Asalam Malekum. I am your prophet, Mohammad. Bismillah (welcome) to the garage; the only place in town where you can catch a ride out of this place to somewhere you think will be cooler and less trash filled. You will be wrong, but we’ll send you there anyway. To start, my fellow garage companions and I will spend no less than 1 minute shouting the names of destinations in your ear inquisitively, even though you already know where you want to go, probably won’t change your mind, and the chances of us guess correctly are slim to none. Saint Louis? Tamba? Ziguinchor? Why don’t you consider these places for next time…?
Well, now that you’ve proclaimed your destination, I will try to take your bags to your car (which you probably already know the location of) and then ask you for money for having done so. And while we’re on the subject, my other friend here will try to overcharge you for your bags. Senegalese people generally don’t have to pay for one or two small bags. They’ll pay a small fee for the goat or chickens tied down in back, but that’s more for the trouble of seeking out the rope needed to do so. You however, with your pretty white skin that curiously makes me see green dollar bills, shall be asked to pay large sums for your bags. You’re good with that, right?
Moving on, I will now show to your seat. See, what we have here may look like a beat up station wagon, but we prefer to call it a sept place- French for seven places- which represents how many passengers will be accompanying our 12 year old driver (let’s call him Boy Wonder) to aforementioned destination. Though this vehicle was built over three decades ago, doors are puppeteered open and closed with strings, rust has consumed every ounce of metal, and the seats are devoid of both cushion and cover we are confident that with copious amounts of prier, a jug of water, and as little gas as possible you will make it to your destination. Safety will cost you extra, and isn’t actually available.
At this time I will offer you the very back seat, which comfortably fits no one but a small child, and we will be putting two very large assed women back there with you. How else do you expect to fit seven people in this car? You may ask yourself, “why the very back seat? It looks like all the other seats are open. There’s no one else here.” Well, we think it’s hilarious to put foreigners in the most uncomfortable situations possible and trust that you don’t have the language skills to argue with it. And since you’re a woman, don’t even think about asking for shotgun. It’s off limits. Those five old men sitting on the bench over there will spend the next hour screaming and yelling if a woman, a lesser being, took the best seat in the car. Especially if there is a deserving man who could possibly be more comfortable there.
Now that you’re settled uncomfortably in the back, you’ll have to wait for your other six passengers to arrive. This could take 5 minutes or 2 hours, it’s a crap shoot. In the mean time, why don’t you enjoy all the amenities the garage has to offer? From where you sit you can buy any of the following items from one of the passing vendors:
• Plastic bag of cold water
• Bananas
• Oranges or Clementines
• Tissues
• Razors
• Wallets
• Plastic toys for kids: gun, piano, etc
• Pillow
• Cookies
• Sunglasses
• Phone credit
• CD or DVD of local artist
• Peanuts or Cashews
• Hot cup of coffee
• Mini flavored ice cream packets
If you think you don’t want any of these items, please don’t make eye contact with either the person selling them or the goods themselves. Doing so will cause great confusion, and the seller will likely spend the rest of your wait outside your window knocking the goods into it to get your attention. If this doesn’t work, perhaps they will reach through the open trunk and tap you on the shoulder. However, if for whatever reason no one is around to sell you the goods you seek, small children can be sent to bring the sellers to you.
And for entertainment, we have little boys and decrepit old men to sing unrecognizable songs or priers. They will not be in tune. If you put on headphones the singers will perform louder and more off key. Tips are expected, though rarely given. If you ignore the small boys they will likely touch you or press their faces against the window- staring into your ear for an uncomfortable period of time. On a similarly amusing subject, my friend has decided he is in love with you. He believes your dream come true is to be his third wife. Even if you have a husband or boyfriend, even if he supposedly lives here in Senegal, its fine; you can still marry.
Hurray, your fellow passengers have arrived, loaded themselves and their baggage into the vehicle, and purchased their merchandise. This man you have never seen before has climbed backward into the driver’s seat and demands you pay the toll. He looks exactly like the other 30 people who’ve asked you for money in the last half hour. But, if you don’t have exact change, you better be the first to hand over your money so that he can make change from other passengers. Because otherwise some other person you’ve yet seen will take your bill and go running off across the garage. You will never see this guy again. The toll man will exit the vehicle, Boy Wonder will get in and start the engine, maybe even start to roll forward, and in whatever language you can muster you’ll ask for your change. This is futile; Boy Wonder will not respond. If you start to get agitated, loud, restless… your car-mates will laugh, but Boy Wonder will not respond.
What you don’t know, couldn’t possibly have figured, is that although the car is in motion, and it seems as though you’re about to embark on the journey, your happy family of 7- plus Boy Wonder- is far from ready for departure. Next stop is the gas station just on the edge of the garage. People will be running alongside the car all the way there, discussing things you won’t understand. It’s certainly not your change they speak of, but there will be coins and little slips of paper passed back and forth. When the hand off is done, and a minimum amount of gas procured, your change will magically appear. At this point you’ll be pissed you didn’t go for the cool plastic bag of water as you’ve exhausted your voice demanding said change- but you’ll learn.
The time has come; you’re off. This is the point when I leave you with just a few more interesting points for your trip. Before actually leaving town the car will stop at the market because someone else has purchased something small, like a sandwich, that couldn’t have possibly been carried to the garage. It’s completely necessary to stop and retrieve it. Also, Boy Wonder will park outside of the pharmacy for ten minutes, disappear inside without explanation, and leave you all in the car. The windows don’t roll down without a screw driver (which isn’t kept in the car) so if you didn’t do so before leaving the garage this is only the beginning of the sauna you’ll be experiencing on the trip. Pull the weakly installed thin black curtain over your portion of the window; it will help with direct sunlight. Don’t complain. Boy Wonder will not care when he gets back to the car.
Once finally on the open road, one finds a preference to taking the sand alongside the road. It’s more of a complete surface; potholes are only half that of the paved portion located next door. There is no speed limit, luckily, giving Boy Wonder a chance to drive way too fast in order to constantly test the breaks by slamming on them- thus avoiding the animals or small children crossing the path. Someone with a touch of genius did think to put unmarked speed bumps down. Boy Wonder will know where they are if he’s a frequent traveler of this road… which he isn’t. What’s unfortunate is that he will be too afraid to pass any vehicle twice his size, but this won’t stop anyone else on the road from passing the both your car and the larger one, if not more, at the same time.
In addition, we built our roads for maximum hassle. The lines painted on there are for artisanal purposes; they have no other meaning to Boy Wonder or anyone else on the road. The lanes are too wide for just one car anyway. And we’ve randomly increased and decreased the number of lanes all along the major roadways… in an effort to confuse Boy Wonder. Good news about the horrendous traffic jams this creates is that more vendors will be available to sell you things. They’ll run alongside the car, jump in front of busses, and generally slow things down further than necessary. And they don’t have change.
And sometime after you’re dehydrated from sweating out every ounce of water, decided an hour ago that you must have shat your pants because the driver won’t stop for a break, and know about every known male in the car, or related to someone in the car, who might be interested in marrying you…, you will arrive at your destination. Fellow passengers will start to get out of the car along the route to the garage, but you won’t know where you are. Boy Wonder doesn’t know either, he won’t explain.
So now that’s really it. You should give me money for explaining all this, but your mp3 player would work too. I am hungry and need to feed my family. Do you want to be my wife? Because I love you. No? Well, good luck then and see you next time, my friend.
Sunday, May 23
Wednesday, May 19
Meeting
This past Saturday, I went to an event where I served no purpose. This isn’t new. I’m fairly certain I am invited to these things as both a courtesy to myself and to act as the token white person (somewhere between the “token black guy” made fun of in movies and a trophy wife.) But this isn’t really the point.
