Thankful Birthday

 The Senegalese don’t really celebrate birthdays. Case in point: I returned a few days after my youngest brother Saliou’s birthday and when I asked my mom what they’d done to celebrate it she replied, “Oh yeah. I forgot it was this week. Well, if we have money we’ll make a cake for him and Baba (my other brother with a birthday a few weeks prior) on Saturday.” That never happened.

Site Announcement

About half way, or one month, into PST (pre service training) PC Senegal has a special ceremony for the newest stage in which they announce each trainee’s future site of service. This is the day one finds out where he or she will be for the next two years of their life, so the staff tries to make it as memorable as possible. At the training center in Thies there’s a slab of concrete out behind one of the huts with a rudimentary map of Senegal painted on it. For the ceremony trainees are blindfolded, then taken one-by-one by the hand and led to the place on the map that represents their future destination.

Display Tactics

Back at Jazz Fest, because this story is so grand I split it into two…

Eradicating Steve

Once upon a time there was an adult woman who joined the Peace Corps, moved to another continent, and started living with undomesticated animals. Colonies of flies, deadly mosquitoes, and insolent mice were the worst of the offenders. There was an adjustment period where household improvements were made in the name of preventative entry. A new screen window, a new tiled floor, and a new toilet where gradually installed. But most recently our heroic (for the sake of the “fable” we say heroic, but she isn’t really) volunteer took what she hopes to be the last measure to barricade herself into her hut…

Toilet Woes

My Western Toilet

I’ve dealt with mice invasions, leaky roofs during rainy season, and getting screens put in my windows… but none of these has been more inconvenient than the near two week long incident that has come about with my toilet.

Investment Talk

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Money in the Market

What is an investment? Where I live, it means spending all your money as soon as you get it so as to avoid the possibility of giving to someone else. For if someone was to ask you for money, and you had it, you would need to give it to them by rule of Senegalese (and West African?) culture. Instead, you should buy something for yourself or the house as soon as you receive the funds. This way you’ve bought the cement, for example, needed to build that wall you’ve always wanted. Granted the cement is only the first step because you also need sand delivered and the labor to make the blocks… but it’s a building block (pun intended). You’re now one step closer to having your dream wall thanks to the investment.

Murder Mystery

When I was a kid, I remember my parents throwing murder mystery parties every year on New Year’s Eve. I remember our house being transformed into a high school reunion, a cruise line, a ‘speak easy,’ and so many more fun places. The idea of a murder mystery party is that someone dies, people are assigned characters and clues, and everyone guesses who done it.

Family Bio

Peace Corps Volunteers in Senegal are assigned to live in host families as a means of protection, integration, and cultural experience. All gripes aside, my family is pretty great and I’d like to tell you a bit about each one of them.

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.

Extreme Rollercoaster

I had a perfect Sunday. I slept in late and read a book in bed under the covers. I got up midmorning and ate breakfast while doing some writing. I greeted my family, but they left me alone to work. Then I walked over to the school to connect to the internet, wrote a friend a letter and had spare time to browse some articles on the web. After some friendly banter with a few kids and a call from Kenny, I went home change and get ready for the day.

Revamp Tour

One of my new year’s resolutions was to improve the quality of this blog. There’s really no point in doing something half-assed, right? Thanks to the tutoring of my gorgeous savvy sister, you may have noticed additional navigational options, the addition of pictures, or the newly created pages… and I hope you enjoy them.

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.

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.

Henna

According to my African mother, older women cover their feet in henna designs for 3 reasons. The first is that it is believed to hold medicinal properties. As in, the elderly who suffer from arthritis find a certain relief in the henna that soaks into the skin. The second is that the henna helps undo the damage done to the heels from years of trudging through the sand in flip flops. You wouldn’t believe the calluses I have after a year and a half… so imagine what a life time looks like: cracked heals, surfaces of stone, and a permanent flip flop tan line (that last one I only imagine in my case). The third reason henna is so popular is more basic: It looks pretty.

