Hmm… begin purchasing negotiations.
That week ended with the impression that we had secured the house I’d seen for just over half the original asking price, and a deposit was paid to secure it. This week I was focused on putting on a 2 day long class in town, and wasn’t too worried about the house or organization. When 4 other volunteers showed up Friday morning for the 2nd day of class, I got more excited to show off my town. That afternoon we started the shopping for the Mexican salad we were to make for the party. Pounds and pounds of veggies were organized. Drinks were reserved, as well as ice sellers located.
Saturday my father was working the morning shift at the factory, but we called him to arrange a car to take us down to the beach early. That’s when mass confusion started to become apparent. Turns out we’d actually rented another house near the original one. This one didn’t have much in the way of kitchen supplies. Mom was gracious enough to let us raid our family kitchen for pots, pans, bowls, strainers, utensils, and even a cake pan. We secured lunchtime sandwiches, meat for dinner, ice, and 9 jugs of 10 liter filtered water before the driver was schedule to pick us up. However, when he arrived with possibly the smallest car in town, my mother was kind enough to negotiate 2 trips down to the beach for a decent price. The beer was loaded first, then I and 2 other girls, and some of the other supplies and away we went...
The driver had not been informed of where our house was. I directed him to the first house I’d seen, which was “next to” the new one. The guard at that house had no idea what was meant by “next to” and we began more mass confusion. We unloaded all our stuff into the sand, and the driver went back for the other girls and the rest of our supplies. I pulled up a chair with the guard and our food and ice while the girls I’d come down with went off to find our house. Unfortunately, when they got back they reported that our house had no water or electricity. Not acceptable. I called Dad in a panic (for probably the 5th time already that day) and asked him to call the first guy and see if we could have the house I’d originally seen and was currently sitting outside of (with all of our melting ice). At this point, we didn’t care if he was over charging us, and I just wanted my friends to have a good time. While waiting for him to get back to me, the second car load arrived, another renter appeared out of nowhere soliciting girls to check out his house, and two more volunteers arrived from elsewhere in Senegal to start partying. Our driver tried to demand more money claiming we had too much baggage… but wouldn’t be respectful enough to listen to my argument as to why I disagreed. So I told him to fuck off and refused to acknowledge him after that. He eventually left, and my not-so-finest moment passed. I continued to sit with the ice.
When Dad got off work he drove straight to us stranded foreigners on the beach. Some Wolof was thrown around, and Dad said he needed to go find the guy who could rent us the house we sat outside of, but in the mean time we could bring everything in and relax- he’d be right back. And he would work out changing the deposit around so that we wouldn’t lose it. After dragging everything in, beers were cracked and food preparation was started. That first beer went down so fast it was gone by the time Dad got back with more Senegalese guys in tow.
Sheets were dragged out of storage, the cooking gas was refilled, and money was organized for another trip made by Dad to town for supplies (more ice, more water, and gas to work the water pump). Dad would be back in a few hours. The 6 people who’d walked the 20 plus miles arrived in tact; dehydrated and tired but proud. Their walk had been successful. Salsa, guacamole, and tortilla chips were served. It was like heaven without the euchre. There was even birthday cake- which never technically made it off the oven rack (pulled out of the oven) before we devoured it hot with spoonfuls of melting icing. 3 other volunteers also arrived. A hookah was set up and enjoyed. We continued to party and cook food.
When Dad did come back he brought everything we’d asked for plus my Mom and 4 youngest brothers. I was really proud to show off my family as the boys carried all the supplies in from the car and my Mom became a social butterfly while Dad got the water pump running (does this sound anything like my childhood to anyone else???). But after introductions and chatting a bit, my family had to take off to continue with their own Saturday night plans.
The cooking continued. In what was the first and probably last time in my life that I hosted a party and had minimum, if not zero, contribution to the food. I was there when we bought it. I did offer to help, but the girls of the Thies region were on top of it all. It was incredibly relaxing; mostly because it means I wasn’t stressed, but also possibly because I don’t like Mexican food so that would have added to normal food preparation chaos. They did an amazing job of cooking beans and rice over a gas tank with one pot. They fried up ground beef and diced more veggies than I could imagine. They even bleached the lettuce so that we had an end result of the tastiest Mexican salad I’ve had in quite a long time. We all over ate and I give special thanks to the chefs.