I was originally told about an event involving women’s groups and food security projects. The 3rd counselor to the mayor told me about the event, as she is in charge of women’s groups in town. It was supposed to be the previous weekend, but somehow got pushed back to this one. Then I heard people were coming from Dakar. I was in the office when people began toting in mass amounts of fruits and vegetables… “For display?”
I was told to come back Saturday morning before 8a and to be dressed in my nice Senegalese cloths. I did this… all the way to the office I was harassed because of my dress. It’s semi normal to see a white person in my town. It’s not normal to see them dressed like Africans. Cat calls, derogatory slurs, and full body checks. Great start to my day. As if things could get better, when I got to the office people found the most impolite ways of ordering me around, do something for them in preparation. In typical Senegalese fashion, no one was prepared and everyone was running around printing last minute signs, setting up breakfast tables, and organizing food preparation.
The men sat around doing nothing, also typical, while the women did the heavy lifting, literally. After shuffling down stairs with a rather large heavy box, getting laughed at for my lack of grace, I couldn’t take it and spoke up. “You’re sitting only.” Yes. “This box is heavy, you should help me.” They laughed. I left the box sitting there. I figured if someone wanted to sit their ass down on that seat, then they can move it themselves. This is a fine example of typical lazy old man syndrome.
Anyway, things eventually got around to starting, once the caravan from Dakar arrived. Come to find out, our guests consisted of the entire mayor’s office of a city called Dalifort located just on the edge of Dakar. Newly separated from Dakar, this delegation was looking to Mboro to act as a sister to help them develop as a city; a twinning of the two cities, as they say in French. The event kicked off with introductions, photos, and prier. Followed was a tour of the mayor’s office and breakfast. At this point, only the top council to the mayor from my town stuck around. All the lazy old men left (thanks for nothing). Everyone else went on a tour of Mboro: see the different neighborhoods, the youth center, and the women’s group food transformation plant. I too ducked out of this, but only to head to other meetings I had scheduled for the day.
When I was available to join the party once more, I caught up with them at the country club lounge in the western neighborhood we have left over in town from the days of westerners running the factory. We’re talking air conditioning, white linens… the works. Apparently they’d split into groups to discuss the 3 different facets of the project proposal: health, education, and sports/culture (apparently this had nothing to do with women’s groups as I was originally told). I was starting to get the impression they had chosen these general areas at almost random (though they are important) as a method of developing committees to figure out how to work together.
When these sub committees had been formed, and topics discussed, we had lunch. This was done at my counterpart (according to Peace Corps)’s house also located in the same community. The food was amazing, yassa with mountains of vegetables and two whole chickens per bowl. I ate with our mayor, the mayor of Daliford, and two other men. There was so much food. Afterward we enjoyed pieces of cut fruit with cool lumpy sugar milk and guava juice. In an uncharacteristically Senegalese fashion, we did not sit around long after lunch- there was no siesta- but instead when back to the club room to continue meetings.
The afternoon session consisted of what started as a short summary of the committees’ progress given by one member from each team… but quickly turned into a debate. Anyone who wasn’t a part of the presenting committee had something to say about it. What was important, and what wasn’t. In the end, I’m fairly certain that this process took longer than the committees themselves had spent discussing their own topics. Interesting way of going about it, I suppose, but I can’t say I haven’t seen that in the corporate first world.
At some point, I was called aside and “dismissed.” We were wrapping up, I was told, and it wasn’t necessary for me to stay around anymore. What it ever necessary? And I thought to myself on the walk back to my own neighborhood that I don’t know how much was really going to be accomplished by this twinning of cities. By the end of the last discussion, everyone had seemed to come to the agreement that this year each city would continue its activities as normal; however the other city would be invited to attend and be privy to information concerning the management of those activities.
And this is how one describes a formal meeting to organize future formal meetings, or more concisely starting a project in Senegal.
I was originally told about an event involving women’s groups and food security projects. The 3rd counselor to the mayor told me about the event, as she is in charge of women’s groups in town. It was supposed to be the previous weekend, but somehow got pushed back to this one. Then I heard people were coming from Dakar. I was in the office when people began toting in mass amounts of fruits and vegetables… “For display?”
I was told to come back Saturday morning before 8a and to be dressed in my nice Senegalese cloths. I did this… all the way to the office I was harassed because of my dress. It’s semi normal to see a white person in my town. It’s not normal to see them dressed like Africans. Cat calls, derogatory slurs, and full body checks. Great start to my day. As if things could get better, when I got to the office people found the most impolite ways of ordering me around, do something for them in preparation. In typical Senegalese fashion, no one was prepared and everyone was running around printing last minute signs, setting up breakfast tables, and organizing food preparation.
The men sat around doing nothing, also typical, while the women did the heavy lifting, literally. After shuffling down stairs with a rather large heavy box, getting laughed at for my lack of grace, I couldn’t take it and spoke up. “You’re sitting only.” Yes. “This box is heavy, you should help me.” They laughed. I left the box sitting there. I figured if someone wanted to sit their ass down on that seat, then they can move it themselves. This is a fine example of typical lazy old man syndrome.
Anyway, things eventually got around to starting, once the caravan from Dakar arrived. Come to find out, our guests consisted of the entire mayor’s office of a city called Dalifort located just on the edge of Dakar. Newly separated from Dakar, this delegation was looking to Mboro to act as a sister to help them develop as a city; a twinning of the two cities, as they say in French. The event kicked off with introductions, photos, and prier. Followed was a tour of the mayor’s office and breakfast. At this point, only the top council to the mayor from my town stuck around. All the lazy old men left (thanks for nothing). Everyone else went on a tour of Mboro: see the different neighborhoods, the youth center, and the women’s group food transformation plant. I too ducked out of this, but only to head to other meetings I had scheduled for the day.
When I was available to join the party once more, I caught up with them at the country club lounge in the western neighborhood we have left over in town from the days of westerners running the factory. We’re talking air conditioning, white linens… the works. Apparently they’d split into groups to discuss the 3 different facets of the project proposal: health, education, and sports/culture (apparently this had nothing to do with women’s groups as I was originally told). I was starting to get the impression they had chosen these general areas at almost random (though they are important) as a method of developing committees to figure out how to work together.
When these sub committees had been formed, and topics discussed, we had lunch. This was done at my counterpart (according to Peace Corps)’s house also located in the same community. The food was amazing, yassa with mountains of vegetables and two whole chickens per bowl. I ate with our mayor, the mayor of Daliford, and two other men. There was so much food. Afterward we enjoyed pieces of cut fruit with cool lumpy sugar milk and guava juice. In an uncharacteristically Senegalese fashion, we did not sit around long after lunch- there was no siesta- but instead when back to the club room to continue meetings.
The afternoon session consisted of what started as a short summary of the committees’ progress given by one member from each team… but quickly turned into a debate. Anyone who wasn’t a part of the presenting committee had something to say about it. What was important, and what wasn’t. In the end, I’m fairly certain that this process took longer than the committees themselves had spent discussing their own topics. Interesting way of going about it, I suppose, but I can’t say I haven’t seen that in the corporate first world.
At some point, I was called aside and “dismissed.” We were wrapping up, I was told, and it wasn’t necessary for me to stay around anymore. What it ever necessary? And I thought to myself on the walk back to my own neighborhood that I don’t know how much was really going to be accomplished by this twinning of cities. By the end of the last discussion, everyone had seemed to come to the agreement that this year each city would continue its activities as normal; however the other city would be invited to attend and be privy to information concerning the management of those activities.
And this is how one describes a formal meeting to organize future formal meetings, or more concisely starting a project in Senegal.
Wednesday, May 12
Teaching in Senegal
I’ve begun teaching non-English related classes. It started with computer and software related ones, but more recently has transformed into larger scale business concepts. I’ve been doing this at the local NGO, Project Help (I believe I’ve mentioned them quite a few times already now…).