I know when I say henna most of you imagine the really pretty rose or brown colored designs found on Indian women. Like everything else here, the practice of henna is completely different. First up, we use black henna. It comes from a base of who knows what and is actually packaged as black hair die from China. It is sold in the pharmacy (how CVS of them, right?) I couldn’t tell you want they use in India but it’s obviously different. In addition, the designs are much more basic, more African. There are no little dots forming flowery designs. Senegalese women use athletic tape to form their patterns and cover the whole area in the henna mixture… leaving the taped area is the break in the color. The parts of the body decorated are typically the bottoms of the feet, and the inside of the palm and the fingers (but usually only the left hand- because it’s already dirty).

I’ve attempted henna twice. The first time was over a year ago when I spent the day at a women’s house and told her I was interested. She enlisted her daughter to commence in my first experience. They attempted a red version (I’m nearly certain we can call it a botched Indian knock off) that involved taping my hands off, putting a creepy green paste over nearly every surface, and covering my hands in plastic to protect them. I was to spend the better part of half a day attempting to not use my hands. It was tedious. And I gave up early, 4 hours later. After voiding my hands of all objects, a barely yellow tint was visible. It left a few days later.

The second attempt occurred just recently and coincided with the visit of my sister. Granted I’d been asking my mom for a year to do henna with me, but apparently a visitor warranted the activity. This is probably because of the 3rd utilization of henna, it’s pretty. Semi-permanent tattoo sightings are much more prevalent in Mboro in and around holidays, because these beautiful works of art make things more festive. Another reason could be that a week is taken off for every holiday, thus leaving the peoples with plenty of extra time to kill. Or maybe they take a week off for all the preparation. It’s a ‘chicken or the egg’ conundrum, if you ask me.

Anyway, I digress. The week of Tabaski, my mom mentioned doing henna together. Our plan was to do it Friday (the holiday having been on Wednesday). My sister was to arrive Saturday morning. My suspicions lay with my Senegalese mom always trying to get me to dress better (read: more Senegalese) and her not wanting me to fall short of proving to my actual family that I have indeed spent too much time integrating into my current lifestyle. We started by calling a women who performs the art as a side business in another neighborhood. My mom got a quote and I agreed. Later, my mom talked to some friends, and decided we could do the whole thing ourselves with the help of a neighbor in our area of town. Hmm; this should have been a sign. So should’ve the fact that I’ve been asking my mom to do this with me for a year now… only to learn that she’d “never done it before.” Odd as I’d seen her with it…

So, like any other task, we sent one of the children out in search of the necessary ingredients. For two days, the boy came back empty handed. By Friday night, I suggested we attempt to do it with my sister upon arrival the next day. It wasn’t until just before my sister, her boyfriend, and I were scheduled to leave Mboro did the items miraculously appear. And then, as in most instances with my host mom, I got bullied into doing something I was not actually willing to do at that point in time. Drinks with a friend were postponed and my sister and I were seated in the foyer of our house. The neighbor girl arrived and the Chinese hair dye was mixed.

At this point it’s time to revisit something my mom said: that she’d never done this before. Apparently this meant that she’d never a) used the black Chinese hair dye version and b) been in charge of actually forming the designs on skin. I’d told her from the beginning that she was in charge of the African design that needed to appear on my significantly paler skin. And since this artwork was scheduled to last for weeks at a time, putting all that in someone else’s hands is kind of a big deal for me; a trust issue if you will. I did give her one single restriction: in no way shape or size did I want a heart to appear on my body. I’ve always felt this was tacky, and I just can’t live with tacky for weeks on end.

So we got started. The neighbor showed my mom how to use a small stick or match to dab the henna onto the skin. From there a design already mapped out on paper was used. I mentioned a number of times that my drawing could be much simpler than 20 or plus shapes that lay out… but no one was listening. I guess they still weren’t listening when I said I wanted the design on the top of my foot, because the actual one started about 3 inches up my leg and worked its way across the top of my foot. After an initial line was drawn, my mom left me in the hands of the neighbor girl to be finished and started working on my sister. Squiggly lines, diamonds, dots, flowers, and swirls began to take form in black. I distracted myself from its ridiculousness by translating conversation between my mom and sister.