Around dusk it became apparent that somehow the electricity wasn’t working. We called my Dad in a panic again (this may have been the 12th time already that day?). He and Mom came back out. We gave them food. My mom (who’d been interested in this so called Mexican food that was not the Chile my predecessor had made) was delighted and asked me to make it for the family another time. Then Dad once again focused on fixing our party to perfection. Turns out the solar panel that normally powered the house had not been set up to charge during the day as the house wasn’t scheduled to be rented… so it was empty. Batteries were found to power portable LED lights and something somewhere was jury rigged so that we could power the speakers for our music. I tried to stay out of the chaos while the importance of music was communicated to my family. My mom did mention later that usually they have drum circles at their parties on the beach… and that’s why they don’t have to bother with electricity and speakers of their own. Thanks, but we do it like crazy Americans. When all was right with the world, my parents took off for the last time (and yes, we stopped calling them). The dance party got started. And for the guys who didn’t enjoy that, we brought in an incredibly large communal table for beer pong.
And if that weren’t enough, at some point we decided it was time for a dip in the ocean. I threw on my bathing suit and headed for the beach. There wasn’t a moon in sight and the trudge through the sand wasn’t easy in the near total darkness, but as we hiked within in eye sight of the ocean all we needed to see became apparent. Each wave rolling in seemed to be radiating white light. Then as it crashed into the shore the light would spread across the sand in the most hypnotic way until it faded moments later. The ocean was literally glowing! Someone who enjoys biology would tell you that it was bio-luminescent microbes or something like that, but none of that mattered. The water was somewhere between just cool enough to be refreshing and warm. And each wave splashed us with tiny twinkling lights like nothing I’ve ever seen before. After falling down in the waves too many times I stood for a few extra minutes on the shore just staring, but eventually it was time to get back to the party.
And that’s when flip cup started… and shortly after that we ran out of beer. Although we did try to solicit the house guard to buy us some more from the neighbors, he came back with only a liter of soda. Hmm. It didn’t matter; we were sufficiently happy and entertained. I stayed up dancing and talking to fellow volunteers a bit longer before passing out sometime around 2am.
The next day I was in a bad place. A cold plus a hangover equals a totally useless member of the cleaning crew. Luckily I seemed to be the worst of it… even the walkers were doing better than me. Maybe they’d paid more attention to hydration. In any case, the house got put back together and volunteers began to trickle out. My Dad came and drove the rest of them to the garage… then came back for Christine, Chris, myself, the pots and pans, and the rest of the water we didn’t drink. We left the empty bottles there and Dad (amazing miracle worker that he is) arranged for a car to go back, load up the bottles, and return them to the boutique by the house.
I can’t wait to have another party as even though at times it felt like a disaster and I couldn’t apologize enough, it was a great experience. One made all that much better by the support I didn’t know I had from my African family. I hadn’t realized just how a part of the family I’d become until I needed them. And they were there.
Sunday, April 4
Fishing
There are quite a lot of fish consumed in Senegal. Not by me, of course, but it’s a huge part of the country’s economy. So it’s only natural that fishing becomes a part of the tourism world as well. And although I wouldn’t call it a patriotic duty or anything, I definitely felt I had to try it out for myself.
Last weekend, my fellow volunteers and I rented another amazing house on the ocean front coast in the town of Popenguine. The volunteer that lives there organized a fishing trip with some of his friends in town. We woke up early on a Sunday morning and hiked across town to their launching point.
Set back a hundred feet from the shore were the wooden boats resting on logs in the sand between two houses. The boats are long and narrow, like gondolas. I’m sure there’s a better name for them, but I don’t know it. They’re painted vibrant primary colors with the name of the person who owns the boat and a year. A small motor, like the kind you’d use for canoe fishing, was brought out and attached to the back of the boat. It was secured with rope. With the help of about 20 Senegalese men, we pushed two boats out with 5 Americans and 2 Senegalese guides per boat into a very black ocean.