I was really nervous for the first class I taught: introduction to computers. Sounds pretty dumb looking back on it; I could’ve just spend the whole class answering questions and showing them how to use the mouse. Instead, I wanted to be professional and organize my thoughts. I created an outline to keep myself on topic, complete with fun computer facts and notes on things I could explain during practice exercises. I even went so far as to wear a dress shirt and my nice black pants (on a particularly hot day in the “cool” season). The class was fine, and the outline helpful. I was able to teach more than they thought they wanted to know. I was asked to continue teaching.
So I made it a habit to organize myself like this. I’ve taught a few more classes there, on using the internet and a series of Microsoft Word, with accompanying outlines. But no amount of planning can aid the problems I’ve had keeping class schedules and starting said classes on-time. It got to the point where I woke up early one Saturday morning, walked across town in my dress cloths, only to wait around for students that never came. Well, to be fair, the man who organized the class came in 15 minutes late, greeted me, and left without mentioning class or saying goodbye. Needless to say, I was a bit upset, and I took a break from teaching computer classes.
As of late, I organized a GERME (system for teaching business in Africa) class to serve as a pilot, after which we’d evaluate the possibility of creating a series of classes specially tailored for my town and taught by yours truly. I spent days working on the outline, which would cover two different GERME topics of “finding your business idea” and “creating your business,” taking the meaty portions and creating a kickass hybrid for budding entrepreneurs. When I finished I figured my class would take two whole days to teach, and that I probably shouldn’t go it alone. So I called in reinforcements, in the form of a Senegalese trainer for the Peace Corps who is well versed in GERME practices and owning successful businesses.
From there I was well advised to sit back and watch his methods. I sent him my outline, but he’d taught the class before and had his own ideas. He didn’t need my silly notes, though I’m mildly confident most of my topics were covered in the end. He spent more time on areas of interest I would’ve never thought important, and less on the ones I thought would be rather difficult to get across. He brought print outs… making me wish I had the budget to do so for each of my classes.
The students loved it. My trainer was so charismatic and entertaining. They sang Wolof songs at every break. And by the end I’d never seen Senegalese people so excited to continue this learning method. They scheduled a follow up meeting for the next business day. And then they didn’t show up for it.
I asked one of the coordinators what was going on, and they said maybe in July. I told one of my friends that the next time he asked me to a meeting, that he himself didn’t show up for, I would make him pay me cab fare for the trip across town and back. I have no lessons learned, judgments, or purpose to this story. I’m merely describing what I’ve been doing lately; how I fill my days and what it’s like teaching classes in Senegal.
Sunday, May 9
A Poor Volunteer
Understatement of the year: I’ve been slowly getting to know the people of my town. Learning about a Senegalese person can be as painstaking as peeling away the layers of an onion. It takes a while and you wish there was an easier way or that the onion would do the work itself and just show you the insides. Wait, that sounds weird, and I’m referring to the Senegalese and their individual personalities. I wish they could be as direct as Americans about who they are: values and morals, likes and dislikes. For as open as they are about religion and politics, it’s amazing that almost everything else is guarded precious information. Or maybe it’s just easier that most people are Muslim and dislike the current president… general consensus.
But that’s something to discuss later. This story is about a particular gentleman in town that I have to admit I know little about. Or at least that’s the impression I get after each encounter. I first met this man at a local non-profit organization in town called Projet Jappoo, which translated means Project Help, where I assumed he was an employee, a trainer/ educator to the people. And these people I admire, because they search out the needs of the community, and help implement the plans to fulfill the needs.
Every day I see this man, he is kind, happy, and pleasant. He asks about my day and genuinely seems to care; there is something different in his eyes when asks, like he fully expects the truth. He has not once asked if I am married, or looking, or attached. He doesn’t probe me with questions, but smiles at every passing.
Recently, I’ve been working on a scholarship program, in which every girl in the program wins the school fees for the next year, but one lucky girl wins money to buy school supplies. When I started the process, I met with the girls after school the first few times. I announced the program, and explained to them how special they were for being the top girls in their grade level. The next day, while hosting training at Projet Jappoo, this man approached me with the usual grin. He told me his daughter came home saying she was one of the winners. She was so happy, and the family was so proud of her. You could see it in his face that he hadn’t known this about his daughter and how proud of her he is.
The application process for the “grand prize” entails me to visit each girl’s home to meet the family and check out their level of financial need. I was initially concerned because I figured this girl wouldn’t need to win the money, what with her Dad having such a great job with the NGO. But her application says her Dad doesn’t work, and when asked about it he will say he’s a volunteer. Furthermore, when I went to the house I was blown away. The house is the evidence. It feels wrong to disclose everything that is lacking in comparison to my African home. To say the least, the door to the compound is a gap in sheet metal propped up as fencing. There was one piece of furniture that I saw, a wardrobe that housed everything from cloths to kitchen supplies. And while talking to the family I sat in a sparse room on a thin slice of foam padding with a prier mat laid on top. I genuinely believe this to be someone’s bed. I wanted to cry.
But this man was so happy. He was so proud that I had come to his home. Smiling non-stop, exited to tell me about his daughter. When I asked her the interview questions, he seemed genuinely interested in her answers. He told me at one point that he didn’t want to influence her answers, but want to make sure that I got to hear her opinion.
Let me stop right here. This in itself is a big deal. I feel like I’m living in a culture where children are not important. We believe them to be the future… which is why we have the whole “women and children first” mantra. But here, men are most important. They are more respected, smarter, stronger, and have the ability to earn more money. Children are viewed as workers who are stupid, and should be beaten if they don’t know the answer to something. They don’t have opinions.
So back to this man who wants to hear his daughter’s opinions… I’m still kind of in shock. After all my questions had been answered, I began to explain how I wanted to continue to work with the scholarship girls to help them plan their futures and realize there goals/ dreams. And that’s when this man started to tell me about an organization he’d formed.
He was divorced you see (something I’ve never heard of in Senegal- and generally get bizarre and confused looks when I say my parents have done this) and his former wife and son live Dakar. So he started an organization to help the young kids of the area who are in a similar position. In his words, he is saddened when parents are separated, and the kids live with the father and his other wives. When the other wives are the heads of household, and they don’t like the other woman’s kids, this can be very damaging for the abandoned kids, psychologically of course. He receives word of these children and finds ways to help them. I have no idea how (onion thing, maybe I’ll figure it out someday).
I told him that I was working with the Mayor’s office to organize other non-profits to help the people of Mboro who have great ideas, but no means to implement them. I invited him to stop by and discuss his project with my counterparts there. He continued to tell me about another group that is working to educate local farmers about the problems of using pesticides… and perhaps we can find a way to help with that as well. The most important thing he told me was his belief that everyone needs to open their hearts to new people and cultures. I told him I believed that every culture had its good and bad traits, and that I believe if we learn all the good things about as many cultures as possible the world would be a better place. He hadn’t thought about it like that before, but definitely agrees with me.
What is the point of all this? As I was walking home, I was thinking to myself about what an American would consider an outstanding citizen. My family tells me Peace Corps Volunteers make that list (though my personal jury is still out). Others might say its medical professionals that join programs like Doctors Without Borders. I would argue that anyone who does pro bono work (lawyers, doctors, teachers, etc) would make my list. If you volunteer your time, your life to helping people who really need it… then that should make you an outstanding citizen.
In the states we typically follow a pattern of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs… where it’s a safety and food first, then self fulfillment. And help ourselves before we can help others. But how big does that safety and food blanket need to be? If this were apples to apples, and Senegal also followed Maslow, then it needs to be said that the level of comfort is much higher in the states that I’ve found in Senegal. But I know different, the Senegalese are a socialist society in that they share everything when needed. Everyone needs to have safety and food before anyone can move on to self fulfillment… not that I have any idea how or what they would consider that to be.