I should have been paying attention because when I finally turned back a heart was smiling smugly back at me from the center of the design. Unbelievable. This “artist” of a neighbor had gone too far. It’s finished, I tell her. My mom bullies me once more into putting a tattoo bracelet on my left arm. Fine, but NO hearts! I end up with two (what were aimed at) straight lines around my wrist with dots in the middle. In the end my sister ended up with basically the same things both on her foot and her wrist. We were instructed not touch them until the mixture dried. The neighbor girl bumped my wrist while attempting to design it… so from the get-go it was messed up. I made it worse by grazing a wall. And I guess wrists are difficult for everyone because sister did the same thing with hers.

We eventually left for our drinks at the local watering hole so that making jokes about the whole debacle would go down easier. I started to refer to it as the time “a 3 year old drew on me with a marker,” because that’s what I believe it looked like. I spent the next week using my sister’s make up removing face wipes to diminish my works of art as quickly as possible. I also had to shave my arm hairs (which were dyed black- it is hair dye of course). It didn’t take long. In the end, I’ve learned the following lessons (although it’s not been the first time): my host mom is great at bullying and I’m great at getting bullied, if you want something done right (or without hearts) do it yourself, and finally that nothing- absolutely nothing- is going to get done when I first imagine or plan it to.

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving being my absolute favorite holiday, and since I’d stayed with my family in Mboro the year before, I saw fit to travel this year. So I went to Dakar for the best gig in country to be celebrated in the form of an upscale dinner party. Every year the Ambassador to the United States opens her home to the lonely likes of the Peace Corps Volunteers residing in Senegal. It’s a potluck whose arrangements is organized only a few days before when a person calls, texts, or emails their desired food contribution to the PC headquarters office. I personally went through 3 rounds before settling on something not requested by others and not similarly represented. As my sister was visiting I also made arrangements for her to join the festivities as well.

The day of my sister, her boyfriend, Christine, and myself woke up in another town, organized our possessions and set out to find a ride to Dakar. Looking for a car out of Popenguine had us walking all sorts of scenic routes, until we stopped a passing car to ask directions back to town or a garage. He turned out to be a French priest at the mission in town and offered to give us a ride to the next town’s garage. After we got in, it was discovered that he’d been living in Senegal for 3 years and was currently travelling to Dakar on business… he offered to take us the distance and would not accept money or gifts. He drove us within 3 blocks of our destination in Dakar in a record time nearly half of what is considered normal travel.

On the road we discovered that my cell phone provider was offering 'buy one get one free' in cell phone credit. This felt like finding treasure as any other promotional day I've been privy to has only offered a 50% upgrade. 100% was only a myth... until now. Our phones work off of prepaid credit that is purchased in card form from any aspiring entrepreneur. They are more common than lemonade stands in a US subdivision during summer. Though this seems like a sidebar to the festivities, it could've been equated to a Christmas miracle and was therefore highly appreciated.

For breakfast we ate lunch items at the diner in downtown Dakar. Chances to sit in AC, drink lemonade, and eat pizza and fries would put anyone in an American mood. Followed by checking into the hotel, taking hot showers, and getting dolled up for the evening- all of which improved the experience. I haven’t looked that pretty since I got ready for New Years Eve 2010. Depressing and pathetic, but true… and also a cost savings. While Christine, sister, and I did our makeup and exchanged accessories, sister's boyfriend spent some quality time watching Senegalese music videos and learning the art of traditional dance. Both he and sister can do a remarkable impersonation of a appropriate leg shaking and lifting with accompanying blank faced stare.

In the early afternoon, we bought supplies at the nicest store in town for our contribution to the buffet and took them over to the regional house. There we showed sister how each local volunteer has a locker but the bunk beds are up for first-come-first-serve grabs to the people who arrive there. Unfortunately preparations for dinner side dishes and desserts worked much the same way… and by the time we got there barely any of the cooking utensils were available for use or storage. After some shifting of side dishes and bargaining for stove top space we managed to boil our pasta and cut our sausage, cucumber, olives, and onions. The dressing was to be tossed in just before dinner was served (although that was somehow lost in translation with the kitchen staff at the ambassador’s residence). And just as we were finishing it was time to grab the barely used heels from my locker and head out to our party.