Motoring 12 kilometers west and directly into the ocean, we could hardly make out the shore between the mists. What looked like a four large hooks welded together to be thrown over a medieval castle wall yet to be scaled was actually thrown down to act as an anchor. I couldn’t tell you if it worked.
We sat neatly aligned up the middle of the boat on slabs of wood resting on ledges carved on each side. Leaning to one side caused the whole boat to rock; making movement a coordinated effort. 8x10 pieces of plywood were passed out which contained yards of fishing line wrapped lengthwise around it. At the end was a hook, followed by a weight, and another hook. Raw fish was brought as bait, diced up, and passed out. Luckily, I was able to ask a friend to bait for me.
We dropped our lines and started catching fish about 10 minutes later. I couldn’t tell you what kind, but they were grey and white and about 8 inches long. A line only stayed in for about 4 minutes before it would have to be brought up either with a fish or to remedy a lack of bait.
To pass the time, we chatted or spotted jelly fish floating by. They jelly fish were the size of an upside down cereal bowl. They were mostly red with white spots and white looking tentacles only a few inches long. They could only be seen when they were basically at the surface. They seemed to travel relatively alone- or we couldn’t see the others. And every time we saw one the camera couldn’t be unburied from its waterproof protection fast enough to catch the evidence.
We were told there was quite a current that prevented us from catching the big fish and in larger quantities… so we changed locations every so often. But the water was choppy, so within a short period of time 4 out of 5 Americans on our boat felt seasick and we decided to head back a bit early.
The rest of the afternoon was spent swimming, napping, and drinking beers on the porch while admiring the view. In the evening, we gutted and grilled the fish (about 9 total), and made yassa poulet (onion and vinegar sauce with white rice and chicken) and meatballs to soak up all the beer. In the evening we built a bonfire pit, took several attempts to create a roaring fire, set off rocket fireworks out of the empty beer bottles, and played beer pong. It was hands-down one of my favorite days in Senegal.
Last weekend, my fellow volunteers and I rented another amazing house on the ocean front coast in the town of Popenguine. The volunteer that lives there organized a fishing trip with some of his friends in town. We woke up early on a Sunday morning and hiked across town to their launching point.
Set back a hundred feet from the shore were the wooden boats resting on logs in the sand between two houses. The boats are long and narrow, like gondolas. I’m sure there’s a better name for them, but I don’t know it. They’re painted vibrant primary colors with the name of the person who owns the boat and a year. A small motor, like the kind you’d use for canoe fishing, was brought out and attached to the back of the boat. It was secured with rope. With the help of about 20 Senegalese men, we pushed two boats out with 5 Americans and 2 Senegalese guides per boat into a very black ocean.
Motoring 12 kilometers west and directly into the ocean, we could hardly make out the shore between the mists. What looked like a four large hooks welded together to be thrown over a medieval castle wall yet to be scaled was actually thrown down to act as an anchor. I couldn’t tell you if it worked.
We sat neatly aligned up the middle of the boat on slabs of wood resting on ledges carved on each side. Leaning to one side caused the whole boat to rock; making movement a coordinated effort. 8x10 pieces of plywood were passed out which contained yards of fishing line wrapped lengthwise around it. At the end was a hook, followed by a weight, and another hook. Raw fish was brought as bait, diced up, and passed out. Luckily, I was able to ask a friend to bait for me.
We dropped our lines and started catching fish about 10 minutes later. I couldn’t tell you what kind, but they were grey and white and about 8 inches long. A line only stayed in for about 4 minutes before it would have to be brought up either with a fish or to remedy a lack of bait.
To pass the time, we chatted or spotted jelly fish floating by. They jelly fish were the size of an upside down cereal bowl. They were mostly red with white spots and white looking tentacles only a few inches long. They could only be seen when they were basically at the surface. They seemed to travel relatively alone- or we couldn’t see the others. And every time we saw one the camera couldn’t be unburied from its waterproof protection fast enough to catch the evidence.
We were told there was quite a current that prevented us from catching the big fish and in larger quantities… so we changed locations every so often. But the water was choppy, so within a short period of time 4 out of 5 Americans on our boat felt seasick and we decided to head back a bit early.
