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.
Sunday, February 28
Sunday, February 21
African Friends & Money Matters
I first read African Friends and Money Matters just after install. At the time a few points stood out, but I kept mentally coming back to one specifically. The idea is that, in Africa, knowledge is guarded while possessions are shared. From the moment we got off the plane, and I noticed the women a few rows in front of me using the in-flight blanket to carry her baby off said plane, it just the beginning to the awareness that personal property was a loosely defined term on this continent. But what I didn’t notice was how little information was shared.
This could have been because we were in Peace Corps training; where information was spit at us from left and right. But when the lessons were over, and quality time with the host family began, I was too tired to miss the lack of substantive information being passed around. Daily happenings on my street, the weather and accompanying climate changes, and whether or not the maid was doing a good job in the house were common topics. What was missing was the pertinent stuff like when we were eating meals, how profitable was my mother’s vegetable stand, and what I would be doing here in Senegal.
The idea that those last topics are highly valuable information that should be guarded with extreme care was beyond me. If everyone knew what time dinner was in the States, then they’d be sure not to intrude then. Family time is important, and one would not want to impose where they were not invited. In Africa, knowing the schedule is an open invitation to sit down for the meal. But social hospitality isn’t the issue. The issue is those that are always looking for a free meal where vegetables and meat are expensive commodities.
Likewise, the profitability of the vegetable stand would be readily discussed between Western friends and family. We are a culture of seeking free advice, and value the opinions and ideas of those closest to us; therefore we would open up about the status of our business as yet another opportunity to engage in such an exchange. But for the African entrepreneur, if a stand is doing well then family and friends will find a need to ask for money or resources. And if the stand is doing poorly, there is certainly no advice to be gained from saying so.
And lastly, my work in Senegal is what Westerners consider a conversation starter. This is why I’m here; this is what I hope to do. I’m excited- nay, proud- to tell people I’m here to share my business savvy in hopes of helping them to better their lives. In my case, it’s also a subtle message that says “I’m looking for work.” I’m here for you and here’s an opportunity to mention your shop, stand, or profession and seek free advice (which we not only love to get but also love to give). Though, again, in Africa my host family couldn’t have appeared less interested in why I was here. Perhaps to them, that seemed like an invasion where it is not socially appropriate seek knowledge from another. And I suppose I made them uncomfortable by sharing.
They say knowledge is power, but I think Africans take this more literally than Westerners. After enlightening myself to the above thoughts, I imagine a secondary goal in my time here: to illustrate that knowledge is a resource that can be both valuable and shared for communal benefit. Knowledge may be power, but ability to share knowledge could be more powerful.
This could have been because we were in Peace Corps training; where information was spit at us from left and right. But when the lessons were over, and quality time with the host family began, I was too tired to miss the lack of substantive information being passed around. Daily happenings on my street, the weather and accompanying climate changes, and whether or not the maid was doing a good job in the house were common topics. What was missing was the pertinent stuff like when we were eating meals, how profitable was my mother’s vegetable stand, and what I would be doing here in Senegal.
The idea that those last topics are highly valuable information that should be guarded with extreme care was beyond me. If everyone knew what time dinner was in the States, then they’d be sure not to intrude then. Family time is important, and one would not want to impose where they were not invited. In Africa, knowing the schedule is an open invitation to sit down for the meal. But social hospitality isn’t the issue. The issue is those that are always looking for a free meal where vegetables and meat are expensive commodities.
Likewise, the profitability of the vegetable stand would be readily discussed between Western friends and family. We are a culture of seeking free advice, and value the opinions and ideas of those closest to us; therefore we would open up about the status of our business as yet another opportunity to engage in such an exchange. But for the African entrepreneur, if a stand is doing well then family and friends will find a need to ask for money or resources. And if the stand is doing poorly, there is certainly no advice to be gained from saying so.
And lastly, my work in Senegal is what Westerners consider a conversation starter. This is why I’m here; this is what I hope to do. I’m excited- nay, proud- to tell people I’m here to share my business savvy in hopes of helping them to better their lives. In my case, it’s also a subtle message that says “I’m looking for work.” I’m here for you and here’s an opportunity to mention your shop, stand, or profession and seek free advice (which we not only love to get but also love to give). Though, again, in Africa my host family couldn’t have appeared less interested in why I was here. Perhaps to them, that seemed like an invasion where it is not socially appropriate seek knowledge from another. And I suppose I made them uncomfortable by sharing.
They say knowledge is power, but I think Africans take this more literally than Westerners. After enlightening myself to the above thoughts, I imagine a secondary goal in my time here: to illustrate that knowledge is a resource that can be both valuable and shared for communal benefit. Knowledge may be power, but ability to share knowledge could be more powerful.
Sunday, February 14
25 Random African Things
1) I do my laundry daily and by hand.
2) I can deal with mosquitoes, flies, cockroaches, lizards, and spiders... but I'm drawing the line at mice. And perhaps the bigger lizards.
3) It's an art to be able to sleep through the 5:15a call to pray from the local mosques, which are broadcast over loud speaker throughout the whole city. Luckily, I was able to train during Ramadan, when the mosques broadcast song and prier 24/7.
4) I refuse to respond to hissing, "Hey, my sister," or even "Toubab" (white ghost person) if you're older than 5 years old. It's rude and you know better.
5) Mefloquine (anti-Malaria prophylaxis) makes me crazy with paranoia, and I have occasional insomnia. I also loose my hair, and am overly prone to extremities going numb.
6) I love that African mustard tastes like mayo and wasabi mixed together but looks deceptively like the boring yellow stuff.
7) I miss my dog, because pets don't exist here. Sheep and chickens are referred to as assets or future meals.
8) I'm concerned there is karma in the fact that I live with 6 boys ranging from 2 to 17 years old, as anyone who knows me knows that I am not fond of children.
9) Given the 9 other people (6 boys, 2 parents, and a maid) I share a shower with, multiplied by 3 showers a day, it's amazing that I rarely have to wait in line.
10) Missing the unexpected things is hardest: new babies, deaths, weddings, etc. Why are so many people suddenly getting engaged? The upside is that there are a lot of all three here.
11) Mashed potatoes are called puree in french. Here they have the consistency of having been through a blender with milk and butter; but are still awesome. I'm working on a skin-on American chunky style with my Mom, but it might take a while.
12) The fruit here tastes at least 3 times better than at home; mango, watermelon, grapefruit, ditax; but not so much with the oranges (which are actually green, and I feel a sign).
13) Male Peace Corps volunteers generally don't wear their shirts. Women in the north don't always wear them either (or so I'm told).
14) One can only get 4 kinds of beer in Senegal: Flag and Gazelle (brewed locally), Castel and Dutch Royal. I prefer Gazelle with lime; tastes like Corona.
15) If your right hand is dirty when someone goes to shake it, the person will instead grasp your right wrist. There's no getting out of shaking hands.
16) People wear scarves and ski hats/masks in the "winter." It's only 75 degrees.
17) Mass transit is decorated with the phrase "Thanks be to God," in Arabic though spelled out with Latin letters, which I take to mean "Dear God, please let us make it..."
18) I'm trying to teach my 2 year old brother where Senegal is on the world map, but he keeps pointing to Brazil. Hmm...
19) Its easier to say that I'm allergic to fish then to explain that the taste of if makes me throw up. Either way, the point gets across, I don't eat it.
20) When traveling, the car may look like something Americans would've scrapped 15 years ago, has rust holes all the way through the door, no cushion left on the seats, and probably no crank to open the window... but by god, the people have their best cloths pressed, hair done, makeup fresh, and perfectly matching accessories. A confusing sight for sure.
21) Window shopping is simply not done. You don't look at something, touch something, or show interest in anyway unless you are ready to spend the next 15 minutes negotiating a price in order to purchase.
22) The term "sick day" has a whole new meaning to me. And it accompanies another term (recently invented) "Africa better" meaning the best I can be- for being out of my element.
23) I'm fairly certain that the most common first word for the African child was "Obama." The second was "Nice."
24) I've recently been known to mix 3 languages in once sentence... and was understood.
25) My African name is Soda Ndaw. The other day I accidentally misspelled Moshier. French vowels are confusing, but it also doesn't feel like my name anymore.
2) I can deal with mosquitoes, flies, cockroaches, lizards, and spiders... but I'm drawing the line at mice. And perhaps the bigger lizards.
3) It's an art to be able to sleep through the 5:15a call to pray from the local mosques, which are broadcast over loud speaker throughout the whole city. Luckily, I was able to train during Ramadan, when the mosques broadcast song and prier 24/7.
4) I refuse to respond to hissing, "Hey, my sister," or even "Toubab" (white ghost person) if you're older than 5 years old. It's rude and you know better.
5) Mefloquine (anti-Malaria prophylaxis) makes me crazy with paranoia, and I have occasional insomnia. I also loose my hair, and am overly prone to extremities going numb.
6) I love that African mustard tastes like mayo and wasabi mixed together but looks deceptively like the boring yellow stuff.
7) I miss my dog, because pets don't exist here. Sheep and chickens are referred to as assets or future meals.
8) I'm concerned there is karma in the fact that I live with 6 boys ranging from 2 to 17 years old, as anyone who knows me knows that I am not fond of children.
9) Given the 9 other people (6 boys, 2 parents, and a maid) I share a shower with, multiplied by 3 showers a day, it's amazing that I rarely have to wait in line.
10) Missing the unexpected things is hardest: new babies, deaths, weddings, etc. Why are so many people suddenly getting engaged? The upside is that there are a lot of all three here.
11) Mashed potatoes are called puree in french. Here they have the consistency of having been through a blender with milk and butter; but are still awesome. I'm working on a skin-on American chunky style with my Mom, but it might take a while.
12) The fruit here tastes at least 3 times better than at home; mango, watermelon, grapefruit, ditax; but not so much with the oranges (which are actually green, and I feel a sign).
13) Male Peace Corps volunteers generally don't wear their shirts. Women in the north don't always wear them either (or so I'm told).
14) One can only get 4 kinds of beer in Senegal: Flag and Gazelle (brewed locally), Castel and Dutch Royal. I prefer Gazelle with lime; tastes like Corona.
15) If your right hand is dirty when someone goes to shake it, the person will instead grasp your right wrist. There's no getting out of shaking hands.
16) People wear scarves and ski hats/masks in the "winter." It's only 75 degrees.
17) Mass transit is decorated with the phrase "Thanks be to God," in Arabic though spelled out with Latin letters, which I take to mean "Dear God, please let us make it..."
18) I'm trying to teach my 2 year old brother where Senegal is on the world map, but he keeps pointing to Brazil. Hmm...
19) Its easier to say that I'm allergic to fish then to explain that the taste of if makes me throw up. Either way, the point gets across, I don't eat it.
20) When traveling, the car may look like something Americans would've scrapped 15 years ago, has rust holes all the way through the door, no cushion left on the seats, and probably no crank to open the window... but by god, the people have their best cloths pressed, hair done, makeup fresh, and perfectly matching accessories. A confusing sight for sure.
21) Window shopping is simply not done. You don't look at something, touch something, or show interest in anyway unless you are ready to spend the next 15 minutes negotiating a price in order to purchase.
22) The term "sick day" has a whole new meaning to me. And it accompanies another term (recently invented) "Africa better" meaning the best I can be- for being out of my element.
23) I'm fairly certain that the most common first word for the African child was "Obama." The second was "Nice."
24) I've recently been known to mix 3 languages in once sentence... and was understood.
25) My African name is Soda Ndaw. The other day I accidentally misspelled Moshier. French vowels are confusing, but it also doesn't feel like my name anymore.
Sunday, February 7
Friend Shock
I think I need to admit that I'm having a really rough week. Granted, I haven't left Mboro (except one afternoon to meet other volunteers for lunch) in over a month. And the idea that I haven't been able to relax and let go in that long is really starting to take an emotional toll. Because in reality, I don't do a whole lot during the day. Go here, go there, take a nap (it's seriously still hot here in the middle of the day), and teach a class, blah blah. I watch a lot of movies so there's no way I'm physically exhausted. But emotionally... that's a different story.