So while an American might consider this man to be strange or worse- lazy, because he and his family are so blatantly poor, but isn’t it possible we could be wrong? The family is clearly getting by. They have food and shelter… and beyond that they have happiness. No, the father does not work to support the family (nor do I really know the circumstances behind this fact), but they are proud of the work he does to help their community. He is a volunteer by Senegalese standards, and a top notch citizen in my book.
But that’s something to discuss later. This story is about a particular gentleman in town that I have to admit I know little about. Or at least that’s the impression I get after each encounter. I first met this man at a local non-profit organization in town called Projet Jappoo, which translated means Project Help, where I assumed he was an employee, a trainer/ educator to the people. And these people I admire, because they search out the needs of the community, and help implement the plans to fulfill the needs.
Every day I see this man, he is kind, happy, and pleasant. He asks about my day and genuinely seems to care; there is something different in his eyes when asks, like he fully expects the truth. He has not once asked if I am married, or looking, or attached. He doesn’t probe me with questions, but smiles at every passing.
Recently, I’ve been working on a scholarship program, in which every girl in the program wins the school fees for the next year, but one lucky girl wins money to buy school supplies. When I started the process, I met with the girls after school the first few times. I announced the program, and explained to them how special they were for being the top girls in their grade level. The next day, while hosting training at Projet Jappoo, this man approached me with the usual grin. He told me his daughter came home saying she was one of the winners. She was so happy, and the family was so proud of her. You could see it in his face that he hadn’t known this about his daughter and how proud of her he is.
The application process for the “grand prize” entails me to visit each girl’s home to meet the family and check out their level of financial need. I was initially concerned because I figured this girl wouldn’t need to win the money, what with her Dad having such a great job with the NGO. But her application says her Dad doesn’t work, and when asked about it he will say he’s a volunteer. Furthermore, when I went to the house I was blown away. The house is the evidence. It feels wrong to disclose everything that is lacking in comparison to my African home. To say the least, the door to the compound is a gap in sheet metal propped up as fencing. There was one piece of furniture that I saw, a wardrobe that housed everything from cloths to kitchen supplies. And while talking to the family I sat in a sparse room on a thin slice of foam padding with a prier mat laid on top. I genuinely believe this to be someone’s bed. I wanted to cry.
But this man was so happy. He was so proud that I had come to his home. Smiling non-stop, exited to tell me about his daughter. When I asked her the interview questions, he seemed genuinely interested in her answers. He told me at one point that he didn’t want to influence her answers, but want to make sure that I got to hear her opinion.
Let me stop right here. This in itself is a big deal. I feel like I’m living in a culture where children are not important. We believe them to be the future… which is why we have the whole “women and children first” mantra. But here, men are most important. They are more respected, smarter, stronger, and have the ability to earn more money. Children are viewed as workers who are stupid, and should be beaten if they don’t know the answer to something. They don’t have opinions.
So back to this man who wants to hear his daughter’s opinions… I’m still kind of in shock. After all my questions had been answered, I began to explain how I wanted to continue to work with the scholarship girls to help them plan their futures and realize there goals/ dreams. And that’s when this man started to tell me about an organization he’d formed.
He was divorced you see (something I’ve never heard of in Senegal- and generally get bizarre and confused looks when I say my parents have done this) and his former wife and son live Dakar. So he started an organization to help the young kids of the area who are in a similar position. In his words, he is saddened when parents are separated, and the kids live with the father and his other wives. When the other wives are the heads of household, and they don’t like the other woman’s kids, this can be very damaging for the abandoned kids, psychologically of course. He receives word of these children and finds ways to help them. I have no idea how (onion thing, maybe I’ll figure it out someday).
I told him that I was working with the Mayor’s office to organize other non-profits to help the people of Mboro who have great ideas, but no means to implement them. I invited him to stop by and discuss his project with my counterparts there. He continued to tell me about another group that is working to educate local farmers about the problems of using pesticides… and perhaps we can find a way to help with that as well. The most important thing he told me was his belief that everyone needs to open their hearts to new people and cultures. I told him I believed that every culture had its good and bad traits, and that I believe if we learn all the good things about as many cultures as possible the world would be a better place. He hadn’t thought about it like that before, but definitely agrees with me.
What is the point of all this? As I was walking home, I was thinking to myself about what an American would consider an outstanding citizen. My family tells me Peace Corps Volunteers make that list (though my personal jury is still out). Others might say its medical professionals that join programs like Doctors Without Borders. I would argue that anyone who does pro bono work (lawyers, doctors, teachers, etc) would make my list. If you volunteer your time, your life to helping people who really need it… then that should make you an outstanding citizen.
In the states we typically follow a pattern of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs… where it’s a safety and food first, then self fulfillment. And help ourselves before we can help others. But how big does that safety and food blanket need to be? If this were apples to apples, and Senegal also followed Maslow, then it needs to be said that the level of comfort is much higher in the states that I’ve found in Senegal. But I know different, the Senegalese are a socialist society in that they share everything when needed. Everyone needs to have safety and food before anyone can move on to self fulfillment… not that I have any idea how or what they would consider that to be.
So while an American might consider this man to be strange or worse- lazy, because he and his family are so blatantly poor, but isn’t it possible we could be wrong? The family is clearly getting by. They have food and shelter… and beyond that they have happiness. No, the father does not work to support the family (nor do I really know the circumstances behind this fact), but they are proud of the work he does to help their community. He is a volunteer by Senegalese standards, and a top notch citizen in my book.
Wednesday, May 5
Party!
I finally hosted my first party in Africa. A number of things came together just so… and a good time was had by all.
Last year about this time, the volunteers in my area decided to spend a day walking from one volunteer’s site to Mboro, as the crow flies, and ending up on the beach. The trip is somewhere around 20 miles. A few guys participated and they celebrated with beers at the end. A number of people showed interest in repeating the activity… but wanted to have a bigger celebration party at the end of the line. The volunteer whose site serves as the kick off point for the march is celebrating a birthday this past weekend… so, many more volunteers were invited to the after party on the beach in honor of said birthday.
It was left to me to organize a house on the beach where we could have a great time, and spend the night. I told my Dad weeks in advance I’d need to do this, and he promised to help by talking to one of my predecessor’s friends (who knew someone who knew someone…). We were looking for a house that could sleep 15 and was reasonably priced. A week out Dad and I went to look at a house. It was a 3 bedroom, with living, kitchen, bonfire, rooftop, and pavilion areas… not to mention the western toilet and shower. Only problem was that they renter wanted a lot of money for the house, more so than one would pay in an actual resort town, and was claiming it was because of the cost of bringing water and power from town down to the beach. Hmm… begin purchasing negotiations.
That week ended with the impression that we had secured the house I’d seen for just over half the original asking price, and a deposit was paid to secure it. This week I was focused on putting on a 2 day long class in town, and wasn’t too worried about the house or organization. When 4 other volunteers showed up Friday morning for the 2nd day of class, I got more excited to show off my town. That afternoon we started the shopping for the Mexican salad we were to make for the party. Pounds and pounds of veggies were organized. Drinks were reserved, as well as ice sellers located.
Saturday my father was working the morning shift at the factory, but we called him to arrange a car to take us down to the beach early. That’s when mass confusion started to become apparent. Turns out we’d actually rented another house near the original one. This one didn’t have much in the way of kitchen supplies. Mom was gracious enough to let us raid our family kitchen for pots, pans, bowls, strainers, utensils, and even a cake pan. We secured lunchtime sandwiches, meat for dinner, ice, and 9 jugs of 10 liter filtered water before the driver was schedule to pick us up. However, when he arrived with possibly the smallest car in town, my mother was kind enough to negotiate 2 trips down to the beach for a decent price. The beer was loaded first, then I and 2 other girls, and some of the other supplies and away we went...