We took a taxi and actually got there by telling him the neighborhood and whose house we were going to. This surprises me because I couldn’t tell you the location of any other ambassador’s house in any other country. But then, I’m not strong in geography. Upon arrival, the security guard checked our names off a list, in a VIP club sort of way, before we walked through the gates. The Ambassador herself met us at the front door with greetings and a member of the kitchen staff (there to receive our dish, which she would later transfer to a new plate and sans dressing), and after offering our thanks for the invitation we signed the guest book and headed to the patio for some drinks.

The back yard of the estate (yes that is the appropriate word for the place) was the perfect place for a twilight cocktail hour. A bar and two bartenders served red and white imported wines, beer, and local juices while my fellow volunteers and members of the PC staff mingled around the pool. Sister spent a fair amount of time chatting up and getting to know my friends who were beautifully dressed in a way that made me miss holidays, formal functions, and generally being clean and well groomed.

Just as the sun set, we headed inside to the grand living room where eight round tables we covered in beautiful white linens with matching white chair covers and place settings. It was like a fancy wedding, and combined with the lighting (which for the first time in a long time wasn’t florescent), made me consider whether or not I have a problem with season effected disorder or just bad lighting. The wait staff (I’m talking men in dress shirts and vests, seriously) brought wine periodically. For dinner we ate all the usual fixings, each made from at least 3 different “recipes from home,” and I tasted them all. Well except the green mashed potatoes… and that’s just good common sense. I ate so much that I got a second plate, but I couldn’t finish it.

We stuffed ourselves like this for quite a while before they brought out coffee and cleared the buffet table (the promise of optional take home bags whispered through the air). Then it was on to dessert, where the table was once again covered with brownies, apple pie, corn bread (another lost in translation item), carrot cake, and other items I couldn’t manage room for. Luckily the others at my table all wanted mere bites so we shared one of everything.

As the sleepy drug of turkey took hold of the room, I found the already cleaned pasta pan and secured for it safe passage back to the regional house with other friends. Then I collected my sister and her boyfriend and Christine and got them back to the hotel room, where we called our families (possibly only due to the 100% promotional phone credit miracle) and laid down in a poor attempt to let our stomachs digest. This didn’t last long, as we’d promised to drag ourselves up and out to the nearest bar for beers with friends. We made it through one sad beer before calling Turkey Day a success and going to bed. And that’s how an ex-pat does an American holiday in style, Peace Corps life style be damned.

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.

History of Mboro

The following is a brief history of my amazing town of Mboro. The historical information was compiled by the mayor’s office of my town for a website that has been under construction the entire time I’ve been here (does it really take that long?). I then translated it and used the byproduct for the Wiki-Travel website I’ve launched for English speaking tourists looking to explore my corner of Senegal. Naturally, I’ve added additional details here that the average tourist probably doesn’t or shouldn’t care about for the sake of giving those of you reading this a better feel for the town. Nonetheless, I recommend checking out said website upon completion of this story.

Though discovered by the then colonial Governor of Senegal, Pinet Laprade, in 1862, the community of Mboro was not formalized until 1936 when travelers, carrying goods from the then capital of Saint Louis to the port in Dakar, found need for a stopping point along the coast.

After land surveys were conducted by the French, a base for fruit and vegetable production was instituted in Mboro and many Senegalese were enticed to move to the coast from Mékhé, Tivaouane, and other surrounding towns. Anyone who made the move received a trunk, a mosquito net, a piece of land, and tools to plant seeds and begin their new lives. Since then, Mboro has been regarded as the premier source of fruits and vegetables, among cities along the northern coast. This coastal region known to as either the Grande Côte (Big Coast) or the Garden Belt because of the large produce output for domestic and export consumption.

In the late 1950’s, a new dynamic was added to the economy with the extraction and sale of minerals found in the rich soils. The first miners were Europeans, either Belgian or French, and they exported phosphate. The Senegalese government formally organized the mining industry nation-wide in 1985, with the creation of Industries Chimiques du Senegal (ICS), including the factories and fields of Mboro/ Darou Khoudass.

By this time sulfur and other fun items from the periodic table were added to the product list. However, the governmental management style was not conducive to the large scale success in store for the factory and the operations were bought by a group of Indian entrepreneurs, a number of drag lines restored and new products developed for export. Thanks to the technology wave of the 20th century the fields of Mboro became a virtual gold mine upon the realization that they were riddled with silicon.