Every time I look at this picture of my Dad I have on my desk, it's all I can do to stop myself from crying. I know it's dumb but this is the longest I've been without a big bear hug from my Dad. In reality, I should've moved away a long time ago, but I don't think it's that. Because even if I move away, I can still drive or fly home. I just can't do that here. I'm stuck, just stuck.
And it's not all about the hug, it's the whole idea that I miss being with people I can relate to. It's so hard talking to people when I barely have the language skills for a decent conversation. And then there's culture and a lack of common ground. I literally have zero friends in my town. Zero. None. And it sucks so much.
And you know what? This leads me to spend time on facebook looking at my friends pages and missing them. Then (and this might be the paranoia from the Malaria pills but...) I start to think that the only thing I know about my friends lives is what I read in facebook posts. What is that? Facebook posts aren't really anything. But someone will say they went to the gym or that they went out dancing with some of my other friends... and I feel so left out. I want so badly to know how people are doing, and what they're doing, that I've resorted to cyber stalking them.
And then... When I face the fact that I'm now a cyber stalker I realize that I'm really scared of losing all these "friends." I use quotes because knowing someone on facebook doesn't make us friends. Having a relationship with that person does. Being there when shity things and good things happen does. Interaction with people makes friendships.
I try to email people a lot... but they don't really write back. And (again with the paranoia) then I start to feel conceded for sending people emails continuously- because if they don't write back then all I have to talk about is me. I guess if I had to imagine their side of things, not many "new" things happen. People go to work, go to the gym, and go to the bar for a few drinks. The usual stuff. And telling me about it may seem boring, but I feel like I live for it. I wrote an email the other day with just questions like: what are you weekend plans, what new songs do you listening to, what was the last piece of clothing you bought and what's it look like, what color is your nail polish, and what do you order from Tim Hortons these days? It may seem boring to you, but a new coffee drink would be interesting to me now.
It seems sort of idyllic to go away for 2 years and come back and have everything be totally new, but I don't want it. I think it'd be too much of a culture shock and I'd like to know about this random stuff now. Not to mention, just like the culture shock would suck, imagine having "friend shock" and actually having to say "so what have you been up to the last couple of years?" Let's try and save that for the high school reunions please. Because anyone I'd say that to when I got back is clearly no longer a friend. And have we covered that I don't want to lose my friends?
Every time I look at this picture of my Dad I have on my desk, it's all I can do to stop myself from crying. I know it's dumb but this is the longest I've been without a big bear hug from my Dad. In reality, I should've moved away a long time ago, but I don't think it's that. Because even if I move away, I can still drive or fly home. I just can't do that here. I'm stuck, just stuck.
And it's not all about the hug, it's the whole idea that I miss being with people I can relate to. It's so hard talking to people when I barely have the language skills for a decent conversation. And then there's culture and a lack of common ground. I literally have zero friends in my town. Zero. None. And it sucks so much.
And you know what? This leads me to spend time on facebook looking at my friends pages and missing them. Then (and this might be the paranoia from the Malaria pills but...) I start to think that the only thing I know about my friends lives is what I read in facebook posts. What is that? Facebook posts aren't really anything. But someone will say they went to the gym or that they went out dancing with some of my other friends... and I feel so left out. I want so badly to know how people are doing, and what they're doing, that I've resorted to cyber stalking them.
And then... When I face the fact that I'm now a cyber stalker I realize that I'm really scared of losing all these "friends." I use quotes because knowing someone on facebook doesn't make us friends. Having a relationship with that person does. Being there when shity things and good things happen does. Interaction with people makes friendships.
I try to email people a lot... but they don't really write back. And (again with the paranoia) then I start to feel conceded for sending people emails continuously- because if they don't write back then all I have to talk about is me. I guess if I had to imagine their side of things, not many "new" things happen. People go to work, go to the gym, and go to the bar for a few drinks. The usual stuff. And telling me about it may seem boring, but I feel like I live for it. I wrote an email the other day with just questions like: what are you weekend plans, what new songs do you listening to, what was the last piece of clothing you bought and what's it look like, what color is your nail polish, and what do you order from Tim Hortons these days? It may seem boring to you, but a new coffee drink would be interesting to me now.
It seems sort of idyllic to go away for 2 years and come back and have everything be totally new, but I don't want it. I think it'd be too much of a culture shock and I'd like to know about this random stuff now. Not to mention, just like the culture shock would suck, imagine having "friend shock" and actually having to say "so what have you been up to the last couple of years?" Let's try and save that for the high school reunions please. Because anyone I'd say that to when I got back is clearly no longer a friend. And have we covered that I don't want to lose my friends?
Sunday, January 31
American Dream
Over the past few weeks I've been preparing for a speech I was to give at the local high school. The English classes were to have a special seminar with a few Western guest speakers about the American Dream. My Senegalese supervisor, also an English teacher at the school, asked me to prepare something as a guest speaker. I was asked to give my point of view as the sole American at the event in an inspiring way so that the Senegalese students would learn to dream, too.
I happily obliged. I wrote my own reflections, googled definitions and clichés, consulted family and friends, and even made notes on the perfect success story of a close friend making his dream come true. The gist of which was that "dream" is an outdated term because with hard work and dedication your dream is merely a goal yet to be achieved. And while I was working on this grand speech I was bombarded with examples of people who needed to hear it.
My brothers and their friends wanted me to do their English homework for them. One brother wants me to basically find and apply to a University in England (and accompanying scholarships) for him. Amazingly, they all seem to be so annoyed and frustrated when I tell them no. I explained that they could ask me questions and I'd explain when they don't understand. And, I would correct their English sentences or letters to University administrators. But still, they were appalled that I wouldn't just do it for them. They acted as though they didn't have the time to what's been asked of them, and it will never get done if I DON'T do it. Perhaps you can understand why I was tempted to invite them to this event.
The day before, however, when I call my supervisor to confirm place and time, he told me they were going to rest and NOT have the event on the scheduled day. What happened? Are we rescheduling? When were you going to tell me?
At this point, I reference Senegalese culture in the art of not answering a question. If one doesn't want to say, they will answer a different un-posed question or say they can't understand my French. I've tried to push before, but I find that when cornered, the Senegalese will lie, saying what they think you want to hear, to get you to drop the issue. In conclusion, I got no answers about what happened, only that I now have my Saturday afternoon free.
There's no saying whether or not I would've actually gotten my message across, but then I remember the fun quip "You never know until you try." Which in this case I take to mean, I can't just give in to the guilt trips and question dodging. I've got to stick it out for 2 years and try like hell to share with anyone who'll listen. At the very least, maybe I get my brother to get himself to England.
And so, when I think about why it is that I'm so upset this American Dream event got canceled, I have to admit to myself that it's not because of the time I've spent researching and writing my remarks, nor the shadiness of its' cancellation, it's because of the lost opportunity to share that part of my culture that explains to these young kids why Americans live by stupid clichés like "Nothing is free," "Time is money," "Life isn't fair," and "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need..."
I happily obliged. I wrote my own reflections, googled definitions and clichés, consulted family and friends, and even made notes on the perfect success story of a close friend making his dream come true. The gist of which was that "dream" is an outdated term because with hard work and dedication your dream is merely a goal yet to be achieved. And while I was working on this grand speech I was bombarded with examples of people who needed to hear it.
My brothers and their friends wanted me to do their English homework for them. One brother wants me to basically find and apply to a University in England (and accompanying scholarships) for him. Amazingly, they all seem to be so annoyed and frustrated when I tell them no. I explained that they could ask me questions and I'd explain when they don't understand. And, I would correct their English sentences or letters to University administrators. But still, they were appalled that I wouldn't just do it for them. They acted as though they didn't have the time to what's been asked of them, and it will never get done if I DON'T do it. Perhaps you can understand why I was tempted to invite them to this event.
The day before, however, when I call my supervisor to confirm place and time, he told me they were going to rest and NOT have the event on the scheduled day. What happened? Are we rescheduling? When were you going to tell me?
At this point, I reference Senegalese culture in the art of not answering a question. If one doesn't want to say, they will answer a different un-posed question or say they can't understand my French. I've tried to push before, but I find that when cornered, the Senegalese will lie, saying what they think you want to hear, to get you to drop the issue. In conclusion, I got no answers about what happened, only that I now have my Saturday afternoon free.
There's no saying whether or not I would've actually gotten my message across, but then I remember the fun quip "You never know until you try." Which in this case I take to mean, I can't just give in to the guilt trips and question dodging. I've got to stick it out for 2 years and try like hell to share with anyone who'll listen. At the very least, maybe I get my brother to get himself to England.
And so, when I think about why it is that I'm so upset this American Dream event got canceled, I have to admit to myself that it's not because of the time I've spent researching and writing my remarks, nor the shadiness of its' cancellation, it's because of the lost opportunity to share that part of my culture that explains to these young kids why Americans live by stupid clichés like "Nothing is free," "Time is money," "Life isn't fair," and "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need..."
Sunday, January 24
Transportation 101
The transportation system in Mboro is quite interesting. There's basically one main road that runs through town from cities inland toward the coast, then curving south to Dakar. The garage is on the far side of town, by the coast. And by garage I mean the hub of transportation and vehicle repair.
First I'd like to say that the quality of the vehicles here leaves much to be desired, as most should've been scrapped 100,000 miles ago. It is not uncommon to have a seat without a cushion, a window without a crank to open it, or a door without a hole to the outside world. A/C and seat belts are a luxury I've only had in official Peace Corps transportation. A radio, on the other hand, is almost always rewired so that wonderful Senegalese music can be played at astonishingly loud volumes in all powered modes of transportation. Curtains are also hung to block out the scorching sun. And one final note, official Peace Corps training mandates checking all 4 tires before entering a vehicle and taking down the license plate number for possible future reference.
Throughout Mboro one can find the following modes of transportation:
Sept Place: seven seats, as the name implies, for sale in a station wagon going directly to one place. Destinations are predetermined popular locations/ major cities. The car will make stops on long trips for food, gas, etc... and has been used to run errands for the driver (10 min at the pharmacy once, no joke).
Car Rapids: Also known as alhums, ndiage ndiaye, or death traps these are conversion vans outfitted to be like buses that are loaded from the back, filled to 150% capacity, and also have predetermined destinations. They are the most dangerous form of transportation and also prone to frequent accident and even tipping over. Unlike the sept place anyone can get on and off at any time making a simple 40 minute trip by car take nearly 2 hours by car rapid... which begs to inquire about the name, but we'll let it go this time.
Clandos: A roving taxi of sorts or trolley in the states; it has one fixed route that it circles. The taxi drives up and down the main route in town and one can get in or out at any point for one fixed price of 100 CFA or about $0.22.
Taxis: The actual kind that will drive you anywhere you want to go. However, you're likely to get ripped off unless you know the local price.
Dad's Car: Like most Senegalese people, my host Dad dreamed of having a car of his own. And his dream finally came true just around the time I got to Senegal. Buying an old BMW (as in so old you'd probably scrapped it in the States but someone threw it on a boat and sold it to my Dad), with failing interior parts that accompany all the failing parts under the hood, my Dad has spent unknown sums continuously trying to fix the contraption. It has spent more time at the garage then outside our house, of this I'm sure.
Chariot: Over glorified name for a cart made of planks of wood thrown over a pipe "axle" with two wheels and pulled by a miniature donkey. Mostly commonly used to haul product across town, but people have been seen catching a slow ride from time to time.
Bike: Peace Corps issued at 2 inches too short for my body... I feel like an adult riding an over sized kid's toy. Not to mention it doesn't exactly work in the sand. This object sits sadly in my room.
Foot: This is provided by yours truly, but must be fed protein and kept hydrated.
There is also one common myth I'd like to clear up: there are no elephants in Senegal. It seems a bit hard to push out of the mind, but elephants are typically found as transportation in Asia. Camels do exists, though not in Mboro.