The driver had not been informed of where our house was. I directed him to the first house I’d seen, which was “next to” the new one. The guard at that house had no idea what was meant by “next to” and we began more mass confusion. We unloaded all our stuff into the sand, and the driver went back for the other girls and the rest of our supplies. I pulled up a chair with the guard and our food and ice while the girls I’d come down with went off to find our house. Unfortunately, when they got back they reported that our house had no water or electricity. Not acceptable. I called Dad in a panic (for probably the 5th time already that day) and asked him to call the first guy and see if we could have the house I’d originally seen and was currently sitting outside of (with all of our melting ice). At this point, we didn’t care if he was over charging us, and I just wanted my friends to have a good time. While waiting for him to get back to me, the second car load arrived, another renter appeared out of nowhere soliciting girls to check out his house, and two more volunteers arrived from elsewhere in Senegal to start partying. Our driver tried to demand more money claiming we had too much baggage… but wouldn’t be respectful enough to listen to my argument as to why I disagreed. So I told him to fuck off and refused to acknowledge him after that. He eventually left, and my not-so-finest moment passed. I continued to sit with the ice.
When Dad got off work he drove straight to us stranded foreigners on the beach. Some Wolof was thrown around, and Dad said he needed to go find the guy who could rent us the house we sat outside of, but in the mean time we could bring everything in and relax- he’d be right back. And he would work out changing the deposit around so that we wouldn’t lose it. After dragging everything in, beers were cracked and food preparation was started. That first beer went down so fast it was gone by the time Dad got back with more Senegalese guys in tow.
Sheets were dragged out of storage, the cooking gas was refilled, and money was organized for another trip made by Dad to town for supplies (more ice, more water, and gas to work the water pump). Dad would be back in a few hours. The 6 people who’d walked the 20 plus miles arrived in tact; dehydrated and tired but proud. Their walk had been successful. Salsa, guacamole, and tortilla chips were served. It was like heaven without the euchre. There was even birthday cake- which never technically made it off the oven rack (pulled out of the oven) before we devoured it hot with spoonfuls of melting icing. 3 other volunteers also arrived. A hookah was set up and enjoyed. We continued to party and cook food.
When Dad did come back he brought everything we’d asked for plus my Mom and 4 youngest brothers. I was really proud to show off my family as the boys carried all the supplies in from the car and my Mom became a social butterfly while Dad got the water pump running (does this sound anything like my childhood to anyone else???). But after introductions and chatting a bit, my family had to take off to continue with their own Saturday night plans.
The cooking continued. In what was the first and probably last time in my life that I hosted a party and had minimum, if not zero, contribution to the food. I was there when we bought it. I did offer to help, but the girls of the Thies region were on top of it all. It was incredibly relaxing; mostly because it means I wasn’t stressed, but also possibly because I don’t like Mexican food so that would have added to normal food preparation chaos. They did an amazing job of cooking beans and rice over a gas tank with one pot. They fried up ground beef and diced more veggies than I could imagine. They even bleached the lettuce so that we had an end result of the tastiest Mexican salad I’ve had in quite a long time. We all over ate and I give special thanks to the chefs.
Around dusk it became apparent that somehow the electricity wasn’t working. We called my Dad in a panic again (this may have been the 12th time already that day?). He and Mom came back out. We gave them food. My mom (who’d been interested in this so called Mexican food that was not the Chile my predecessor had made) was delighted and asked me to make it for the family another time. Then Dad once again focused on fixing our party to perfection. Turns out the solar panel that normally powered the house had not been set up to charge during the day as the house wasn’t scheduled to be rented… so it was empty. Batteries were found to power portable LED lights and something somewhere was jury rigged so that we could power the speakers for our music. I tried to stay out of the chaos while the importance of music was communicated to my family. My mom did mention later that usually they have drum circles at their parties on the beach… and that’s why they don’t have to bother with electricity and speakers of their own. Thanks, but we do it like crazy Americans. When all was right with the world, my parents took off for the last time (and yes, we stopped calling them). The dance party got started. And for the guys who didn’t enjoy that, we brought in an incredibly large communal table for beer pong.
And if that weren’t enough, at some point we decided it was time for a dip in the ocean. I threw on my bathing suit and headed for the beach. There wasn’t a moon in sight and the trudge through the sand wasn’t easy in the near total darkness, but as we hiked within in eye sight of the ocean all we needed to see became apparent. Each wave rolling in seemed to be radiating white light. Then as it crashed into the shore the light would spread across the sand in the most hypnotic way until it faded moments later. The ocean was literally glowing! Someone who enjoys biology would tell you that it was bio-luminescent microbes or something like that, but none of that mattered. The water was somewhere between just cool enough to be refreshing and warm. And each wave splashed us with tiny twinkling lights like nothing I’ve ever seen before. After falling down in the waves too many times I stood for a few extra minutes on the shore just staring, but eventually it was time to get back to the party.
And that’s when flip cup started… and shortly after that we ran out of beer. Although we did try to solicit the house guard to buy us some more from the neighbors, he came back with only a liter of soda. Hmm. It didn’t matter; we were sufficiently happy and entertained. I stayed up dancing and talking to fellow volunteers a bit longer before passing out sometime around 2am.
The next day I was in a bad place. A cold plus a hangover equals a totally useless member of the cleaning crew. Luckily I seemed to be the worst of it… even the walkers were doing better than me. Maybe they’d paid more attention to hydration. In any case, the house got put back together and volunteers began to trickle out. My Dad came and drove the rest of them to the garage… then came back for Christine, Chris, myself, the pots and pans, and the rest of the water we didn’t drink. We left the empty bottles there and Dad (amazing miracle worker that he is) arranged for a car to go back, load up the bottles, and return them to the boutique by the house.
I can’t wait to have another party as even though at times it felt like a disaster and I couldn’t apologize enough, it was a great experience. One made all that much better by the support I didn’t know I had from my African family. I hadn’t realized just how a part of the family I’d become until I needed them. And they were there.
Last year about this time, the volunteers in my area decided to spend a day walking from one volunteer’s site to Mboro, as the crow flies, and ending up on the beach. The trip is somewhere around 20 miles. A few guys participated and they celebrated with beers at the end. A number of people showed interest in repeating the activity… but wanted to have a bigger celebration party at the end of the line. The volunteer whose site serves as the kick off point for the march is celebrating a birthday this past weekend… so, many more volunteers were invited to the after party on the beach in honor of said birthday.
It was left to me to organize a house on the beach where we could have a great time, and spend the night. I told my Dad weeks in advance I’d need to do this, and he promised to help by talking to one of my predecessor’s friends (who knew someone who knew someone…). We were looking for a house that could sleep 15 and was reasonably priced. A week out Dad and I went to look at a house. It was a 3 bedroom, with living, kitchen, bonfire, rooftop, and pavilion areas… not to mention the western toilet and shower. Only problem was that they renter wanted a lot of money for the house, more so than one would pay in an actual resort town, and was claiming it was because of the cost of bringing water and power from town down to the beach. Hmm… begin purchasing negotiations.
That week ended with the impression that we had secured the house I’d seen for just over half the original asking price, and a deposit was paid to secure it. This week I was focused on putting on a 2 day long class in town, and wasn’t too worried about the house or organization. When 4 other volunteers showed up Friday morning for the 2nd day of class, I got more excited to show off my town. That afternoon we started the shopping for the Mexican salad we were to make for the party. Pounds and pounds of veggies were organized. Drinks were reserved, as well as ice sellers located.
Saturday my father was working the morning shift at the factory, but we called him to arrange a car to take us down to the beach early. That’s when mass confusion started to become apparent. Turns out we’d actually rented another house near the original one. This one didn’t have much in the way of kitchen supplies. Mom was gracious enough to let us raid our family kitchen for pots, pans, bowls, strainers, utensils, and even a cake pan. We secured lunchtime sandwiches, meat for dinner, ice, and 9 jugs of 10 liter filtered water before the driver was schedule to pick us up. However, when he arrived with possibly the smallest car in town, my mother was kind enough to negotiate 2 trips down to the beach for a decent price. The beer was loaded first, then I and 2 other girls, and some of the other supplies and away we went...