The first neighborhoods of Mboro were formed by 1954. Included is the very unique gated neighborhood of Mbaye Mbaye, which today stands as a tribute to Western culture and the first factory managers that built it to include tennis courts, swimming pool, mini grocery store, and country club style dining hall. Eleven formal neighborhoods exist though the interiors of which are a little disorganized- as many houses are not numbered or share the same number as another home. Streets don’t have names, and directions are given either in terms of store landmarks or by sending a small child to accompany you.

The small town was once mixed into a pool with other surrounding villages to create a “rural community” governed by one man, El Hadji Ngalgou Ndiaye, from 1976 until 2002. This position was an appointment by people higher up the chain rather than a democratic election by the people. And from what I’m told, not all that much came out if it, save a figure head if anyone was ever asked of its existence. But in later years of his appointment, the town of Mboro was recognized as having a need for an independent mayor to govern our people specifically. Djiby Yade became the first official mayor in 2002. The stories vary but it is said that he did little to nothing beneficial for the town, though he did enjoy a comfortable lifestyle due to his elevated status.

A heated election took place following M. Yade’s term and a victorious Charlot Sene took office in the spring of 2009 as Mboro’s 2nd mayor in office. M. Sene is currently balancing a job at the mineral factory and with his appointment and platform containing a number of attractive improvement ideas. Among them are the drainage system for the lowest point in town, bathrooms in the market, new classrooms in each of the major schools, an organized waste management program, annexation into Mboro and creation of utility infrastructures for the beach front neighborhoods, and restructuring of the aforementioned disorganized neighborhoods.

Today a unique blend of Wolof, Pulaar and Sereer ethnicities call this oasis home. Catholics and Muslims live side by side in harmony sharing in each other’s holiday experiences; for a meal shared with a Catholic neighbor on Tabaski is returned in kind to the Muslims on Christmas. The statuesque small-scale cathedral on a side road of town is open to any and all seeking its services in either French or Wolof, and its various choir troops are amazing to listen to- be it during weekly practice or throughout mass. Meanwhile 3 large mosques decorate the other corners of town and are equally inviting with their calls to prier.

Revered for being flush with sea breezes and produce, Mboro is anything but your ordinary tourist destination. Tucked quietly by the coast, and a 30 minute ride from the national route, this is a must see sight for those in seek of a truly African experience. For more info visit http://wikitravel.org/en/Mboro.

Saliou

The following is all about the hilarious things my youngest 2 years old brother, Saliou Ndaw (pronounced “saa-loo en-dow”), does. Admittedly, they are only hilarious because if I don’t laugh I might freak out. If you’re reading this but don’t know how I feel about children… ‘I don’t like them’ is the nicest way to put it. And no, that hasn’t changed in the past year. Anyway, the list of Saliou:
1. He recently bit my boob, drawing blood, whilst continuing a joke born during Ramadan about being hungry enough to eat a person. One’s first reaction might be to confirm that he wasn’t going for milk. No, he was not, as that ended a year ago when I first arrived. This was solely a bad joke gone worse.
2. Climbed into my bed buck-naked after a shower; replying to my “where are your pants?” with “I’m going to sleep.” And then he did. This behavior went on for about a week straight until I left for a while thus breaking the daily routine. I would’ve taken pictures of the ridiculous way he stretches out with audacity, but wouldn’t ever want them found for fear of prosecution on child pornography charges. Yikes.
3. The first time I heard him say “Dinaay Poop” meaning I’m going to poop. Problem is that this was the week he learned future tense… so everything was in the future regardless of whether or not he should have been speaking in the immediate present. If you can guess where this is going… he had explosive diarrhea while sitting on my lap.

4. Eating food is a big deal. People talk about it all the time. Favorite meals, how much was eaten, etc. I therefore started to joke with my family that the really good meals are somehow too difficult for my brother because he always seems to wear more than he eats. Maybe it’s because he’s shoveling them in so fast that he misses his mouth concerning the majority of the contents of the spoon. When I tease him about wearing his dessert yogurt on his face he says “Eat naa” (I ate). Yeah, I teach him English. Get over it.

4.a. Because he’s learning English he runs around saying things like “eat naa,” “go away naa,” and “up naa” to mean he has eaten, has already left me alone (although not true), and has climbed onto my chair and into my lap- respectively.