I'll leave you with one final thought. The number one cause of death in Senegal is car accident. Not Malaria, AIDS, or any other horrible health consideration. And not death by political unrest of any kind either. It's car accident. This is probably why on nearly every car rapid the word "allhumdulylah" is painted as often as decoration is appropriate. This is Arabic for "thanks be to god." I can only imagine they wish to say thanks in advance for a safe trip to any destination, because that's what I do every time I get back to my house safely.
First I'd like to say that the quality of the vehicles here leaves much to be desired, as most should've been scrapped 100,000 miles ago. It is not uncommon to have a seat without a cushion, a window without a crank to open it, or a door without a hole to the outside world. A/C and seat belts are a luxury I've only had in official Peace Corps transportation. A radio, on the other hand, is almost always rewired so that wonderful Senegalese music can be played at astonishingly loud volumes in all powered modes of transportation. Curtains are also hung to block out the scorching sun. And one final note, official Peace Corps training mandates checking all 4 tires before entering a vehicle and taking down the license plate number for possible future reference.
Throughout Mboro one can find the following modes of transportation:
Sept Place: seven seats, as the name implies, for sale in a station wagon going directly to one place. Destinations are predetermined popular locations/ major cities. The car will make stops on long trips for food, gas, etc... and has been used to run errands for the driver (10 min at the pharmacy once, no joke).
Car Rapids: Also known as alhums, ndiage ndiaye, or death traps these are conversion vans outfitted to be like buses that are loaded from the back, filled to 150% capacity, and also have predetermined destinations. They are the most dangerous form of transportation and also prone to frequent accident and even tipping over. Unlike the sept place anyone can get on and off at any time making a simple 40 minute trip by car take nearly 2 hours by car rapid... which begs to inquire about the name, but we'll let it go this time.
Clandos: A roving taxi of sorts or trolley in the states; it has one fixed route that it circles. The taxi drives up and down the main route in town and one can get in or out at any point for one fixed price of 100 CFA or about $0.22.
Taxis: The actual kind that will drive you anywhere you want to go. However, you're likely to get ripped off unless you know the local price.
Dad's Car: Like most Senegalese people, my host Dad dreamed of having a car of his own. And his dream finally came true just around the time I got to Senegal. Buying an old BMW (as in so old you'd probably scrapped it in the States but someone threw it on a boat and sold it to my Dad), with failing interior parts that accompany all the failing parts under the hood, my Dad has spent unknown sums continuously trying to fix the contraption. It has spent more time at the garage then outside our house, of this I'm sure.
Chariot: Over glorified name for a cart made of planks of wood thrown over a pipe "axle" with two wheels and pulled by a miniature donkey. Mostly commonly used to haul product across town, but people have been seen catching a slow ride from time to time.
Bike: Peace Corps issued at 2 inches too short for my body... I feel like an adult riding an over sized kid's toy. Not to mention it doesn't exactly work in the sand. This object sits sadly in my room.
Foot: This is provided by yours truly, but must be fed protein and kept hydrated.
There is also one common myth I'd like to clear up: there are no elephants in Senegal. It seems a bit hard to push out of the mind, but elephants are typically found as transportation in Asia. Camels do exists, though not in Mboro.
I'll leave you with one final thought. The number one cause of death in Senegal is car accident. Not Malaria, AIDS, or any other horrible health consideration. And not death by political unrest of any kind either. It's car accident. This is probably why on nearly every car rapid the word "allhumdulylah" is painted as often as decoration is appropriate. This is Arabic for "thanks be to god." I can only imagine they wish to say thanks in advance for a safe trip to any destination, because that's what I do every time I get back to my house safely.
Sunday, January 17
A Family's Parasite
I got in a fight with my brother over fish. I adapted the policy to tell the people of Senegal that I'm allergic to fish- because it just seemed easier than explaining that every time I eat it I become violently ill. So from the first week I moved in, I worked out an agreement with my host mother that when the meal included fish she would tell me in advance and either I or she would make something separate for me to eat in my room.
My eldest brother, thinking anything from 'why should she be so special' to 'perhaps she's just too weak and if we continue to feed it to her she's get over it' has never been keen on the idea of a separate meal for me. And in the times when our family doesn't have a maid, the afternoon meal generally becomes the responsibility of said brother to prepare it after he gets home from school.
Well, this week I walked into the kitchen while he was preparing the fish... and he told me he'd be making vegetables for me separately. Great, that's something Mom does too. Except, when it came time to eat, there was clearly no separate plate, no Mom to explain, and a house full of men confused as to why I wasn't sitting down at the lunch bowl. Awesome.
Three bites into the fish dish and sure enough, I was started throwing up. Angry, hungry, and nauseous... I hid in my room for the rest of the afternoon. Later in the evening, when my brother got back from school he came to greet me, but I told him I was angry because he'd made me sick. He said nothing and left.
Two days later I still wasn't talking to him, and got the impression he didn't really seem to care. So I confronted him about it. I told him I wanted him to apologize. Why? Because you fed me fish when you said you were making me something else. No, I said I made the vegetables in a separate pan from the fish. Well as you can see, if they all end up together in the end then I still get sick. That's not my problem. Ok, well why didn't you tell me there was soup in the refrigerator that Mom had left me. Why did you let me just eat the fish. That's not my problem. Ok, forget the fish. How come when I got sick, you didn't care? Doesn't it bother you that I was sick because of something you'd given me? That's not my problem. Awesome.
That's the moment when I realized that I'd been taking the term "family" a little too literally and had begun to lose the context. These people are my HOST family. They are here to pretend to be my family, to host me in housing and food, but they have no obligation to actually act as my family. Especially since I pay them rent and food allowances to cover the aforementioned.
It may seem irrational that I'm upset, but that doesn't mean I'm not. I care about these people because they are the closest thing I currently know to a family; like living family organism. I pretend to be a part of the colony because it makes me feel better. And in so pretending, if something happens to disrupt the function I am concerned and immediately seek remedies to rectify wrongs. When someone else is sick, I bring them water or make hot tea.
But looking at it from their point of view, I'm temporary. Volunteers may come and go, but they, the true members of the family, remain... and therefore I can't really be counted on. So, given that, why should they bother putting more effort than necessary into a relationship with me. It's not their problem, just as my brother said.
On top of feeling like a parasite to these people, I've now lost the ability to talk to the person I felt the most comfortable with, by brother. The crappy part is that he seemed to be the only person who understands the concept of "homesick" and he was the easiest to talk to (although admittedly that could be because he's got the best English skills).
As it stands, though, I think I'll choose to keep pretending to be part of the family instead of a parasite. That just seems more livable.
My eldest brother, thinking anything from 'why should she be so special' to 'perhaps she's just too weak and if we continue to feed it to her she's get over it' has never been keen on the idea of a separate meal for me. And in the times when our family doesn't have a maid, the afternoon meal generally becomes the responsibility of said brother to prepare it after he gets home from school.
Well, this week I walked into the kitchen while he was preparing the fish... and he told me he'd be making vegetables for me separately. Great, that's something Mom does too. Except, when it came time to eat, there was clearly no separate plate, no Mom to explain, and a house full of men confused as to why I wasn't sitting down at the lunch bowl. Awesome.
Three bites into the fish dish and sure enough, I was started throwing up. Angry, hungry, and nauseous... I hid in my room for the rest of the afternoon. Later in the evening, when my brother got back from school he came to greet me, but I told him I was angry because he'd made me sick. He said nothing and left.
Two days later I still wasn't talking to him, and got the impression he didn't really seem to care. So I confronted him about it. I told him I wanted him to apologize. Why? Because you fed me fish when you said you were making me something else. No, I said I made the vegetables in a separate pan from the fish. Well as you can see, if they all end up together in the end then I still get sick. That's not my problem. Ok, well why didn't you tell me there was soup in the refrigerator that Mom had left me. Why did you let me just eat the fish. That's not my problem. Ok, forget the fish. How come when I got sick, you didn't care? Doesn't it bother you that I was sick because of something you'd given me? That's not my problem. Awesome.
That's the moment when I realized that I'd been taking the term "family" a little too literally and had begun to lose the context. These people are my HOST family. They are here to pretend to be my family, to host me in housing and food, but they have no obligation to actually act as my family. Especially since I pay them rent and food allowances to cover the aforementioned.
It may seem irrational that I'm upset, but that doesn't mean I'm not. I care about these people because they are the closest thing I currently know to a family; like living family organism. I pretend to be a part of the colony because it makes me feel better. And in so pretending, if something happens to disrupt the function I am concerned and immediately seek remedies to rectify wrongs. When someone else is sick, I bring them water or make hot tea.
But looking at it from their point of view, I'm temporary. Volunteers may come and go, but they, the true members of the family, remain... and therefore I can't really be counted on. So, given that, why should they bother putting more effort than necessary into a relationship with me. It's not their problem, just as my brother said.
On top of feeling like a parasite to these people, I've now lost the ability to talk to the person I felt the most comfortable with, by brother. The crappy part is that he seemed to be the only person who understands the concept of "homesick" and he was the easiest to talk to (although admittedly that could be because he's got the best English skills).
As it stands, though, I think I'll choose to keep pretending to be part of the family instead of a parasite. That just seems more livable.
Sunday, January 10
Lait Caille
I'm not sure I entirely understand what goes into lait caille, or sweet milk, but I am starting to familiarize myself with all its uses. A spoiled yogurt that's been sweetened so that people will actually eat it, this product can be sold in plastic pouches or by the tub. Its typical uses are a) frozen and later eaten like ice cream and b) poured over hot millet and eaten for dinner on Sundays.
Occasionally with the latter option, called ngallah (spelling not guaranteed), other fun items are added to the milk, such as pineapple, raisins, or coconut shavings. Ngallah is traditionally served on Easter in Catholic Senegalese households, but as my host mother says, it's easy to prepare and that's just the type of meal she wants to make on a Sunday night before a long week of work starts. Given the amount of vitamins in both millet and lait caille, not to mention the different ethnic stores in the states, I recommend everyone try to make this dish. Therefore, I submit the following website recipe for more info.
Most recently I've attempted to use lait caille to make my own version of ice cream. My family has an ice cream machine (who knows why or how) and so I spent a day researching recipes, and appropriate substitutes for those recipes, in order to create the perfect mixture. Actual yogurt is an option here, but it's very expensive. Whipping cream and half and half are rumored to be in larger towns, but not actually in mine. Thus sweetened condensed milk, whole milk, lait caille, eggs, and flavoring syrups became initial attempt. I tried two flavors on my endeavour; chocolate and vanilla. Curiously, both ended up tasting very similar to Pink Berry (yum, right?) although not my intention.
In future, I'm thinking about searching trading out ingredients and trying recipes involving gelatin, real yogurt, whipping cream and other milk options if I can find them. As far as flavors goes, coconut milk is available, other flavor syrup types (strawberry, pistachio, orange, etc), and perhaps even smashing up some of my precious stash of Oreos. I'll also try to experiment with stove top cooking techniques before the freezing process. My host mother's challenge is to find a good recipe that can be made in bulk for parties (and because when don't the Senegalese share?) for a low cost of production. If I didn't know better I'd think she was a) testing me and my purchasing skills and b) looking to open an ice cream shop. Which to tell you the truth, both of those ideas sound awesome to me. If only I could find a bored entrepreneur with awesome worth ethics...
Occasionally with the latter option, called ngallah (spelling not guaranteed), other fun items are added to the milk, such as pineapple, raisins, or coconut shavings. Ngallah is traditionally served on Easter in Catholic Senegalese households, but as my host mother says, it's easy to prepare and that's just the type of meal she wants to make on a Sunday night before a long week of work starts. Given the amount of vitamins in both millet and lait caille, not to mention the different ethnic stores in the states, I recommend everyone try to make this dish. Therefore, I submit the following website recipe for more info.