The rest of the afternoon was spent swimming, napping, and drinking beers on the porch while admiring the view. In the evening, we gutted and grilled the fish (about 9 total), and made yassa poulet (onion and vinegar sauce with white rice and chicken) and meatballs to soak up all the beer. In the evening we built a bonfire pit, took several attempts to create a roaring fire, set off rocket fireworks out of the empty beer bottles, and played beer pong. It was hands-down one of my favorite days in Senegal.
Sunday, February 28
Emotional States of Volunteerism
The bullet points of this outline are directly copied, or paraphrased, from a Peace Corps handbook, entitled A Few Minor Adjustments, I got just before leaving. And although I read it then, its meaning is a lot more personal now. My personal thoughts are added in parenthesis.
Chapter One. A New Country.
(At this stage you are adjusting to:)
A) The Climate.
B) The Food.
C) The New Community.
D) The Loss of Language.
E) The Lack of Amenities.
F) The Loss of Routines.
G) At this stage you feel: alone, culture shock. (Outside of that, I personally would include: frustrated, bitter, hungry, sick, and depressed.)
Chapter Two. Pre-Service Training (PST) Experience.
A) Strangers.
B) Not in Control. During training, your time- and, indeed, your life- are not your own.
C) Living with a Host Family... is a constant adjustment.
D) More... is More. (Someone once said during our training "We're always on" meaning there's no end of the day, and going home from work to what is familiar.)
E) Guilt. (Here is where they say I felt guilty for hating the process because everything was just for me. But truthfully I had so many other emotions that this never happened for me. Was I cold hearted, or just exhausted?)
Chapter Three. Settling In.
A) The vanishing Americans. (I think they mean the revelation that I'm now alone.)
B) Talking Points. Another surprise you may have during settling in is to discover that your language skills aren't as good as you thought.
C) Culture Lab. (If PST was a lab in which to experiment with trial and many errors, that lab is now gone along with the people who were so forgiving.)
D) Cooking? No One Said Anything About Cooking! Another discovery that awaits you during settling in is how many things were done for you during training, things that you now realize you've never had to do in-country. (Cooking, laundry, shopping, etc).
E) The Culture of PST. (A daily routine that is now over; time to make yet another new one.)
F) Slow Starting.
G) Where Are the Hardships? (This isn't true for me either. While I joke that I'm in the Posh Corps, I still recognize that there are challenges of a different nature that I may NOT have initially expected, but I am now dealing with.)
H) But This Isn't What I Expected! (Didn't I just say that?)
Chapter Four. A New Culture.
A) Culture As Behavior. (Culture is expressed through behavior.)
B) Intellect and Emotions. Information is a tool, a necessary, but by no means sufficient, condition for successful adjustment. You can understand the notion intellectually and, at the same time, fail utterly to appreciate the true meaning.
C) Predicting the Behavior of Host Country Nationals.
D) Accepting Host Country Behavior.
E) Changing Your Own Behavior. Effective PC services requires not only that you predict and get used to host country nationals, but that you adjust your own behavior so that you don't offend them. (Easier said than done.)
F) Cultural Sensitivity. (I don't have to like it, but I do have to live with it... and not step on any toes.)
G) Can I Still Be Me? ...when being you may not be appreciated or understood in the local culture, you will have to stand your ground.
H) The Possibility of Friendship. (Where does culture stop and one's personality begin?)
Chapter Five. The World of Work.
A) Culture: A New Ingredient. (As if a normal new job wasn't enough to deal with, add a new country's culture.)
B) Common Culprits.
i) The Concept of Power. (The US is a low power distance country where, in general, rank isn't pulled, special status doesn't exist, and people work independent from bosses. Senegal is the opposite, a high power distance country.)
ii) Cultural Dichotomies. (The American view: treat everyone equally and then anyone can achieve their desires. Senegalese version: treat those closest to you better than others; doing all you can takes you only so far, and the rest is a matter of good fortune.)
iii) Direct and Indirect Communication Styles. (They are way too many difference to get specific.)
iv) The Pace of Events. (Picture that story about the tortoise and the hair... I'm the tortoise right now.)