5. Like any 2 years old that doesn't want to take a shower, I have to drag him in there kicking and screaming- and demand he take his cloths off before I throw him in. The last time this went down he took his shirt off with a scary smile... then instead of taking his pants down he reached in, pulled out his junk, and actually started aiming a stream at my foot.

6. He has taken to mixing English and Wolof in the negative formation as evident by the phrase “up uma ko,” meaning he has not pulled up his pants. He’s NOT fond of pulling up his pants after showers or trips to the bathroom. I think it might be his least favorite task in life. If only that were mine…

7. The first time I successfully translated the phrase “deffal ma” I was very proud of myself for my progress in language. To explain it to you, I would say “Would you do this for me, please?” But Wolof isn’t so polite or wordy. It most literally means “do me,” which as you can imagine had me thoroughly confused. A lot of Wolof is about inference, but these days if I still don’t know what he wants from me I ask him to show me… which can be witnessed by others with a 2 years old leading a tall white person around like an idiot.

8. Speaking of foreigners, Saliou is a firm believer that I am friends with every last one of them in Mboro. So any time another white person shows up to the house (be it for World Cup games, or visits with my parents) he is the first to run into my room anxiously announcing that someone is calling me. This is not true, but is his way of saying “someone else that looks like you is here… you must want to talk to your friend.”

9. I hung up a world map on the wall in my room and my 4 years old brother, Babacar, likes to ask where things are located. We play a sort of point and learn game together. When Saliou wanted to join, I asked him to show me Senegal. He pointed to Brazil- which I think is a complex of some kind! He’ll still point there occasionally, even though he’s constantly reminded of his country’s size and continental orientation.

10. Saliou has recently entered the phase characteristically described back home as the ‘terrible twos’ in which he finds it unbelievably hilarious to learn and frequently use all forms of foul language. And what makes it so terrible is awareness of the flying insult. He’ll appear at my door in the seemingly absolute worst of my equally foul moods to shout evil slurs and quickly dart out of reach. On the occasion that I have the energy to chase after him in an attempt to deliver a good spanking, he’ll run away whilst yelling “Soda duma jappal” or Soda won’t catch me.

So given all the flying poop, bad English, and insults… can you really blame me for NOT finding kids to be the most magical part of my Peace Corps service? I didn’t think so. But hey, at least I have a reformed, if not healthy, sense of humor thanks to my brother Saliou.

Demystification

Half way through language training, about a month after arriving, a new volunteer will learn where his or her permanent site will be. Shortly thereafter nearly a week is dedicated to aiding the new trainee in a demystification process about what it’s really like to be a volunteer. This is accomplished, preferably, by visit the proceeding volunteer. As this isn’t always the case, the trainee will then visit the next closest volunteer in the same program. This past week, I was that volunteer. For 4 days I hosted the volunteers-to-be headed to St. Louis and Louga, the next two largest cities to the north of me. They are two lovely ladies who were very enthusiastic about the work to come even without the lengthy discussions covering all the possibilities available.

The ladies arrived on Sunday morning after an expedition was made by my father and me to Tivaouane, where Peace Corps had dropped them off. As it was still early, my family went back to sleep and the three of us got some breakfast and sat in my room playing 20 questions. Really, it was more like 200 questions, but I was happy to oblige. Hours passed and we discussed my living situation, my family, meals, expenditures… leaving no stone unturned. After lunch and nearly frozen yogurt dessert we were off to catch a party at the local church. Unfortunately, we had missed the memo that this party was to take place directly following mass- in the morning- and by the time we got there it had already shifted to a house outside of town. We settled for a beer in the nearby boutique. As the town was enjoying a lazy Sunday, we spent the rest of the afternoon in my room talking and watching movies. After dinner it was an early night to bed.