Most recently I've attempted to use lait caille to make my own version of ice cream. My family has an ice cream machine (who knows why or how) and so I spent a day researching recipes, and appropriate substitutes for those recipes, in order to create the perfect mixture. Actual yogurt is an option here, but it's very expensive. Whipping cream and half and half are rumored to be in larger towns, but not actually in mine. Thus sweetened condensed milk, whole milk, lait caille, eggs, and flavoring syrups became initial attempt. I tried two flavors on my endeavour; chocolate and vanilla. Curiously, both ended up tasting very similar to Pink Berry (yum, right?) although not my intention.
In future, I'm thinking about searching trading out ingredients and trying recipes involving gelatin, real yogurt, whipping cream and other milk options if I can find them. As far as flavors goes, coconut milk is available, other flavor syrup types (strawberry, pistachio, orange, etc), and perhaps even smashing up some of my precious stash of Oreos. I'll also try to experiment with stove top cooking techniques before the freezing process. My host mother's challenge is to find a good recipe that can be made in bulk for parties (and because when don't the Senegalese share?) for a low cost of production. If I didn't know better I'd think she was a) testing me and my purchasing skills and b) looking to open an ice cream shop. Which to tell you the truth, both of those ideas sound awesome to me. If only I could find a bored entrepreneur with awesome worth ethics...
Sunday, January 3
New Years
New Years was great; different from all the rest, yet the same in so many ways. The holiday wasn't just the one night, so you're better off hearing about the whole experience.
I headed for Dakar on the 30th where I put in some quality time by the pool and went shopping at what can best be equated to a "mall." The place had Diesel, Guess, and a few other places connected to the largest grocery store in country (curiously named Casino). Going to Casino is much like going to Target in the states. One goes for a few specific items, perhaps some spices not available in village, and walks out with two weeks' worth of allowance on random foods that are missed but not needed (coconut yogurt, a bar of chocolate, and red bull to mix in New Years cocktails). I don't know why this happens, but it's really like when I was bored at home and would wander through Target, becoming mesmerized by it all, and walk away with things I don't really need. Come on, how many times have you bought a DVD you half-liked because it was on sale- and you went there for shampoo which is located on the other side of the store? Yeah, don't judge. In the evening we enjoyed a truly authentic Chinese dinner. We went to the type of place where you need to speak Chinese in order to get the good stuff- and it was probably some of the best I've had.
On New Year's Eve we sat around in the morning like it was a typical Sunday at home (vegging and generally doing nothing) and I got my first hair cut in country. In addition, I was finally able to do laundry with a washing machine- first time in nearly 5 months. In the evening a few of us went downtown to do some pre-party shopping. I got a much needed belt to hold my now way-too-big pants up, and a pair of earrings to dazzle up my party outfit. From there we went to a friend's house for dinner/ appetizers and cocktails. The apartment is amazing by Senegalese/American standards... and from now on I'll be calling it "84." Anyway, Christine and I borrowed the bathroom and when we were done she actually said to me "There's the Alys I recognize from the Facebook pictures." It felt great to get cleaned up... so naturally we took a lot of pictures of our eyeliner, earring, and high heal clad selves.
Just after eleven we set out on the town. We passed by a club that was strangely empty- they actually said they weren't opening until after midnight. That's how serious the Senegalese take their parties; the party doesn't start till after the holiday and goes all night! Anyway, we went to the apartment of another volunteer... and nearly a third of the volunteers in country were there! Dancing, more cocktails, champagne, and pictures are all that I really remember. Just after midnight a few of us wanted to go back to the club and check it out. Though the cover was expensive (about $30), you only live once right? However, our plans were derailed by the men in our small group. The only true inhabitant of 84 got sick and after we took a taxi back there and put him to bed, the rest of us felt too tired to continue on. We all passed out too early.
The next morning was a little fuzzy. But after watching video of my amazing dance moves and getting some food, a small crew of us went back to 84 to lie in bed and watch movies for the rest of the day. In the evening we were kindly invited to partake in the Korean New Year festivities. In Korean culture, everyone becomes a year older on New Year's Day. They make a special meal (soup I have no idea how to describe) that after finishing, one is said to have grown one year older. The soup was accompanied by a noodle dish and chicken dumpling soup that Christine had made. Desert was yogurt and fruit. We went back to the Peace Corps house after and I quickly passed out... I really needed to catch up on sleep.
On the 2nd, we had another day by the pool. This time we had beers and girl talk. In the early evening we went back to 84 where Indian food was served for dinner, and the drinking began again. This time we were celebrating a friend's birthday. We did special shots at midnight and then left for the infamous monthly ex-patriot party downtown. After more dancing, meeting new people (mostly- ok, all- men), and some debauchery we made it to bed by 5a; not that we really slept.
Next, enter day two of recovery... accompanied by a return to Mboro and the end of a long weekend of celebrating. There are a lot of inside jokes that accompany this weekend, but it just seems wrong to explain them. However, they made the whole event a million times more worthwhile than the story above depicts; from renaming the cat, to redefining Wolof verbs, to learning about George Adamson... it was all too great. Thanks to club 84.
I headed for Dakar on the 30th where I put in some quality time by the pool and went shopping at what can best be equated to a "mall." The place had Diesel, Guess, and a few other places connected to the largest grocery store in country (curiously named Casino). Going to Casino is much like going to Target in the states. One goes for a few specific items, perhaps some spices not available in village, and walks out with two weeks' worth of allowance on random foods that are missed but not needed (coconut yogurt, a bar of chocolate, and red bull to mix in New Years cocktails). I don't know why this happens, but it's really like when I was bored at home and would wander through Target, becoming mesmerized by it all, and walk away with things I don't really need. Come on, how many times have you bought a DVD you half-liked because it was on sale- and you went there for shampoo which is located on the other side of the store? Yeah, don't judge. In the evening we enjoyed a truly authentic Chinese dinner. We went to the type of place where you need to speak Chinese in order to get the good stuff- and it was probably some of the best I've had.
On New Year's Eve we sat around in the morning like it was a typical Sunday at home (vegging and generally doing nothing) and I got my first hair cut in country. In addition, I was finally able to do laundry with a washing machine- first time in nearly 5 months. In the evening a few of us went downtown to do some pre-party shopping. I got a much needed belt to hold my now way-too-big pants up, and a pair of earrings to dazzle up my party outfit. From there we went to a friend's house for dinner/ appetizers and cocktails. The apartment is amazing by Senegalese/American standards... and from now on I'll be calling it "84." Anyway, Christine and I borrowed the bathroom and when we were done she actually said to me "There's the Alys I recognize from the Facebook pictures." It felt great to get cleaned up... so naturally we took a lot of pictures of our eyeliner, earring, and high heal clad selves.
Just after eleven we set out on the town. We passed by a club that was strangely empty- they actually said they weren't opening until after midnight. That's how serious the Senegalese take their parties; the party doesn't start till after the holiday and goes all night! Anyway, we went to the apartment of another volunteer... and nearly a third of the volunteers in country were there! Dancing, more cocktails, champagne, and pictures are all that I really remember. Just after midnight a few of us wanted to go back to the club and check it out. Though the cover was expensive (about $30), you only live once right? However, our plans were derailed by the men in our small group. The only true inhabitant of 84 got sick and after we took a taxi back there and put him to bed, the rest of us felt too tired to continue on. We all passed out too early.
The next morning was a little fuzzy. But after watching video of my amazing dance moves and getting some food, a small crew of us went back to 84 to lie in bed and watch movies for the rest of the day. In the evening we were kindly invited to partake in the Korean New Year festivities. In Korean culture, everyone becomes a year older on New Year's Day. They make a special meal (soup I have no idea how to describe) that after finishing, one is said to have grown one year older. The soup was accompanied by a noodle dish and chicken dumpling soup that Christine had made. Desert was yogurt and fruit. We went back to the Peace Corps house after and I quickly passed out... I really needed to catch up on sleep.
On the 2nd, we had another day by the pool. This time we had beers and girl talk. In the early evening we went back to 84 where Indian food was served for dinner, and the drinking began again. This time we were celebrating a friend's birthday. We did special shots at midnight and then left for the infamous monthly ex-patriot party downtown. After more dancing, meeting new people (mostly- ok, all- men), and some debauchery we made it to bed by 5a; not that we really slept.
Next, enter day two of recovery... accompanied by a return to Mboro and the end of a long weekend of celebrating. There are a lot of inside jokes that accompany this weekend, but it just seems wrong to explain them. However, they made the whole event a million times more worthwhile than the story above depicts; from renaming the cat, to redefining Wolof verbs, to learning about George Adamson... it was all too great. Thanks to club 84.
Sunday, December 27
Christmas
Christmas in Senegal. For the most part I held myself together... and had a pretty good time. I, along with a few new friends, rented a house on the beach in Popenguine, Senegal. We met up on the 23rd in the nearby town of Mbour to do introductions, get some food, and develop a game plan. We took a communal car to the road near the house, climbed up and down a few paths until we emerged at a staircase leading to our holiday get-a-way. The house was just build, and we were rumored to be the first renters. It was two bedrooms, bath, living room and kitchen (with amenities) areas. And then there was the balcony with its' oh-so-magnificent view.
The first night we went out on the town. Eating and drinking at a few of the local French owned hotels and meeting up with the Popenguine volunteer's friends. Day two, Christmas Eve, was organized from the get-go. We discussed menus and organized shopping trips, but mostly we spent a lot of time lounging around and enjoying each other. Near dusk we dug a pit in the sand off the ocean, built a fire and made dinner. We pre-cut veggies, fish, and chicken to be placed in individual foil packets with butter and oil. We cooked at ate them right there on the beach, with drinks, music, and the stars. Dad & Sue, and Celia all called to hear about my first African Christmas.
On Christmas Morning we made chocolate pancakes and scrambled eggs, I opened my stocking for all to see, and we had planned a white elephant gift exchange. In the end I walked away with two new fashion scarves. Shortly after a small miracle happened; I was left alone. I don't think I've been alone in a house by myself since last summer. It was great. Everyone magically disappeared to the beach or to the market and I was left to my own devices. So I started to cook, with movies and music in the background.
I prepared a 6.6 lbs roast which had been labeled tranche steak in the store. We deciphered this to mean hunk of meat that is meant to be cut into steaks... or not in our case. It turned out beautifully. With the help of some new friends we also made roasted garlic spread toast appetizers, mashed potatoes, Marsala carrots, onion basting sauce, and Yorkshire pudding (although admittedly this ended up being so late out of the oven we ate it for breakfast the next day- but still very delicious).
Dad & Sue, and of course Celia all called again on Christmas... and managed to make me cry. Thanks guys. I miss you, too.
Just before sunset we made a group trip to the beach. We took a bunch of pictures, danced, and enjoyed the sunset. It was another volunteer's birthday, so for dessert we made chocolate cake and muffins with chocolate, strawberry, and coconut ice cream. Throughout the weekend I continued to persuade the household to watch classic Christmas movies: Christmas Story, Elf, and National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. I did not have to persuade them to put Frank Sinatra's Christmas album on. The weekend was filled with both Frank and Christmas music in general... so you can see why I enjoyed these people.
Senegalese Christmas is a bit different. Midnight mass is the main event. After, everyone goes back to the house to commence a marathon of a party. Dancing starts, and drink and appetizers are served all night. By sunrise, people have started preparing dinner for Christmas Day. Unless they've made pork, they share with all their Muslim neighbors and friends. The drinking goes on all Christmas day, as well as the music, and general partying. Out in Popenguine, the speakers are set up around dinner time and the music lasts until 5a on the 26th (awesome, right?).
For the whole weekend of travel, lodging, food, drink, and supplies for the house I spent about $80. You too, can have this African Christmas...
The first night we went out on the town. Eating and drinking at a few of the local French owned hotels and meeting up with the Popenguine volunteer's friends. Day two, Christmas Eve, was organized from the get-go. We discussed menus and organized shopping trips, but mostly we spent a lot of time lounging around and enjoying each other. Near dusk we dug a pit in the sand off the ocean, built a fire and made dinner. We pre-cut veggies, fish, and chicken to be placed in individual foil packets with butter and oil. We cooked at ate them right there on the beach, with drinks, music, and the stars. Dad & Sue, and Celia all called to hear about my first African Christmas.