C) Trust Me. The issue here isn't whether you're liked or appreciated or whether your credentials are adequate or whether your intentions are good. Its a matter of trust and credibility, which can only come over time.
D) Adjusting On (and to) the Job.
E) Structural Challenges. (What exactly is my job description?)
F) Agents of Change. You like to think that when you leave your host country things will not be quite the same as you found them.
Chapters Six. The Peace Corps Experience.
...You seek a profound encounter with a foreign culture, a series of experiences that change forever the way you think about the world, your own country, and yourself. You expect to be challenged, to have your patience and your mettle tested, to be pulled, pushed, or otherwise forced into new ways of thinking and behaving. (Their point is that given this, don't spend all your time with other ex-pats and minimize this experience.)
Chapters Seven. Coming Home.
A) The Notion of Home. Neither the place where you left off nor the person who went overseas exists anymore. (Home is where the routine is.)
B) How Nice. Your self-esteem isn't helped when no one seems especially interested in what you've been doing for the past two years. (Maybe this blog isn't such a good idea...)
C) A Face in the Crowd. (I'm not the only white person that people want to stare at?)
D) Back to Normal.
E) Back to Work.
F) Home Alone. (There is no neighboring volunteer, who just went through the same thing yesterday, to call when I'm totally freaking out.)
G) The Stages of Readjustment.
i) Excitement and Joy.
ii) Get On With Your Life. (The idea of moving back into the old life, and won't that diminish what I've just gone through?)
iii) Make Your Peace.
H) Think Back.
Needless to say, I'm somewhere in the middle of Chapters 4, 5 & 6. And I'll probably be there for the next year and a half. But I do remember from my study abroad program that Chapter 7 was pretty hard too. But then again, I've always said that Italy was the best thing I've ever done with my life. So I guess Peace Corps will be competing for number one on the list now.
Chapter One. A New Country.
(At this stage you are adjusting to:)
A) The Climate.
B) The Food.
C) The New Community.
D) The Loss of Language.
E) The Lack of Amenities.
F) The Loss of Routines.
G) At this stage you feel: alone, culture shock. (Outside of that, I personally would include: frustrated, bitter, hungry, sick, and depressed.)
Chapter Two. Pre-Service Training (PST) Experience.
A) Strangers.
B) Not in Control. During training, your time- and, indeed, your life- are not your own.
C) Living with a Host Family... is a constant adjustment.
D) More... is More. (Someone once said during our training "We're always on" meaning there's no end of the day, and going home from work to what is familiar.)
E) Guilt. (Here is where they say I felt guilty for hating the process because everything was just for me. But truthfully I had so many other emotions that this never happened for me. Was I cold hearted, or just exhausted?)
Chapter Three. Settling In.
A) The vanishing Americans. (I think they mean the revelation that I'm now alone.)
B) Talking Points. Another surprise you may have during settling in is to discover that your language skills aren't as good as you thought.
C) Culture Lab. (If PST was a lab in which to experiment with trial and many errors, that lab is now gone along with the people who were so forgiving.)
D) Cooking? No One Said Anything About Cooking! Another discovery that awaits you during settling in is how many things were done for you during training, things that you now realize you've never had to do in-country. (Cooking, laundry, shopping, etc).
E) The Culture of PST. (A daily routine that is now over; time to make yet another new one.)
F) Slow Starting.
G) Where Are the Hardships? (This isn't true for me either. While I joke that I'm in the Posh Corps, I still recognize that there are challenges of a different nature that I may NOT have initially expected, but I am now dealing with.)
H) But This Isn't What I Expected! (Didn't I just say that?)
Chapter Four. A New Culture.
A) Culture As Behavior. (Culture is expressed through behavior.)
B) Intellect and Emotions. Information is a tool, a necessary, but by no means sufficient, condition for successful adjustment. You can understand the notion intellectually and, at the same time, fail utterly to appreciate the true meaning.
C) Predicting the Behavior of Host Country Nationals.
D) Accepting Host Country Behavior.
E) Changing Your Own Behavior. Effective PC services requires not only that you predict and get used to host country nationals, but that you adjust your own behavior so that you don't offend them. (Easier said than done.)