Monday was spent discovering Mboro. Actually, most businesses were still closed after the long holiday weekend so I spent a lot of time talking about people we couldn’t actually find. I did manage to give exciting encounters of my projects, such as the girls’ camp, business classes, and marketing campaigns, whilst passing empty buildings. After we’d worked up a sufficient sweat, it was back to the house to make a power point presentation on all the things we’d discussed; an item to be delivered at later training sessions. As my family was eating fish for lunch, we headed to the local club for a “sandwich on the plate,” which goes to say meat and veggies with a basket of bread on the side. Our afternoon plans of heading to the beach were derailed by the rain. This seemed to confuse my family who thought we were going to bathe, so why should it matter where the water comes from??? Instead, we watched some more movies. After dinner we headed to my favorite boutique once more to meet Charles (you remember Charles, right?) for a drink. This proved to be entertaining as they got to see me in action hammering out a few work items with Charles in French. Charles shared his ideas on volunteerism and all the things he figured they could do in their respective sites.

Tuesday was Thies day. Before heading out, we stopped in a hole-in-the-wall I’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing before to grab some breakfast. Sautéed meat, onions, and potato wedges served over an optional portion of spaghetti reminded me of steak and eggs back home. Successfully navigating the Mboro garage and unloading at our destination in Thies, we met up with friends at a favorite restaurant for a before-lunch drink. The purpose of the day was a welcome to the new comers of our region of Senegal volunteers. Current volunteers, exiting volunteers, and their replacements had a good time of getting to know each other. After drinks, we changed locations and got lunch. After lunch we went to a third venue for more drinks. As afternoon became evening, my pair and I headed back to the garage and Mboro (after a quick stop at the western grocery store for movie snacks). Dinner and a movie became a formal traditional at this point.

Wednesday had originally been ear-marked for a trip to St. Louis. As I’d never been there I’d called friendly volunteers to meet us there and show us the ropes. Unfortunately, I was informed that no space could be had in the Peace Corps lodgings and we’d have to rent a hotel room. In addition, no one would be available to show us around as other Peace Corps trainings were taking place that same day. As trainees generally have little money (so as not to get them in too much trouble?), we had to forgo the trip all together. It was later learned that a regional party for volunteers from the northern area of Senegal was being conducted on that same day… and we were essentially not invited. Hmm, not the impression I would have given to the volunteer headed to that town.

So, with St. Louis out of the question we had another great day in Mboro. We kicked it off with coffee in a new shop I hadn’t tried. Chatting with the charming and enthusiastic owner, I found myself excited for a new friend and possible work partner in town. The place has the potential to be the closest Senegal would come to a café or Starbucks and with a little effort could be turned into the perfect place for a visiting tourist. Next we visited the local school where Devon’s grand contribution to service lies. For lunch we headed back to the club for another pass at the “sandwich on the plate” with Charles. Whilst there, it was discovered that my friends from Texas, who had been around last year, had return that very morning for another 5 month pass at life in Mboro. I exchanged numbers with them before we headed out to don swimsuits and sun block in preparation for the beach. We stopped briefly at my women’s group’s place of business to catch a glimpse of cereal production in action and taste the local juices. The beach itself was warm, as was the ocean, and we were left alone- save a few friendly waves- to relax. Upon our return, you guessed it, was dinner and a movie. We were invited to a local tam tam dancing experience, but as that party didn’t get started until 3 hours after its designated timing (about midnight) my threesome decided to skip it, much to my mother’s disappointment.

Thursday, we packed up early and my father drove us to the garage. He was kind enough to negotiate the price of the ladies’ baggage and they were off once more to Thies. I hope I speak for all three of us when I say a great time discovering Mboro and my life here was had by all.

Internet

The internet is a tricky devil. When I first got here, I figured Mboro was a great site because I would have wireless internet service in my room. My host family had already commissioned internet service from the local provider because they have a pc of their own. So the way things had been set up was to connect the router directly to my family’s pc, which would then turn around and send out a signal for wireless connection. As my family was already paying for this service, my contribution factored into my rent and I didn’t have to worry about pesky things like bill paying.

This worked out just peachy until it was concluded that as the first family in the neighborhood to get internet- let alone wireless- we had been targeted for bandwidth boosting. Our neighbors brought in lap tops and started picking up our signal for their personal use. In an attempt to regulate this problem my predecessor, Devon, used his net savvy to put a password on the signal. This didn’t last long as neighbors would just come to the house and demand the password. Unfortunately for my family, in African culture one cannot say no. If you have something shareable you are obligated to do so. And there is no easy explanation for why my family couldn’t share the internet. Just how do you translate “all the movies and programs you’re downloading leave me waiting 10 minutes to load my email and I’m sick and tired of it?”