On Christmas Morning we made chocolate pancakes and scrambled eggs, I opened my stocking for all to see, and we had planned a white elephant gift exchange. In the end I walked away with two new fashion scarves. Shortly after a small miracle happened; I was left alone. I don't think I've been alone in a house by myself since last summer. It was great. Everyone magically disappeared to the beach or to the market and I was left to my own devices. So I started to cook, with movies and music in the background.
I prepared a 6.6 lbs roast which had been labeled tranche steak in the store. We deciphered this to mean hunk of meat that is meant to be cut into steaks... or not in our case. It turned out beautifully. With the help of some new friends we also made roasted garlic spread toast appetizers, mashed potatoes, Marsala carrots, onion basting sauce, and Yorkshire pudding (although admittedly this ended up being so late out of the oven we ate it for breakfast the next day- but still very delicious).
Dad & Sue, and of course Celia all called again on Christmas... and managed to make me cry. Thanks guys. I miss you, too.
Just before sunset we made a group trip to the beach. We took a bunch of pictures, danced, and enjoyed the sunset. It was another volunteer's birthday, so for dessert we made chocolate cake and muffins with chocolate, strawberry, and coconut ice cream. Throughout the weekend I continued to persuade the household to watch classic Christmas movies: Christmas Story, Elf, and National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. I did not have to persuade them to put Frank Sinatra's Christmas album on. The weekend was filled with both Frank and Christmas music in general... so you can see why I enjoyed these people.
Senegalese Christmas is a bit different. Midnight mass is the main event. After, everyone goes back to the house to commence a marathon of a party. Dancing starts, and drink and appetizers are served all night. By sunrise, people have started preparing dinner for Christmas Day. Unless they've made pork, they share with all their Muslim neighbors and friends. The drinking goes on all Christmas day, as well as the music, and general partying. Out in Popenguine, the speakers are set up around dinner time and the music lasts until 5a on the 26th (awesome, right?).
For the whole weekend of travel, lodging, food, drink, and supplies for the house I spent about $80. You too, can have this African Christmas...
Sunday, December 20
Breaking Up
Moving to Africa was like breaking up with a boyfriend. Let me explain.
When I first applied to PC I wanted to change my life, do something different, have something some new under my belt. Like a stale or stagnant relationship, I wanted out. People generally don't make quick decisions to leave their life behind and in the time they ponder the ultimate decision, there is a certain amount of deception. I believe that for a few weeks people consider their breakups quietly and alone, pondering the pros and cons. In my case, I was deceiving my current job. You pretend things are normal, that you're not thinking outside the box. But gradually, your closest friends are sworn to secrecy in order to aid you with your decision. And then it's time.
When I was accepted to the Peace Corps, and knew I was going to Senegal, I called my boss to ask for a meeting. You may recognize this as the "we need to talk" stage of a relationship. Like that talk, I seriously went into it thinking my job would realize this was the best decision for me. I even had notions that my coworkers would be happy for me. In general, they were. But there were a few who seemed disappointed; and that still gets me. The first few days after I left my job, and was about to start my new life, I was amazingly happy. I would equate them to the hours and days after a break up. You're excited to be single again, in control, and ready for all the new possibilities. You are no longer tied down by your former ways. Perhaps you even resent the person you were becoming and think "how could I have let that go on for so long?" Every door is open and you can't wait to get out there.
Then inevitably, something shifts. Perhaps you're waking up on your first Sunday alone. Your former significant other used to make pancakes but now you can't be bothered so you grab a banana instead. Or perhaps you've just landed in Africa. The realities of your decisions have come crashing down. The high is gone. Suddenly, like a weed growing undetected in the garden, the counter-productive thoughts seep in and you notice them all at once. Why did I give up air-conditioning, the foods I love, and the people who know me? Or in a relationship it's the apartment you shared, the Sunday morning pancakes, and the person who knows how to take care of you when you're sick. All the reasons you left seem minuscule when compared to all the things you've just realized are gone. Dare I say one has come face to face with losing all those things they didn't appreciate before? Ouch. That's a rough one to swallow.
And so then I sit there, questioning why I came to Senegal in the first place, and all I want to do is go home. Go back to my previous relationship with my old life.
But there's something that stops me from doing it. Just as we all know you can't go back to a broken relationship because the second time around never works, I can't go back to my old life. My car has been sold, my possessions and rental house given up, and my job passed on to a colleague. Going back would mean more comfort but also more stress. Like a second go at a relationship where the problems still exist but the Sunday pancakes are back. I don't think the pancakes would taste the same. Better than none, but not the same.
And that's why every time I say I want to go home, I tell myself I can't. I tell myself things will get better, I will get used to the bugs, the heat, the language. I will no longer miss my pancakes because I will make a new routine. But I only half believe it. I'm still sad, and I cry when I'm alone.
This may sound really depressing, but try to remember your last break up. Every day is a little bit better than the last. Every day it hurts a bit less. You've started meeting friends for Sunday brunch, decorated the new apartment, and now use TiVo when you're sick. Or in my case, I eat ngallah on Sundays, hung maps in my room (that coordinate with my mosquito net), and my host mom makes me soup when I'm ill. And then one day you wake up and you don't miss that ex (boyfriend or life) anymore. You actually have made a new routine and you can't imagine going back. This is the new you and you're better for it.
I'm not to the point where I don't miss my old life, but it hurts less. And I'm learning to enjoy this new life more and more every day... and that's what it's like joining the Peace Corps.
When I first applied to PC I wanted to change my life, do something different, have something some new under my belt. Like a stale or stagnant relationship, I wanted out. People generally don't make quick decisions to leave their life behind and in the time they ponder the ultimate decision, there is a certain amount of deception. I believe that for a few weeks people consider their breakups quietly and alone, pondering the pros and cons. In my case, I was deceiving my current job. You pretend things are normal, that you're not thinking outside the box. But gradually, your closest friends are sworn to secrecy in order to aid you with your decision. And then it's time.
When I was accepted to the Peace Corps, and knew I was going to Senegal, I called my boss to ask for a meeting. You may recognize this as the "we need to talk" stage of a relationship. Like that talk, I seriously went into it thinking my job would realize this was the best decision for me. I even had notions that my coworkers would be happy for me. In general, they were. But there were a few who seemed disappointed; and that still gets me. The first few days after I left my job, and was about to start my new life, I was amazingly happy. I would equate them to the hours and days after a break up. You're excited to be single again, in control, and ready for all the new possibilities. You are no longer tied down by your former ways. Perhaps you even resent the person you were becoming and think "how could I have let that go on for so long?" Every door is open and you can't wait to get out there.
Then inevitably, something shifts. Perhaps you're waking up on your first Sunday alone. Your former significant other used to make pancakes but now you can't be bothered so you grab a banana instead. Or perhaps you've just landed in Africa. The realities of your decisions have come crashing down. The high is gone. Suddenly, like a weed growing undetected in the garden, the counter-productive thoughts seep in and you notice them all at once. Why did I give up air-conditioning, the foods I love, and the people who know me? Or in a relationship it's the apartment you shared, the Sunday morning pancakes, and the person who knows how to take care of you when you're sick. All the reasons you left seem minuscule when compared to all the things you've just realized are gone. Dare I say one has come face to face with losing all those things they didn't appreciate before? Ouch. That's a rough one to swallow.
And so then I sit there, questioning why I came to Senegal in the first place, and all I want to do is go home. Go back to my previous relationship with my old life.
But there's something that stops me from doing it. Just as we all know you can't go back to a broken relationship because the second time around never works, I can't go back to my old life. My car has been sold, my possessions and rental house given up, and my job passed on to a colleague. Going back would mean more comfort but also more stress. Like a second go at a relationship where the problems still exist but the Sunday pancakes are back. I don't think the pancakes would taste the same. Better than none, but not the same.
And that's why every time I say I want to go home, I tell myself I can't. I tell myself things will get better, I will get used to the bugs, the heat, the language. I will no longer miss my pancakes because I will make a new routine. But I only half believe it. I'm still sad, and I cry when I'm alone.
This may sound really depressing, but try to remember your last break up. Every day is a little bit better than the last. Every day it hurts a bit less. You've started meeting friends for Sunday brunch, decorated the new apartment, and now use TiVo when you're sick. Or in my case, I eat ngallah on Sundays, hung maps in my room (that coordinate with my mosquito net), and my host mom makes me soup when I'm ill. And then one day you wake up and you don't miss that ex (boyfriend or life) anymore. You actually have made a new routine and you can't imagine going back. This is the new you and you're better for it.
I'm not to the point where I don't miss my old life, but it hurts less. And I'm learning to enjoy this new life more and more every day... and that's what it's like joining the Peace Corps.
Sunday, December 13
Habits
Habits I think I'm going to pick up by default:
1) Shaking everyone's hand when I walk into a room.
2) Getting annoyed when someone doesn't say Hello to me on the street.
3) Eating a baguette with every meal.
4) Looking for another carb at each meal: rice, pasta, etc.
5) Counting how many glasses of water I've had in a day.
6) Taking 3 showers a day.
7) Boiling all veggies and meat, all the time.
8) Wishing people excellent digestion after meals.
9) Taking an astronomical amount of pills each day.
10) Honking at people on the side walk as I drive by, just to make sure they don't think about randomly jumping into the street in front of me.
1) Shaking everyone's hand when I walk into a room.
2) Getting annoyed when someone doesn't say Hello to me on the street.
3) Eating a baguette with every meal.
4) Looking for another carb at each meal: rice, pasta, etc.
5) Counting how many glasses of water I've had in a day.
6) Taking 3 showers a day.
7) Boiling all veggies and meat, all the time.
8) Wishing people excellent digestion after meals.
9) Taking an astronomical amount of pills each day.
10) Honking at people on the side walk as I drive by, just to make sure they don't think about randomly jumping into the street in front of me.
Monday, November 30
Letters from Abroad- November
Sister,
I have an office in the mayor's building, which is really like a city hall. I share my office with the person whose rank, directly translated from French, is 3rd person the mayor. We are sitting there this morning discussing the upcoming religious holiday, and the fabric she had just bought for her new outfit for said holiday, when a fellow citizen came in.
This woman was about 45 to 50, appeared to be a hard worker, a seller at the market, and highly agitated. She immediately began speaking in elevated tones (even for the vibrant Senegalese culture), waving herself about the room with gestures, and pounding on the desk to heighten certain points. She spoke Wolof which ruled me out as a conversation participant quickly. But when she started leaking tears, I knew something was wrong. I watched her explain something for nearly 15 minutes, and in doing so convinced myself that something horrible had happened to this woman.
You see, the thing is, Senegalese don't cry. So that, plus the screaming and banging, lead me to believe that someone had destroyed this woman by running down her family in the street and simultaneously crushing her stand at the market... thus completely killing her livelihood. The scene was that dramatic. After 15 min you would have concluded pretty much the same, though maybe less graphic (Thanks, Malaria pills).
So somehow things end, and the women leaves just as fast as she blew in. I'm left with just my office-mate. I give her the "I'm seriously going to need an explanation for that" look and she tells me the woman was upset with the Collector in the Mayor's Office.
Aah, this must be the bastard driving the killer semi-truck. "What do you mean Collector?" Well, the guy who collects money for the permits, you know, to sell in the market. "Oh, so he wouldn't give her a permit?" No, she refused to pay. "Oh, so they must be really expensive?" No, they're only about $0.20. "I don't get it, why did she refuse?" Who knows?!
Who knows?! That is not the end of this explanation, lady. But as far as my language skills and her patience were concerned it was. I can't believe the amount of drama I just went through for a "who knows" conclusion. What the...? But then as my friend Christine would say, "Why ask why in Senegal..."
Kazumi,
I've been keeping busy. There are a lot of Americans around these days. My host dad is the president of one of the local emergency clinics in town. He worked with a program called the African Birth Collective to have 5 midwife students and 2 supervisors come for about a month to work with the local clinics. They are delivering babies and exchanging ideas with the locals (though that last part was only in theory as not one of them speaks French or Wolof). And given that, I've been spending way too much time translating.