The driver had not been informed of where our house was. I directed him to the first house I’d seen, which was “next to” the new one. The guard at that house had no idea what was meant by “next to” and we began more mass confusion. We unloaded all our stuff into the sand, and the driver went back for the other girls and the rest of our supplies. I pulled up a chair with the guard and our food and ice while the girls I’d come down with went off to find our house. Unfortunately, when they got back they reported that our house had no water or electricity. Not acceptable. I called Dad in a panic (for probably the 5th time already that day) and asked him to call the first guy and see if we could have the house I’d originally seen and was currently sitting outside of (with all of our melting ice). At this point, we didn’t care if he was over charging us, and I just wanted my friends to have a good time. While waiting for him to get back to me, the second car load arrived, another renter appeared out of nowhere soliciting girls to check out his house, and two more volunteers arrived from elsewhere in Senegal to start partying. Our driver tried to demand more money claiming we had too much baggage… but wouldn’t be respectful enough to listen to my argument as to why I disagreed. So I told him to fuck off and refused to acknowledge him after that. He eventually left, and my not-so-finest moment passed. I continued to sit with the ice.
When Dad got off work he drove straight to us stranded foreigners on the beach. Some Wolof was thrown around, and Dad said he needed to go find the guy who could rent us the house we sat outside of, but in the mean time we could bring everything in and relax- he’d be right back. And he would work out changing the deposit around so that we wouldn’t lose it. After dragging everything in, beers were cracked and food preparation was started. That first beer went down so fast it was gone by the time Dad got back with more Senegalese guys in tow.
Sheets were dragged out of storage, the cooking gas was refilled, and money was organized for another trip made by Dad to town for supplies (more ice, more water, and gas to work the water pump). Dad would be back in a few hours. The 6 people who’d walked the 20 plus miles arrived in tact; dehydrated and tired but proud. Their walk had been successful. Salsa, guacamole, and tortilla chips were served. It was like heaven without the euchre. There was even birthday cake- which never technically made it off the oven rack (pulled out of the oven) before we devoured it hot with spoonfuls of melting icing. 3 other volunteers also arrived. A hookah was set up and enjoyed. We continued to party and cook food.
When Dad did come back he brought everything we’d asked for plus my Mom and 4 youngest brothers. I was really proud to show off my family as the boys carried all the supplies in from the car and my Mom became a social butterfly while Dad got the water pump running (does this sound anything like my childhood to anyone else???). But after introductions and chatting a bit, my family had to take off to continue with their own Saturday night plans.
The cooking continued. In what was the first and probably last time in my life that I hosted a party and had minimum, if not zero, contribution to the food. I was there when we bought it. I did offer to help, but the girls of the Thies region were on top of it all. It was incredibly relaxing; mostly because it means I wasn’t stressed, but also possibly because I don’t like Mexican food so that would have added to normal food preparation chaos. They did an amazing job of cooking beans and rice over a gas tank with one pot. They fried up ground beef and diced more veggies than I could imagine. They even bleached the lettuce so that we had an end result of the tastiest Mexican salad I’ve had in quite a long time. We all over ate and I give special thanks to the chefs.
Around dusk it became apparent that somehow the electricity wasn’t working. We called my Dad in a panic again (this may have been the 12th time already that day?). He and Mom came back out. We gave them food. My mom (who’d been interested in this so called Mexican food that was not the Chile my predecessor had made) was delighted and asked me to make it for the family another time. Then Dad once again focused on fixing our party to perfection. Turns out the solar panel that normally powered the house had not been set up to charge during the day as the house wasn’t scheduled to be rented… so it was empty. Batteries were found to power portable LED lights and something somewhere was jury rigged so that we could power the speakers for our music. I tried to stay out of the chaos while the importance of music was communicated to my family. My mom did mention later that usually they have drum circles at their parties on the beach… and that’s why they don’t have to bother with electricity and speakers of their own. Thanks, but we do it like crazy Americans. When all was right with the world, my parents took off for the last time (and yes, we stopped calling them). The dance party got started. And for the guys who didn’t enjoy that, we brought in an incredibly large communal table for beer pong.
And if that weren’t enough, at some point we decided it was time for a dip in the ocean. I threw on my bathing suit and headed for the beach. There wasn’t a moon in sight and the trudge through the sand wasn’t easy in the near total darkness, but as we hiked within in eye sight of the ocean all we needed to see became apparent. Each wave rolling in seemed to be radiating white light. Then as it crashed into the shore the light would spread across the sand in the most hypnotic way until it faded moments later. The ocean was literally glowing! Someone who enjoys biology would tell you that it was bio-luminescent microbes or something like that, but none of that mattered. The water was somewhere between just cool enough to be refreshing and warm. And each wave splashed us with tiny twinkling lights like nothing I’ve ever seen before. After falling down in the waves too many times I stood for a few extra minutes on the shore just staring, but eventually it was time to get back to the party.
And that’s when flip cup started… and shortly after that we ran out of beer. Although we did try to solicit the house guard to buy us some more from the neighbors, he came back with only a liter of soda. Hmm. It didn’t matter; we were sufficiently happy and entertained. I stayed up dancing and talking to fellow volunteers a bit longer before passing out sometime around 2am.
The next day I was in a bad place. A cold plus a hangover equals a totally useless member of the cleaning crew. Luckily I seemed to be the worst of it… even the walkers were doing better than me. Maybe they’d paid more attention to hydration. In any case, the house got put back together and volunteers began to trickle out. My Dad came and drove the rest of them to the garage… then came back for Christine, Chris, myself, the pots and pans, and the rest of the water we didn’t drink. We left the empty bottles there and Dad (amazing miracle worker that he is) arranged for a car to go back, load up the bottles, and return them to the boutique by the house.
I can’t wait to have another party as even though at times it felt like a disaster and I couldn’t apologize enough, it was a great experience. One made all that much better by the support I didn’t know I had from my African family. I hadn’t realized just how a part of the family I’d become until I needed them. And they were there.
Sunday, May 2
Purchasing Power
For all my fellow purchasing peoples, I submit the cost of various items in Senegal, based on current exchange rate of 491 CFA (XOF for currency watchers) per 1 USD. I’m open to further requests if you have interest in other prices, just leave a comment.