F) Cultural Sensitivity. (I don't have to like it, but I do have to live with it... and not step on any toes.)
G) Can I Still Be Me? ...when being you may not be appreciated or understood in the local culture, you will have to stand your ground.
H) The Possibility of Friendship. (Where does culture stop and one's personality begin?)
Chapter Five. The World of Work.
A) Culture: A New Ingredient. (As if a normal new job wasn't enough to deal with, add a new country's culture.)
B) Common Culprits.
i) The Concept of Power. (The US is a low power distance country where, in general, rank isn't pulled, special status doesn't exist, and people work independent from bosses. Senegal is the opposite, a high power distance country.)
ii) Cultural Dichotomies. (The American view: treat everyone equally and then anyone can achieve their desires. Senegalese version: treat those closest to you better than others; doing all you can takes you only so far, and the rest is a matter of good fortune.)
iii) Direct and Indirect Communication Styles. (They are way too many difference to get specific.)
iv) The Pace of Events. (Picture that story about the tortoise and the hair... I'm the tortoise right now.)
C) Trust Me. The issue here isn't whether you're liked or appreciated or whether your credentials are adequate or whether your intentions are good. Its a matter of trust and credibility, which can only come over time.
D) Adjusting On (and to) the Job.
E) Structural Challenges. (What exactly is my job description?)
F) Agents of Change. You like to think that when you leave your host country things will not be quite the same as you found them.
Chapters Six. The Peace Corps Experience.
...You seek a profound encounter with a foreign culture, a series of experiences that change forever the way you think about the world, your own country, and yourself. You expect to be challenged, to have your patience and your mettle tested, to be pulled, pushed, or otherwise forced into new ways of thinking and behaving. (Their point is that given this, don't spend all your time with other ex-pats and minimize this experience.)
Chapters Seven. Coming Home.
A) The Notion of Home. Neither the place where you left off nor the person who went overseas exists anymore. (Home is where the routine is.)
B) How Nice. Your self-esteem isn't helped when no one seems especially interested in what you've been doing for the past two years. (Maybe this blog isn't such a good idea...)
C) A Face in the Crowd. (I'm not the only white person that people want to stare at?)
D) Back to Normal.
E) Back to Work.
F) Home Alone. (There is no neighboring volunteer, who just went through the same thing yesterday, to call when I'm totally freaking out.)
G) The Stages of Readjustment.
i) Excitement and Joy.
ii) Get On With Your Life. (The idea of moving back into the old life, and won't that diminish what I've just gone through?)
iii) Make Your Peace.
H) Think Back.
Needless to say, I'm somewhere in the middle of Chapters 4, 5 & 6. And I'll probably be there for the next year and a half. But I do remember from my study abroad program that Chapter 7 was pretty hard too. But then again, I've always said that Italy was the best thing I've ever done with my life. So I guess Peace Corps will be competing for number one on the list now.
Sunday, August 30
Letters From Abroad- August
Hi Family,
I've made it. I'm in one piece physically. Honestly though, having a rough time getting my head around things. Need to keep reminding myself that this is just like summer camp only permanent and with squat toilets. There are a lot of people here and it's a bit hard to make instant friends and get acquainted with everyone. Hopefully when we break off into small groups it will get better. My french skills from Rosetta aren't that helpful either. Bummer. Already taking malaria pills. More shots tomorrow. Can't wait for the side effects.
Write me.
Much love, Alys
Kazumi,
I have to confess, I was really unhappy and depressed my first day here. I was thinking every two seconds that I just want to go home and I'm stupid for doing this. But then I'd say I would not approve of me if I quit so early. I would be so ashamed!!! I couldn't go back to Hino and my house. I would have nothing to do with myself. I need to be here.
Then day two was much better.
And day 3 is ok, but a little scary like day one. It's really hard for an anti social person to make friends especially when there are 50 other people here trying to make new best friends too. I'm trying though. I'm making an effort. Although some people do not like my sense of humor. How is that possible? I'm waiting until Monday when we split into small groups of 4 to 5 people for the rest of our training... then I can get to know friends those people.
The Bleach Story.