Then there are the guys working at the local phosphate factory that are here from Texas. They will be here for 90days, leave for 2 weeks, and come back for another 90days. This is supposed to continue for the next 3 years. I would take 3 years if I could go home for 2 weeks all the time... but that wasn't a choice for me.
Anyway, I feel like I've been playing the part of a cruise director, which means I've been running around town trying to make sure all the Americans are properly translated, entertained, and have bought all the souvenirs they require. It's really quite exhausting; especially because they always want to drink. This seems like fun, but I generally feel dehydrated all the time... and thus mildly hung-over all the time. Not cool.
The other side to this situation is that everyone realizes that I'm a volunteer... and thus make enough money to live like the Senegalese do. Which in turn means, that I have a budget of about $4 a day... and therefore can't afford to keep up with their entertainment schedule. So to compensate, they are always paying for me. This seemed nice at first, but it's starting to bug my conscious. I've been sitting around feeling like it's wrong for them to always be buying me things.
Another downside is that I spend a lot of time speaking English. This means that I'm not utilizing my French skills... let alone improving them or working on learning Wolof. I think this is bad. I think I'm getting worse in French by spending more time with Americans.
And lastly, I'm supposed to be spending this time getting to know my community. Instead, I feel like I interact with my community as a translator for some other random white people. But I'm pretty sure that's not the Peace Corps goal. So now, I'm speaking English, feeling guilty for having a Sugar Daddy, and therefore feel like I'm the shittiest Peace Corps Volunteer on the planet. How do I change that?
I think I'm stressed.
Love you, Alys
Hey Papi,
The prescription story I've been meaning to tell you goes as follows... I was feeling particularly under the weather a week or so back and send the medical staff an email with symptoms. When they called back that told me to go to the pharmacy and buy the French version of penicillin. Buy two boxes, take 3 times a day. I wrote the name and that sentence down on a old scrap paper. When I left my mom asked if I needed an actual prescription paper... But I shrugged and said I didn't know. The doctor had told me that if I had any problems to call her from the store so she could talk to them. When I got there, I told them what I wanted; they looked at my old piece of paper notes, and handed over the drugs. Strange right? The only thing preventing people from miss-using drugs is the fact that they can't afford to pay for them. Upon telling this story to another volunteer, they suggested I go back and ask for medical marijuana. It's not like I need a slip from the doctor, right? Good thing I don't do drugs!
Love you, Alys
Uncle Andy & Aunt Deb,
I had quite a unique Thanksgiving Day. The Volunteer from the next town over came to meet my family and celebrate with me. We went for a long walk through the market and bought ingredients for homemade stuffing and an apple crisp dessert. Then we came back and made it with my family... they'd made roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and salad with mayonnaise/ veggie bits dressing. The stuffing was simple and awesome. Hand torn baguettes by yours truly with beef bouillon, onions and what other random herbs we could find.
The volunteer I replaced in town and family (who is still here until next month finishing a project) also came over for dinner. We ate Senegalese style which meant we put the chicken in the middle of a circular platter with miniature servings of each side in blobs around the edges... then we ate it with our fingers. There are pictures of my 1.5yr old host brother with mashed potatoes all over this face and head. I will post on Facebook ASAP. They didn't understand the concept of the gravy we made, but oh well.
When it came time to serve our stove top made "crisp" (because it never really baked in an oven, but was still great) we served up coffee cups of apples sautéed with butter, sugar, cinnamon, and allspice. Mix in some flour and oatmeal to congeal and bring down the sweetness effect and you had a great dish! Or at least all the Americans thought so. Watching my host mom eat it was hilarious. It was all she could do to eat a few bites so that she would be polite and yet still keep a straight face. I couldn't stop laughing. Who could be offended when clearly this means "more for us?"
Since mine is a Muslim (aka dry) house, we went to the Catholic corner store to buy a few beers after. But we left that shortly, and grabbed the hidden bottle of tequila in my room and headed for the hills. The tallest hill in town is curiously where the Catholics started a cemetery (Muslims generally cremate). We hung out with some stray dogs, and graves, while looking out over the city, up at stars, talking, and getting drunk. All in all, a good time.
Thanks for listening to my story. Hope you had a great holiday, too.
Love you, Alys
I have an office in the mayor's building, which is really like a city hall. I share my office with the person whose rank, directly translated from French, is 3rd person the mayor. We are sitting there this morning discussing the upcoming religious holiday, and the fabric she had just bought for her new outfit for said holiday, when a fellow citizen came in.
This woman was about 45 to 50, appeared to be a hard worker, a seller at the market, and highly agitated. She immediately began speaking in elevated tones (even for the vibrant Senegalese culture), waving herself about the room with gestures, and pounding on the desk to heighten certain points. She spoke Wolof which ruled me out as a conversation participant quickly. But when she started leaking tears, I knew something was wrong. I watched her explain something for nearly 15 minutes, and in doing so convinced myself that something horrible had happened to this woman.
You see, the thing is, Senegalese don't cry. So that, plus the screaming and banging, lead me to believe that someone had destroyed this woman by running down her family in the street and simultaneously crushing her stand at the market... thus completely killing her livelihood. The scene was that dramatic. After 15 min you would have concluded pretty much the same, though maybe less graphic (Thanks, Malaria pills).
So somehow things end, and the women leaves just as fast as she blew in. I'm left with just my office-mate. I give her the "I'm seriously going to need an explanation for that" look and she tells me the woman was upset with the Collector in the Mayor's Office.
Aah, this must be the bastard driving the killer semi-truck. "What do you mean Collector?" Well, the guy who collects money for the permits, you know, to sell in the market. "Oh, so he wouldn't give her a permit?" No, she refused to pay. "Oh, so they must be really expensive?" No, they're only about $0.20. "I don't get it, why did she refuse?" Who knows?!
Who knows?! That is not the end of this explanation, lady. But as far as my language skills and her patience were concerned it was. I can't believe the amount of drama I just went through for a "who knows" conclusion. What the...? But then as my friend Christine would say, "Why ask why in Senegal..."
Kazumi,
I've been keeping busy. There are a lot of Americans around these days. My host dad is the president of one of the local emergency clinics in town. He worked with a program called the African Birth Collective to have 5 midwife students and 2 supervisors come for about a month to work with the local clinics. They are delivering babies and exchanging ideas with the locals (though that last part was only in theory as not one of them speaks French or Wolof). And given that, I've been spending way too much time translating.
Then there are the guys working at the local phosphate factory that are here from Texas. They will be here for 90days, leave for 2 weeks, and come back for another 90days. This is supposed to continue for the next 3 years. I would take 3 years if I could go home for 2 weeks all the time... but that wasn't a choice for me.
Anyway, I feel like I've been playing the part of a cruise director, which means I've been running around town trying to make sure all the Americans are properly translated, entertained, and have bought all the souvenirs they require. It's really quite exhausting; especially because they always want to drink. This seems like fun, but I generally feel dehydrated all the time... and thus mildly hung-over all the time. Not cool.
The other side to this situation is that everyone realizes that I'm a volunteer... and thus make enough money to live like the Senegalese do. Which in turn means, that I have a budget of about $4 a day... and therefore can't afford to keep up with their entertainment schedule. So to compensate, they are always paying for me. This seemed nice at first, but it's starting to bug my conscious. I've been sitting around feeling like it's wrong for them to always be buying me things.
Another downside is that I spend a lot of time speaking English. This means that I'm not utilizing my French skills... let alone improving them or working on learning Wolof. I think this is bad. I think I'm getting worse in French by spending more time with Americans.
And lastly, I'm supposed to be spending this time getting to know my community. Instead, I feel like I interact with my community as a translator for some other random white people. But I'm pretty sure that's not the Peace Corps goal. So now, I'm speaking English, feeling guilty for having a Sugar Daddy, and therefore feel like I'm the shittiest Peace Corps Volunteer on the planet. How do I change that?
I think I'm stressed.
Love you, Alys
Hey Papi,
The prescription story I've been meaning to tell you goes as follows... I was feeling particularly under the weather a week or so back and send the medical staff an email with symptoms. When they called back that told me to go to the pharmacy and buy the French version of penicillin. Buy two boxes, take 3 times a day. I wrote the name and that sentence down on a old scrap paper. When I left my mom asked if I needed an actual prescription paper... But I shrugged and said I didn't know. The doctor had told me that if I had any problems to call her from the store so she could talk to them. When I got there, I told them what I wanted; they looked at my old piece of paper notes, and handed over the drugs. Strange right? The only thing preventing people from miss-using drugs is the fact that they can't afford to pay for them. Upon telling this story to another volunteer, they suggested I go back and ask for medical marijuana. It's not like I need a slip from the doctor, right? Good thing I don't do drugs!
Love you, Alys
Uncle Andy & Aunt Deb,
I had quite a unique Thanksgiving Day. The Volunteer from the next town over came to meet my family and celebrate with me. We went for a long walk through the market and bought ingredients for homemade stuffing and an apple crisp dessert. Then we came back and made it with my family... they'd made roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and salad with mayonnaise/ veggie bits dressing. The stuffing was simple and awesome. Hand torn baguettes by yours truly with beef bouillon, onions and what other random herbs we could find.
The volunteer I replaced in town and family (who is still here until next month finishing a project) also came over for dinner. We ate Senegalese style which meant we put the chicken in the middle of a circular platter with miniature servings of each side in blobs around the edges... then we ate it with our fingers. There are pictures of my 1.5yr old host brother with mashed potatoes all over this face and head. I will post on Facebook ASAP. They didn't understand the concept of the gravy we made, but oh well.
When it came time to serve our stove top made "crisp" (because it never really baked in an oven, but was still great) we served up coffee cups of apples sautéed with butter, sugar, cinnamon, and allspice. Mix in some flour and oatmeal to congeal and bring down the sweetness effect and you had a great dish! Or at least all the Americans thought so. Watching my host mom eat it was hilarious. It was all she could do to eat a few bites so that she would be polite and yet still keep a straight face. I couldn't stop laughing. Who could be offended when clearly this means "more for us?"
Since mine is a Muslim (aka dry) house, we went to the Catholic corner store to buy a few beers after. But we left that shortly, and grabbed the hidden bottle of tequila in my room and headed for the hills. The tallest hill in town is curiously where the Catholics started a cemetery (Muslims generally cremate). We hung out with some stray dogs, and graves, while looking out over the city, up at stars, talking, and getting drunk. All in all, a good time.
Thanks for listening to my story. Hope you had a great holiday, too.
Love you, Alys
Sunday, November 29
Bathroom Problems
I decided to personalize my room finally. Granted I had realized that since Christine visiting was for Thanksgiving we'd have to share my bed, thus the lame job of rigging my mosquito net was going to have to be remedied. And this spurred my energy. Anyway, after moving every one of my 4 pieces of furniture, I had sat down to admire my work (and let the sweat dry).
This is when it occurred to me that I'm a genius. I've finally solved the after-problem problem! You know, when you don't always make it while running to the bathroom (first problem) and have subsequently torn off all of your clothing in total disgust... It's only then that I realize that my windows are all wide open and my dresser of cloths is on the OTHER side of my room from the toilet (after-problem problem).
Well, sub-conscious genius that I am, I've moved the dresser to be immediately outside of the bathroom. Viola! Genius, right? It's the little things, and I guess you had to be there. In any case, it'd be a good idea if you got used to random revelations about bathroom instances. This is a recurring theme in PC life.
This is when it occurred to me that I'm a genius. I've finally solved the after-problem problem! You know, when you don't always make it while running to the bathroom (first problem) and have subsequently torn off all of your clothing in total disgust... It's only then that I realize that my windows are all wide open and my dresser of cloths is on the OTHER side of my room from the toilet (after-problem problem).
Well, sub-conscious genius that I am, I've moved the dresser to be immediately outside of the bathroom. Viola! Genius, right? It's the little things, and I guess you had to be there. In any case, it'd be a good idea if you got used to random revelations about bathroom instances. This is a recurring theme in PC life.