So Devon and his aforementioned savvy were commissioned again. This time he locked the signal to a single random IP address. And only those people who knew the address were able to connect to the internet. This slowed our boosting problem almost completely… and only one stubborn neighbor (determined downloader as I’m told) was able to figure out what had been done. So the very last measure taken was to enter our system of internet confusion, determine the receiving IP address of my neighbor and block it permanently from our signal. I’m told for a while he continued to pass by the house demanding help to figure out what was wrong with his computer… but that eventually he got the message.

Enter me. When I got to Mboro no one explained all this to me. I spent a week not able to connect to the house internet because I had no idea about the locked IP situation. I don’t have even half the internet tech skills as the former wonder volunteer and I quickly became a huge disappointment to my host family in this regard. I tried my best to learn what I could from Devon, who was amazingly closed lipped, and how-to websites but it didn’t take very well and I still find myself quite confused.

In the months that have followed, a whole variety of problems have derailed my dreams of reliable and continuous internet service. For a while neighbor kids would come to use the house computer… which included tinkering with all sorts of computer settings. Not only did they interrupt our connection settings, the desktop picture changed at least 2 times a day. A password was put on the house computer that only members of the family were supposed to know. The problem then became my host brother who insisted on downloading like a mad person and was impatient with waiting. So he would purposely turn off the broadcasting wireless signal to further his downloading progress. I’d have to log into the house computer to turn it back on. This on/off cycle had a rotation every couple of hours.

After a week or so my brother started changing the password to the house computer, thus locking everyone out and enabling his uninterrupted downloading. The entire situation erupted, quite explosively, when I confronted my brother about this. I was too direct for their culture and I was very pissed. My host Dad got involved with language skills I still don’t have to this day, and told him he was not allowed to turn off the internet nor change the computer password anymore. He has not done either since.

Our next hurdle was an incredibly old and slow computer. And because of the aforementioned downloading extravaganza, I’m sure there were numerous viruses and zero available space on the hard drive. The computer was now prone to getting it-self so worked up it would freeze when a neighbor kid would open up too many programs. We’d have to restart every few hours. After much insisting, I got the family to completely refurbish the computer- wiping everything clean. It ran faster and didn’t freeze up… but the modem software had to be reinstalled and our CD drive was broken. A week went by before a new one was bought, and maybe another two before someone was called out to install the software and once again restore our connection. This whole process bought us only a few days before the family downloaded again all the programs they wanted and clogged up the computer once more. The hard drive was just too small on this ancient computer to sustain our needs.

So we switched out and borrowed one from my mom’s school. As it is the summer, this didn’t seem to bother anyone. I have no idea what the plan was once the new school year started, and I may never know as other problems popped up long before we had to think about it. First off was the increased heat. The hot season is upon us and one does all they can to escape it. This means an increased usage of fans, air conditioners (for those who have them) and refrigerators. Well this creates quite a problem as there are not enough infrastructures to power all of Senegal’s electrical needs. Thus the power is frequently cut. And even though I live in an area where the power is always on, the internet service provider of Senegal does not. So every so often our connection went out through no fault of our own.

Or latest problem has arisen with the arrival of the latest weather season. The rainy season has brought with it power surges which dim the lights, blur the TV, and cause our fans to sputter. Devon was kind enough to mount a voltage regulator to my desk so that every last one of my appliances powered through this escapes surge related problems. I was under the impression that with the two surge protectors sitting in the living room that my family was also educated in their usefulness. But alas, I was wrong as the family- prone to fix it yourself measures- and changed around our system of extension cords leaving the computer exposed (obviously without my knowledge). And low and behold, it didn’t take long for a brown out to zap our household computer.

The moral of this story is that internet service is never guaranteed in Africa, you get what you pay for (next to nothing) and that shit happens. More importantly “you can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.” As of this blog post, I am again in a house without internet service. This is the reason I’ve been lacking on blog postings, personal email replies, and chat sessions. As you can imagine, I’m never lacking on content for these postings and my writings have been keeping up with the weeks. Therefore, I’ll be scheduling a series of blogs to automatically post in my internet absence.