FOOD:
• Bananas 1,000 CFA for a kilo (6 bananas) $2.04
• Olive Oil 4,375 CFA for 34 fl oz $8.91
• Can of Coke 350 CFA for a 12 oz can $0.71
• Beer 600 CFA for 67cl $1.22
• Ground Beef 1,500 CFA for a tube like you’d get in the US $3.05
• Onions 400 CFA for a kilo $0.81
• Tomatoes 400 CFA for a kilo $0.81
• Green Pepper 100 CFA for a kilo $0.20
CLOTHING
• Guess Jeans 79,000 CFA a pair $160.90
• Leather bracelet 500 CFA for a small women’s $1.02
• Cheap Flip Flops 500 CFA for a pair $1.02
• New Skirt 3,800 for a knee length simple skirt with pockets; tailor made $7.74
• Senegalese Fabric 1,000 for 2 meters (commissions pants, skirt, or simple sundress) $2.04
TOILETRIES/ MEDS
• Toilet Paper 910 CFA for 4 rolls $1.85
• French Penicillin 5,600 CFA for 3 days of pills $11.41
• Contact Solution 7,000 CFA for a large bottle $14.26
• Condom 50 CFA $0.10
• Toothpaste 1,000 CFA for a tube $2.04
• Shampoo 1,200 CFA for 17.6 fl oz $2.44
TRAVEL/ VACATION
• Cab Ride 100 CFA from any point in town to another along one road $0.20
• Rental House on Beach 35,000 CFA per night $71.28
• Overnight Bus 10,000 CFA from Dakar to Kedegou (farthest city); over 700km. $20.37
• Sept Place to Dakar 1,900 CFA Mboro to Dakar $3.87
FOOD:
• Bananas 1,000 CFA for a kilo (6 bananas) $2.04
• Olive Oil 4,375 CFA for 34 fl oz $8.91
• Can of Coke 350 CFA for a 12 oz can $0.71
• Beer 600 CFA for 67cl $1.22
• Ground Beef 1,500 CFA for a tube like you’d get in the US $3.05
• Onions 400 CFA for a kilo $0.81
• Tomatoes 400 CFA for a kilo $0.81
• Green Pepper 100 CFA for a kilo $0.20
CLOTHING
• Guess Jeans 79,000 CFA a pair $160.90
• Leather bracelet 500 CFA for a small women’s $1.02
• Cheap Flip Flops 500 CFA for a pair $1.02
• New Skirt 3,800 for a knee length simple skirt with pockets; tailor made $7.74
• Senegalese Fabric 1,000 for 2 meters (commissions pants, skirt, or simple sundress) $2.04
TOILETRIES/ MEDS
• Toilet Paper 910 CFA for 4 rolls $1.85
• French Penicillin 5,600 CFA for 3 days of pills $11.41
• Contact Solution 7,000 CFA for a large bottle $14.26
• Condom 50 CFA $0.10
• Toothpaste 1,000 CFA for a tube $2.04
• Shampoo 1,200 CFA for 17.6 fl oz $2.44
TRAVEL/ VACATION
• Cab Ride 100 CFA from any point in town to another along one road $0.20
• Rental House on Beach 35,000 CFA per night $71.28
• Overnight Bus 10,000 CFA from Dakar to Kedegou (farthest city); over 700km. $20.37
• Sept Place to Dakar 1,900 CFA Mboro to Dakar $3.87
Wednesday, April 28
Weight Loss
Shall I dare talk about the elephant in the room? Or rather the elephant that has left the building. Yes, I speak of my weight loss. If you’re a volunteer in country it’s about to get awkwardly personal. As for my friends and family, it’s never hard to admit flaws, but I hope it’ll be easier now that I’m doing better. So here goes…
Let’s call a spade a spade; before I came to Senegal I was overweight and disgusted with myself. A part of me knew I would have the opportunity to change my eating habits and revamp my nutritional intake. I go so far as to admit it’s one of the many reasons I came, though I never did at the time. In the end it wasn’t all too significant- just part of the pros. I went so far as to pack away a few sets of cloths in various sizes in anticipation of my return, and donated the rest to charity. There exist pictures of me from a shower and wedding I went to last July, and even at my best I felt horribly ugly on the outside.
Though, since this is full disclosure, from the moment I landed in Africa, weight has been one of the last things on my mind. Adjusting to heat, bugs, language, culture, and new types of food… all of it was very distracting to say the least. After a month it occurred to me that some of my pants were a bit loose. Two months in I confirmed having lost 20 pounds.
It was a combination of a lot of things, I’m sure. I had so many cases of diarrhea in the beginning it became a joke with my host family. It got to a point where I would run out mid sentence, come back to finish the sentence and keep going with the conversation- not even bothering to explain where I’d run off to. I spent a whole week in bed with a flu (vomiting and diarrhea), plus a head cold (serious congestion), and creeping eruption (worm infection under the skin that made my foot itch like no other). I lived on oral rehydration salts, bread and beans, and fruit that week.
Then there’s my battle with the fish. It became painfully apparent that I would have to come up with a better solution to my total aversion to fish. Every time we ate it, I threw it up. The taste alone started to make me gag- even if it was just eating rice and veggies prepared or sitting in the same bowl. I never ate fish in the States for this same reason, but I swear it’s more pungent here. When training was over I self diagnosed myself allergic and told my permanent host family I would make a separate meal for myself whenever the family was having dishes with fish. These days I’ll eat a salad, egg sandwiches, soup, millet porridge, or pasta when fish is on the menu. And yeah, I’m kind of a disgrace to other volunteers because I live in a coastal town that is very abundant with fish. Get over it.
Of course, there’s a whole other side to this story. The food itself wasn’t appetizing in the beginning. While I almost cried the first night we had pasta (not thinking it existed here- evidence of my naivety), I was confused by everything else. Onions are literally a part of every dish except millet porridges; they were driving me nuts. Meat is cut so as to include the fatty bits (for flavor?) and I thus I didn’t eat much of it either. Veggies and meat in general are fairly expensive compared to rice, pasta, and millet so there are typically only one or two carrots, potatoes, okra, or bitter tomatoes to be shared amongst the family. Sauces are colors I’d never imagined sauce could be, and made of leaves I didn’t think one could eat. And when you take all that away, you’re left with rice. Honestly, I got bored of rice… and it didn’t seem to fill me either.
There’s a small factor of timing of meals. Breakfast is early, 7a. Lunch is later than I was used to… at 2p. This being right in the heat of the day, it’s still hard sometimes to work up an appetite in the cool season. So you can imagine the difficulty back in the hot rainy season. Dinner is at 10p or later. Most days I nearly fall asleep waiting for it. It’s hard to eat when you’re half asleep because you have no energy because you hardly eat. Confusing, no?
Lastly, a few words should be given to the endless walking that became necessary to get around in Senegal. If walking in the heat were easy, adding the ever changing sandy terrain made it a bit more difficult. Admittedly, I feel constantly dehydrated, but that can’t have had too much of an impact after the first week. So you see, portion control, lack of processed foods, change in food substance, illness, meal timing, and walking all contributed to the weight loss program that is Peace Corps (eat that, Jenny Craig!).
In the beginning losing a lot of weight (and somewhat quickly) was a cultural problem. My host family during training, under traditional customs, was embarrassed, even ashamed, that their guest was losing weight. It was a sign that I was not being treated properly nor given enough food as the guest. They would try to force me to finish whatever was left in a bowl. And what’s worse, to continue to eat after throwing up… even if it made me do it again. I kept trying to explain that I was happy to lose weight, and that it was a good thing in my culture, something I needed, but in a place where large women are traditionally seen as beautiful my explanation was lost anyone listening. I felt like a failure both in the states, and now in Senegal. Awesome. They eventually started to come around. Especially when I told them how happy my Dad was, and even went so far as to say ‘thank you’ to them on his behalf.
These days things aren’t as dramatic as in the beginning. In the last 6 months I’ve lost another 30 pounds. I know it seems like a lot, but trust me I had it too loose… and probably still more if I work at it. I eat because I have to or its time, not because I’m excited about meals like I used to be in the States. Admittedly though, I’ve started to enjoy the food. Onions no longer annoy me. There are meals I love and can’t wait to eat when I see them being prepared. There are others I don’t care for, but I’m eating more and more of them each time. I also enjoy that none of the cloths I brought here fit anymore. I still wear the shirts, but I have had to import or purchase/ produce everything from the waist down… because the old stuff was falling off, literally. And who doesn’t love a slimmer shape? In fact, my host brother saw those pictures from last July not too long ago and was astonished that it was even me. He told me how good I looked now, and even gave me a hug and words of congratulations. That’s kind of a big deal in a country lacking PDA and words of encouragement (disapproval is much more prevalent).
I don’t know if my problem was what I was eating, or how much of it I was eating… but I’m changing those habits every day here. I’d like to tell you I’ve noticed how much more energy I have, or how great I feel, or how I don’t get short of breath after long walks… but in truth none of that has changed from State side. I’m fairly certain it’s the lack of proper nutrients and climate. I’m getting enough nutrients to survive and I’m generally used to the climate, but it’s not a perfect world. Some days I wonder if I’ll ever be 100% here. And then I push those thoughts out and enjoy the ride that I’m on now. A slimmer, healthier person is only one aspect of the better person I hope to be by the end of my service.