Sunday, November 22
Wolof Week
I have seriously lucked out. I've spent a week on a very pleasant vacation of sorts. In my continued attempt to be a decent volunteer I begged for assistance in learning a language I'm not all that interested in. As if the 8th wonder of the world, Peace Corps granted my request by informing me that I would be uprooted once more for a week in a small village about an hour and half from here. Paranoid of awkward family introductions, not being able to communicate with another town of people, and being annoyed with fellow students and the new professor... I headed off none-the-less.
As if someone figured it was time to cash in my karma chips, I was placed in class with 3 stellar people and a great teacher. All of them were witty and smart, but most importantly patient with my horrible lack of Wolof skill. In addition, the town (could I really say "town" when talking about 20 households?) of Ker Se Darou was utterly enchanting with the generosity of its people, quaint landscaping, and satisfyingly sluggish life style. Sprinkled between the intensive language sessions were hours of avoiding fish in the lunch bowl, discussions of Christmas plans with my fellows, bissap flavored ice, and time with my new host family- who doubled over with laughter and patience at my infantile language skills.
Four days after landing in Ker Se Darou (and at least two of which we spent begging not to go) we were paraded out. My family, in an act of the pin-ultimate of hospitality, dressed Jackie and I in new matching traditional African outfits and sent us on our way with a trail of children following. My Wolof may not be great, but the week was!
As if someone figured it was time to cash in my karma chips, I was placed in class with 3 stellar people and a great teacher. All of them were witty and smart, but most importantly patient with my horrible lack of Wolof skill. In addition, the town (could I really say "town" when talking about 20 households?) of Ker Se Darou was utterly enchanting with the generosity of its people, quaint landscaping, and satisfyingly sluggish life style. Sprinkled between the intensive language sessions were hours of avoiding fish in the lunch bowl, discussions of Christmas plans with my fellows, bissap flavored ice, and time with my new host family- who doubled over with laughter and patience at my infantile language skills.
Four days after landing in Ker Se Darou (and at least two of which we spent begging not to go) we were paraded out. My family, in an act of the pin-ultimate of hospitality, dressed Jackie and I in new matching traditional African outfits and sent us on our way with a trail of children following. My Wolof may not be great, but the week was!
Sunday, November 1
New House Adjusment
What I hate about living in a new house is that period where you know each other, but don't know everything that is kosher. When is a good time to do my laundry because the family's is already done? Is it acceptable to walk around in my pjs? Could I possibly make something to eat for myself and make it to bed at a decent hour? How much time am I allowed to spend alone in my room, or is that counteracted if the door is open? I was just finally getting used to things at the other house when we finished training... so in about 7 more weeks I'll be good.
Friday, October 30
Letters From Abroad- October
Krystal,
I honestly go back and forth between enjoying it here and not. The PC recruitment phrase is "the toughest job you'll ever love." It used to sound cute and catchy before, but now it's like a smug comment that rubs me the wrong way.
At the moment, I'm sick and grumpy. I'm annoyed that everyone compares me to the previous volunteer. I have to say at least once daily that "Je ne suis pas Devon," I am not Devon. I'm not picking up Wolof as fast as he is, I want to do better in French, I don't eat a mountain of food, I don't like peanut butter, I don't go out until 8a the next morning, I don't like play boxing with the kids, I don't want to eat every single meal (with or without my family), WE AREN"T THE SAME PERSON. Get over it.
Yet it continues every day. My family's current favorite thing to do is tell me about Devon, what he likes, dislikes, and said about the US... like they are testing me. Did I know that? Do I agree? Is it true?
Sue,
We had some health volunteers come this week. They are here to work with pregnant women and births, etc with the local clinics. I've become a translator of French for them. I'm on call for births these days!
Anyway, in passing they asked if there was a place to get a good massage here. I laughed and told them "good luck, but my Dad's girlfriend should be coming to start shop in about 2 years."
Think about you guys all the time, even when not really relevant. I put up all the pictures Dad gave me of you two and my whole family has made a point of coming to my room to ask about them!
Hey All,
We are finished with training and I've be moved to my permanent work site. That means two things: 1) I now have internet access in my room (as in I can send and receive email often), and 2) my mailing address has changed too.
I will have the following postal address for the next two years:
PCV Alys Moshier
BP 103
Mboro, Senegal
West Africa
Par Avion
A few people have been generous enough to suggest sending some items to Africa. With thoughts of saving time, creating a decent list, and hopefully being lucky enough to get a package... I'm sending the below wish list. Most items will be hugely appreciated anytime of the year (don't worry about doubles of anything). Others are obviously a bit more expensive and if sent would make us life-long friends and get you out of a few birthdays and/or Christmas presents.
As a side note to this, to help guarantee that I get packages decorate the box with Christian symbols such as crosses, etc. It sounds strange, but apparently it's bad karma to mess with religious packages according to Senegalese culture. Whatever works, right? Regular letters should be no problem.
THE WISH LIST:
Combination lock- No keys, something basic to help me lock up some stuff. They are expensive here. Probably could use 2.
T-shirts- By this I mean basic Haines whites or funky ones from goodwill. Either will be useful if sent it size M.
Fiber supplements- Don't ask me to explain unless you want to hear about poop.
Protein- Ditto. Powder, bars, pills, whatever is easiest- I need to get more.
Duct tape- Universal, and I can't believe I forgot to pack this staple. Did I ever go camping as a kid? Sorry, Dad.
Flash drive- 4g or more preferably.
External hard drive- My computer doesn't have a DVD drive... so to be able to watch movies I have a friend copy them to their computer, format, and transfer to mine. And since there is a huge collection of bootleg in country now the hard drive would be gold. (Kind of expensive so not for the casual send... definitely Christmas present idea.)
Face scrub- The scrub is key... feel so dirty here that a good almond scrub would be awesome.
Quick dry towel- Example link, can be found in outdoors stores, about $30.
Calendar 09 & 10- Sounds dumb, but it would be nice to hang in my room and count the days. A hand journal to keep track of days would be nice too. Like the ones we used to have in college.
Conditioner- Heavy duty stuff will last longer, like Redkin: All Soft. Or if anyone has died hair recently and has that small concentrated tube left over. This is very expensive here, with no apparent reason.
Pens/ sharpies- They always seem to disappear or run out of ink. Sharpie fine points (like a pen) are awesome here, and I can tell when someone has boosted mine.
Crystal Light Live Active/ Propel packets- Also like gold in the world of treated water. Plus the LiveActive helps with digestion and Propel has electrolytes and vitamins which help fight dehydration etc in the land of sand.
Hair ties- Duh. They break all the time.
Disposable razor blades- It's a treat to be able to shave. I will take basic stick or Venus disposable tips. For special occasions throw in shaving cream!
Food Objects: beef jerky, nuts (love wasabi almonds), Oreos, granola bars, candy corn, etc. In general items that would keep and taste good.
Dramamine- The travel conditions here are nightmarish on my motion sickness. Help me out here...
In conclusion, a special thanks to Krystal and Amelia who have already sent me amazing packages with what they claim was nothing. What is nothing to you is gold to me. Thank you so much. I love you guys!
Take care everyone. Don't think I don't miss you.
Love, Alys
Sister,
I'm pretty sure that mornings here are the worst. I never want to get up. I have enough fans on me so that I actually feel cold and use a sheet to cover up. Getting up means accepting that I will out into the world and sweat like a beast, screw up language, and play Devon for yet another day. It means bugs will seemingly attack me, I will long for solid ground, closed toes shoes, and air conditioning, and that in some way or another Senegalese culture will annoy me for another day. Yup, mornings are the worst.
But luckily something delightful generally happens at some point in the day, and it makes things better. Yesterday the health volunteers came over to use the internet and we had a nice chat about Africa (by that I mean the side effects of Malaria pills). After, my Dad and I drove them to the store. Then I was going to meet up with my friends from Texas, but as I was sick my Dad drove me all the way to their door. He also walked me inside to make sure I was ok, and actually meeting people who were waiting for me. Very nice of him.
Clearly we are down to the little things, like it's nice to get a ride from my Dad instead of walking. It's nice to be able to speak English a little, it's nice to have friends that buy all your beers (don't ask why I'm sick and drinking... you would too if it was cold and free in Africa), and when I finally got back home my Mom had made me soup for dinner. One because she knows I don't like West African-style couscous and two because I'm sick and she knows, from Devon, that soup makes Americans feel better (the first thing I'm happy to hear about from Devon).
That's all for now. Will try to keep my head up and only write to you in the evenings when I've been having a good day.
Love, Alys
Kristin,
Inshallah (God willing) this letter won't get erased before I've finished it. The interesting thing is, this word is like a catch all excuse for anything that the Senegalese mildly intend to do, but is reasonably certain they will not be able to accomplish- at least by the proposed timing. I would equate it to a "yeah right." For example, I told the Catholic priest I was going to come to church last Sunday to meet the congregation. He said "Inshallah." Only he was right, because by Saturday I had a serious cold that made me sleep most of Sunday, never leaving the house. Sometimes, I start to feel like it's a curse.
Anyway, about my life in Senegal: I just spent 9 weeks learning French. I feel like I'm fairly decent. I can generally express my desires or thoughts. By the time I graduated the program I really feel I had better French then the Japanese have English coming to Hino. So that's a little plus.
For as much ambiguity as I went through figuring out where in the world I would be whilst joining the Peace Corps, it felt like a 180 degree change of direction after that. My program director asked for assignment and location suggestions. So, after spending a few weeks in my training site, learning what the current volunteer was doing, and adjusting to life here... I asked to be permanently assigned to Mboro. I asked for this (remember that if I ever start to complain) and they gave it to me- no questions. Pretty cool.
Mboro is an almost beach town, 3 kilometers inland (a short $0.25 taxi ride) and lucky enough to be built up by a phosphorous mine. The town is quite western compared to almost everything in country. My family (part of the wealthiest middle class or poorest top class) has western furniture, the ability to eat vegetables at every meal, 2 TVs, an oscillating fan in almost every room, a maid and another women that does laundry, and a backyard full of fruit trees. I have my own room (every volunteer does) but with a half bath (western toilet and sink!). I have windows that have Venetian style slats that open and close. The walls are painted concrete and roof is metal sheets. The floor is a darker concrete. I have a double bed with giant mosquito net, a desk and chair, small dresser, and lamp... all made of wood. I just bought a mirror.
These days my only job is getting to know the community and learn Wolof. This will go on for 3 months. At the end of this, I should have a decent idea of a handful of projects to take back to a 3 week conference with other business volunteers. There we'll get start-up techniques and development planning training, etc, specifically tailored to Senegal. There are so many ideas I have... like start a community trash collection and compost pile collaboration, start a radio station for health and business tips to be broadcasted, reopen the fruit product transformation plant that was closed, start a community employment board for the maids and households that want them, and have adult beginner entrepreneurial education classes. The list goes on.
Alys
I honestly go back and forth between enjoying it here and not. The PC recruitment phrase is "the toughest job you'll ever love." It used to sound cute and catchy before, but now it's like a smug comment that rubs me the wrong way.
At the moment, I'm sick and grumpy. I'm annoyed that everyone compares me to the previous volunteer. I have to say at least once daily that "Je ne suis pas Devon," I am not Devon. I'm not picking up Wolof as fast as he is, I want to do better in French, I don't eat a mountain of food, I don't like peanut butter, I don't go out until 8a the next morning, I don't like play boxing with the kids, I don't want to eat every single meal (with or without my family), WE AREN"T THE SAME PERSON. Get over it.
Yet it continues every day. My family's current favorite thing to do is tell me about Devon, what he likes, dislikes, and said about the US... like they are testing me. Did I know that? Do I agree? Is it true?
Sue,
We had some health volunteers come this week. They are here to work with pregnant women and births, etc with the local clinics. I've become a translator of French for them. I'm on call for births these days!
Anyway, in passing they asked if there was a place to get a good massage here. I laughed and told them "good luck, but my Dad's girlfriend should be coming to start shop in about 2 years."