We have to filter and then bleach our water here... but in my first weeks in country I didn't have a dropper for the bleach so I was doing it by hand. And then one night, while it was a million degrees in my room at 2am, and the power was out, I poured free hand in the dark. Subsequently, I drank too much bleach and had to be evacuated to Dakar a day later because of the burning in my throat and continuous throwing up. The med team kindly advised me that I didn't have to be here. Great. I had an endoscopy where I striped down and a huge man (who may or may not have looked like Frankenstein- I was mildly delirious from dehydration) held me down while they shoved a camera down my throat. Turns out I'm fine, with a mild case of acid reflux. Great.
On the way back the some current volunteers along for the ride convinced our driver to take the road less travelled to Lac Rose (Pink Lake) appropriately named because the water is actually pink. Surrounding the lake were my first glimpses at camels. Then five minutes more through sand dunes and we were on the beach! The ocean, my first African coastline. The whole thing was surreal, awesome. We drove the land cruiser about 3 feet from the water for an hour back to my village. We went through a neighboring village just as the fishermen brought the days catch ashore... swordfish about 5-6 feet in length! And then there were the millions of crabs running out of our way as we were raced down the coast. Almost made the trip to Dakar worthwhile. Almost.
Kai,
Loving is a strong word, but I'm making it. Things are a roller coaster here between wanting to cry "Uncle" and really enjoying all the new and different stimuli. Of course I'm still in training and spend all my time trying to learn French, but I'm sure things will calm down some time in October.
Alys
I've made it. I'm in one piece physically. Honestly though, having a rough time getting my head around things. Need to keep reminding myself that this is just like summer camp only permanent and with squat toilets. There are a lot of people here and it's a bit hard to make instant friends and get acquainted with everyone. Hopefully when we break off into small groups it will get better. My french skills from Rosetta aren't that helpful either. Bummer. Already taking malaria pills. More shots tomorrow. Can't wait for the side effects.
Write me.
Much love, Alys
Kazumi,
I have to confess, I was really unhappy and depressed my first day here. I was thinking every two seconds that I just want to go home and I'm stupid for doing this. But then I'd say I would not approve of me if I quit so early. I would be so ashamed!!! I couldn't go back to Hino and my house. I would have nothing to do with myself. I need to be here.
Then day two was much better.
And day 3 is ok, but a little scary like day one. It's really hard for an anti social person to make friends especially when there are 50 other people here trying to make new best friends too. I'm trying though. I'm making an effort. Although some people do not like my sense of humor. How is that possible? I'm waiting until Monday when we split into small groups of 4 to 5 people for the rest of our training... then I can get to know friends those people.
The Bleach Story.
We have to filter and then bleach our water here... but in my first weeks in country I didn't have a dropper for the bleach so I was doing it by hand. And then one night, while it was a million degrees in my room at 2am, and the power was out, I poured free hand in the dark. Subsequently, I drank too much bleach and had to be evacuated to Dakar a day later because of the burning in my throat and continuous throwing up. The med team kindly advised me that I didn't have to be here. Great. I had an endoscopy where I striped down and a huge man (who may or may not have looked like Frankenstein- I was mildly delirious from dehydration) held me down while they shoved a camera down my throat. Turns out I'm fine, with a mild case of acid reflux. Great.
On the way back the some current volunteers along for the ride convinced our driver to take the road less travelled to Lac Rose (Pink Lake) appropriately named because the water is actually pink. Surrounding the lake were my first glimpses at camels. Then five minutes more through sand dunes and we were on the beach! The ocean, my first African coastline. The whole thing was surreal, awesome. We drove the land cruiser about 3 feet from the water for an hour back to my village. We went through a neighboring village just as the fishermen brought the days catch ashore... swordfish about 5-6 feet in length! And then there were the millions of crabs running out of our way as we were raced down the coast. Almost made the trip to Dakar worthwhile. Almost.
Kai,
Loving is a strong word, but I'm making it. Things are a roller coaster here between wanting to cry "Uncle" and really enjoying all the new and different stimuli. Of course I'm still in training and spend all my time trying to learn French, but I'm sure things will calm down some time in October.
Alys
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