Think about you guys all the time, even when not really relevant. I put up all the pictures Dad gave me of you two and my whole family has made a point of coming to my room to ask about them!
Hey All,
We are finished with training and I've be moved to my permanent work site. That means two things: 1) I now have internet access in my room (as in I can send and receive email often), and 2) my mailing address has changed too.
I will have the following postal address for the next two years:
PCV Alys Moshier
BP 103
Mboro, Senegal
West Africa
Par Avion
A few people have been generous enough to suggest sending some items to Africa. With thoughts of saving time, creating a decent list, and hopefully being lucky enough to get a package... I'm sending the below wish list. Most items will be hugely appreciated anytime of the year (don't worry about doubles of anything). Others are obviously a bit more expensive and if sent would make us life-long friends and get you out of a few birthdays and/or Christmas presents.
As a side note to this, to help guarantee that I get packages decorate the box with Christian symbols such as crosses, etc. It sounds strange, but apparently it's bad karma to mess with religious packages according to Senegalese culture. Whatever works, right? Regular letters should be no problem.
THE WISH LIST:
Combination lock- No keys, something basic to help me lock up some stuff. They are expensive here. Probably could use 2.
T-shirts- By this I mean basic Haines whites or funky ones from goodwill. Either will be useful if sent it size M.
Fiber supplements- Don't ask me to explain unless you want to hear about poop.
Protein- Ditto. Powder, bars, pills, whatever is easiest- I need to get more.
Duct tape- Universal, and I can't believe I forgot to pack this staple. Did I ever go camping as a kid? Sorry, Dad.
Flash drive- 4g or more preferably.
External hard drive- My computer doesn't have a DVD drive... so to be able to watch movies I have a friend copy them to their computer, format, and transfer to mine. And since there is a huge collection of bootleg in country now the hard drive would be gold. (Kind of expensive so not for the casual send... definitely Christmas present idea.)
Face scrub- The scrub is key... feel so dirty here that a good almond scrub would be awesome.
Quick dry towel- Example link, can be found in outdoors stores, about $30.
Calendar 09 & 10- Sounds dumb, but it would be nice to hang in my room and count the days. A hand journal to keep track of days would be nice too. Like the ones we used to have in college.
Conditioner- Heavy duty stuff will last longer, like Redkin: All Soft. Or if anyone has died hair recently and has that small concentrated tube left over. This is very expensive here, with no apparent reason.
Pens/ sharpies- They always seem to disappear or run out of ink. Sharpie fine points (like a pen) are awesome here, and I can tell when someone has boosted mine.
Crystal Light Live Active/ Propel packets- Also like gold in the world of treated water. Plus the LiveActive helps with digestion and Propel has electrolytes and vitamins which help fight dehydration etc in the land of sand.
Hair ties- Duh. They break all the time.
Disposable razor blades- It's a treat to be able to shave. I will take basic stick or Venus disposable tips. For special occasions throw in shaving cream!
Food Objects: beef jerky, nuts (love wasabi almonds), Oreos, granola bars, candy corn, etc. In general items that would keep and taste good.
Dramamine- The travel conditions here are nightmarish on my motion sickness. Help me out here...
In conclusion, a special thanks to Krystal and Amelia who have already sent me amazing packages with what they claim was nothing. What is nothing to you is gold to me. Thank you so much. I love you guys!
Take care everyone. Don't think I don't miss you.
Love, Alys
Sister,
I'm pretty sure that mornings here are the worst. I never want to get up. I have enough fans on me so that I actually feel cold and use a sheet to cover up. Getting up means accepting that I will out into the world and sweat like a beast, screw up language, and play Devon for yet another day. It means bugs will seemingly attack me, I will long for solid ground, closed toes shoes, and air conditioning, and that in some way or another Senegalese culture will annoy me for another day. Yup, mornings are the worst.
But luckily something delightful generally happens at some point in the day, and it makes things better. Yesterday the health volunteers came over to use the internet and we had a nice chat about Africa (by that I mean the side effects of Malaria pills). After, my Dad and I drove them to the store. Then I was going to meet up with my friends from Texas, but as I was sick my Dad drove me all the way to their door. He also walked me inside to make sure I was ok, and actually meeting people who were waiting for me. Very nice of him.
Clearly we are down to the little things, like it's nice to get a ride from my Dad instead of walking. It's nice to be able to speak English a little, it's nice to have friends that buy all your beers (don't ask why I'm sick and drinking... you would too if it was cold and free in Africa), and when I finally got back home my Mom had made me soup for dinner. One because she knows I don't like West African-style couscous and two because I'm sick and she knows, from Devon, that soup makes Americans feel better (the first thing I'm happy to hear about from Devon).
That's all for now. Will try to keep my head up and only write to you in the evenings when I've been having a good day.
Love, Alys
Kristin,
Inshallah (God willing) this letter won't get erased before I've finished it. The interesting thing is, this word is like a catch all excuse for anything that the Senegalese mildly intend to do, but is reasonably certain they will not be able to accomplish- at least by the proposed timing. I would equate it to a "yeah right." For example, I told the Catholic priest I was going to come to church last Sunday to meet the congregation. He said "Inshallah." Only he was right, because by Saturday I had a serious cold that made me sleep most of Sunday, never leaving the house. Sometimes, I start to feel like it's a curse.
Anyway, about my life in Senegal: I just spent 9 weeks learning French. I feel like I'm fairly decent. I can generally express my desires or thoughts. By the time I graduated the program I really feel I had better French then the Japanese have English coming to Hino. So that's a little plus.
For as much ambiguity as I went through figuring out where in the world I would be whilst joining the Peace Corps, it felt like a 180 degree change of direction after that. My program director asked for assignment and location suggestions. So, after spending a few weeks in my training site, learning what the current volunteer was doing, and adjusting to life here... I asked to be permanently assigned to Mboro. I asked for this (remember that if I ever start to complain) and they gave it to me- no questions. Pretty cool.
Mboro is an almost beach town, 3 kilometers inland (a short $0.25 taxi ride) and lucky enough to be built up by a phosphorous mine. The town is quite western compared to almost everything in country. My family (part of the wealthiest middle class or poorest top class) has western furniture, the ability to eat vegetables at every meal, 2 TVs, an oscillating fan in almost every room, a maid and another women that does laundry, and a backyard full of fruit trees. I have my own room (every volunteer does) but with a half bath (western toilet and sink!). I have windows that have Venetian style slats that open and close. The walls are painted concrete and roof is metal sheets. The floor is a darker concrete. I have a double bed with giant mosquito net, a desk and chair, small dresser, and lamp... all made of wood. I just bought a mirror.
These days my only job is getting to know the community and learn Wolof. This will go on for 3 months. At the end of this, I should have a decent idea of a handful of projects to take back to a 3 week conference with other business volunteers. There we'll get start-up techniques and development planning training, etc, specifically tailored to Senegal. There are so many ideas I have... like start a community trash collection and compost pile collaboration, start a radio station for health and business tips to be broadcasted, reopen the fruit product transformation plant that was closed, start a community employment board for the maids and households that want them, and have adult beginner entrepreneurial education classes. The list goes on.
Alys
Sunday, October 25
No Communication
My internet is still not working in my new house. I am basically used to having limited internet access for the past few weeks. But then my phone also decided to quit working. After a few hours of trying, and soliciting aid from Josh's host brother in obtaining repairs, I've paid 4,000 CFA ($8) and have to wait until the next day to retrieve the device. Needless to say, I hoped that it was fixed, but alas no. I got my money back and was told it was unrepairable; that I would need to buy a new one. However, because I'm a foreigner, I needed to find someone with time to go to the store to buy one with me. This will take a whole weekend and cost me 14,000 CFA ($28).
And in the mean time, I have no method of calling Devon (my predecessor) to come fix the internet. I can't call my coworkers to arrange a time to start working. I can't communicate with my friends to tell them about the ridiculous walk home I had with Josh (who thought walking through a treacherous field at night, with one flashlight- which he held & walked at least 10 feet in front of me- was a good idea). And the worst yet, is I'm fairly certain my sister was going to call me during this phone-less time. It is something small that is still highly anticipated. The culmination of merely pondering these facts has led me down a path of loneliness...
And in the mean time, I have no method of calling Devon (my predecessor) to come fix the internet. I can't call my coworkers to arrange a time to start working. I can't communicate with my friends to tell them about the ridiculous walk home I had with Josh (who thought walking through a treacherous field at night, with one flashlight- which he held & walked at least 10 feet in front of me- was a good idea). And the worst yet, is I'm fairly certain my sister was going to call me during this phone-less time. It is something small that is still highly anticipated. The culmination of merely pondering these facts has led me down a path of loneliness...
Thursday, October 22
Day 2
My second whole day seemed almost less productive than the first, though that's not possible. I woke up early and had breakfast with my family. Then I went with my Mom to her maternal school (as the French say, or day care) for a few hours. I didn't freak out; I tried to enjoy the kids. It wasn't completely accomplished, but not a disaster either.
After a few hours my Mom asked me to take half the kids and teach them to color inside the lines. The kids don't speak French (not that I really do either), so I was left to use two of my ten Wolof words (yes and no) to explain. A small sense of pride flared when they understood the task.
My second youngest brother became sick, and was picked up by my Dad half way through the morning. I took the opportunity to bail. We drove to the health post (like an emergency clinic) and I assume made an appointment for later as no one took a look at my brother. (As a side bar, when I asked my Mom later what had happened I was told they thought he had Malaria and he had taken been given some medicine to reduce his fever... he is "better.")
After this I spend some time reading while my brother took a nap in my room under the fan. In what is quickly becoming a routine, I had a pre-lunch hour long conversation with my oldest brother in French (with some English). The topics are also getting progressively more intense. Yesterday was the school system and his wanting to become an engineer. Today was philosophy, science versus religion, and Islam. Then again, what is uncomfortable for me is small talk for them... so maybe things are just chugging along as normal.
After a few hours my Mom asked me to take half the kids and teach them to color inside the lines. The kids don't speak French (not that I really do either), so I was left to use two of my ten Wolof words (yes and no) to explain. A small sense of pride flared when they understood the task.
My second youngest brother became sick, and was picked up by my Dad half way through the morning. I took the opportunity to bail. We drove to the health post (like an emergency clinic) and I assume made an appointment for later as no one took a look at my brother. (As a side bar, when I asked my Mom later what had happened I was told they thought he had Malaria and he had taken been given some medicine to reduce his fever... he is "better.")
After this I spend some time reading while my brother took a nap in my room under the fan. In what is quickly becoming a routine, I had a pre-lunch hour long conversation with my oldest brother in French (with some English). The topics are also getting progressively more intense. Yesterday was the school system and his wanting to become an engineer. Today was philosophy, science versus religion, and Islam. Then again, what is uncomfortable for me is small talk for them... so maybe things are just chugging along as normal.
Wednesday, October 21
Day 1
Today is my first full day on my own schedule, at my site, as a volunteer.
My successes for the day are reviewing my African finances (analyzing, portioning, and setting a budget), having successful conversations with my brother and mother that lasted for about an hour each, learning a few new Wolof words, and NOT taking a nap.
My failures are not knowing my brother's name (Issa; I find out later), not completing unpacking, taking longer than necessary to review the finances, not eating breakfast (my family's version of failure), and not taking enough showers in the day.
Must focus on the accomplishments, and do one little thing for myself each day. Yesterday, little America time was when I watched a movie. Today, it was meeting up with Josh and the Texans for beers.
My successes for the day are reviewing my African finances (analyzing, portioning, and setting a budget), having successful conversations with my brother and mother that lasted for about an hour each, learning a few new Wolof words, and NOT taking a nap.
My failures are not knowing my brother's name (Issa; I find out later), not completing unpacking, taking longer than necessary to review the finances, not eating breakfast (my family's version of failure), and not taking enough showers in the day.
Must focus on the accomplishments, and do one little thing for myself each day. Yesterday, little America time was when I watched a movie. Today, it was meeting up with Josh and the Texans for beers.
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