Let’s call a spade a spade; before I came to Senegal I was overweight and disgusted with myself. A part of me knew I would have the opportunity to change my eating habits and revamp my nutritional intake. I go so far as to admit it’s one of the many reasons I came, though I never did at the time. In the end it wasn’t all too significant- just part of the pros. I went so far as to pack away a few sets of cloths in various sizes in anticipation of my return, and donated the rest to charity. There exist pictures of me from a shower and wedding I went to last July, and even at my best I felt horribly ugly on the outside.
Though, since this is full disclosure, from the moment I landed in Africa, weight has been one of the last things on my mind. Adjusting to heat, bugs, language, culture, and new types of food… all of it was very distracting to say the least. After a month it occurred to me that some of my pants were a bit loose. Two months in I confirmed having lost 20 pounds.
It was a combination of a lot of things, I’m sure. I had so many cases of diarrhea in the beginning it became a joke with my host family. It got to a point where I would run out mid sentence, come back to finish the sentence and keep going with the conversation- not even bothering to explain where I’d run off to. I spent a whole week in bed with a flu (vomiting and diarrhea), plus a head cold (serious congestion), and creeping eruption (worm infection under the skin that made my foot itch like no other). I lived on oral rehydration salts, bread and beans, and fruit that week.
Then there’s my battle with the fish. It became painfully apparent that I would have to come up with a better solution to my total aversion to fish. Every time we ate it, I threw it up. The taste alone started to make me gag- even if it was just eating rice and veggies prepared or sitting in the same bowl. I never ate fish in the States for this same reason, but I swear it’s more pungent here. When training was over I self diagnosed myself allergic and told my permanent host family I would make a separate meal for myself whenever the family was having dishes with fish. These days I’ll eat a salad, egg sandwiches, soup, millet porridge, or pasta when fish is on the menu. And yeah, I’m kind of a disgrace to other volunteers because I live in a coastal town that is very abundant with fish. Get over it.
Of course, there’s a whole other side to this story. The food itself wasn’t appetizing in the beginning. While I almost cried the first night we had pasta (not thinking it existed here- evidence of my naivety), I was confused by everything else. Onions are literally a part of every dish except millet porridges; they were driving me nuts. Meat is cut so as to include the fatty bits (for flavor?) and I thus I didn’t eat much of it either. Veggies and meat in general are fairly expensive compared to rice, pasta, and millet so there are typically only one or two carrots, potatoes, okra, or bitter tomatoes to be shared amongst the family. Sauces are colors I’d never imagined sauce could be, and made of leaves I didn’t think one could eat. And when you take all that away, you’re left with rice. Honestly, I got bored of rice… and it didn’t seem to fill me either.
There’s a small factor of timing of meals. Breakfast is early, 7a. Lunch is later than I was used to… at 2p. This being right in the heat of the day, it’s still hard sometimes to work up an appetite in the cool season. So you can imagine the difficulty back in the hot rainy season. Dinner is at 10p or later. Most days I nearly fall asleep waiting for it. It’s hard to eat when you’re half asleep because you have no energy because you hardly eat. Confusing, no?
Lastly, a few words should be given to the endless walking that became necessary to get around in Senegal. If walking in the heat were easy, adding the ever changing sandy terrain made it a bit more difficult. Admittedly, I feel constantly dehydrated, but that can’t have had too much of an impact after the first week. So you see, portion control, lack of processed foods, change in food substance, illness, meal timing, and walking all contributed to the weight loss program that is Peace Corps (eat that, Jenny Craig!).
In the beginning losing a lot of weight (and somewhat quickly) was a cultural problem. My host family during training, under traditional customs, was embarrassed, even ashamed, that their guest was losing weight. It was a sign that I was not being treated properly nor given enough food as the guest. They would try to force me to finish whatever was left in a bowl. And what’s worse, to continue to eat after throwing up… even if it made me do it again. I kept trying to explain that I was happy to lose weight, and that it was a good thing in my culture, something I needed, but in a place where large women are traditionally seen as beautiful my explanation was lost anyone listening. I felt like a failure both in the states, and now in Senegal. Awesome. They eventually started to come around. Especially when I told them how happy my Dad was, and even went so far as to say ‘thank you’ to them on his behalf.
These days things aren’t as dramatic as in the beginning. In the last 6 months I’ve lost another 30 pounds. I know it seems like a lot, but trust me I had it too loose… and probably still more if I work at it. I eat because I have to or its time, not because I’m excited about meals like I used to be in the States. Admittedly though, I’ve started to enjoy the food. Onions no longer annoy me. There are meals I love and can’t wait to eat when I see them being prepared. There are others I don’t care for, but I’m eating more and more of them each time. I also enjoy that none of the cloths I brought here fit anymore. I still wear the shirts, but I have had to import or purchase/ produce everything from the waist down… because the old stuff was falling off, literally. And who doesn’t love a slimmer shape? In fact, my host brother saw those pictures from last July not too long ago and was astonished that it was even me. He told me how good I looked now, and even gave me a hug and words of congratulations. That’s kind of a big deal in a country lacking PDA and words of encouragement (disapproval is much more prevalent).
I don’t know if my problem was what I was eating, or how much of it I was eating… but I’m changing those habits every day here. I’d like to tell you I’ve noticed how much more energy I have, or how great I feel, or how I don’t get short of breath after long walks… but in truth none of that has changed from State side. I’m fairly certain it’s the lack of proper nutrients and climate. I’m getting enough nutrients to survive and I’m generally used to the climate, but it’s not a perfect world. Some days I wonder if I’ll ever be 100% here. And then I push those thoughts out and enjoy the ride that I’m on now. A slimmer, healthier person is only one aspect of the better person I hope to be by the end of my service.
Sunday, April 25
Sustainable
In a few of the towns surrounding mine, there has been a lot of development work with exporting artisan products to the States and Europe. Grass baskets of all shapes, sizes and colors, jewelry, kitchen décor, leather products… the list seems to grow every day. And people in the states seem to be more and more aware. Wolof baskets are featured in Elle Décor Magazine and sold in Pier One. Purses are for sale in Banana Republic.
It wasn’t always this glorious though, and I will attempt to tell the story of the baskets in my area. Back in the day, woman from villages brought their baskets to the weekly market and competed against each other for minuscule sales at prices that were often below the cost to produce. Volunteers started by talking to the women about basic costing and pricing concepts… attempting to illustrate the losses they were incurring through their undercutting of the competition. There was talk of organizing the sellers, encouraging them to band together against buyers and hold a fixed market price.
A few years back, by chance, one travelling volunteer came across another expat who happened to be in the import business and looking for new endeavors in Western Africa. Baskets produced in the northern region of Thies came into play. And order was placed. The order was too large for any small group of village women, so it was decided that the multiple villages would need to be utilized to fill the order. And so it became apparent that a coalition was needed. Women from surrounding villages could join by paying a small fee. In return they would receive a membership card, a small portion of the order requirements, and guaranteed fair wages per basket produced (which coincidentally were higher than anything they could hope to be paid in the traditional market, and yet somehow lower than the rest of the world’s prices).
Volunteers came in to play once again when the management of basket production. Daily visits to the villages we made to explain and demonstrate quality control practices. Material purchase advances had to be made, and the volunteers went door to door to distribute the funds. Logistics had to be coordinated to get the baskets from each village to the port in Dakar. Peace Corps Volunteers took on the tasks of organizing donkey carts, warehousing, and trucking. The first order was filled; an apparent success stateside. Another order would be placed months later.
Peace Corps strives to promote and assist in projects demonstrating sustainability. Help the people help themselves. Granted this can’t always be done from the get go… so the first order was managed more under the guise of “get it done” and hope for the best; the best being a continuous flow of follow up orders. In the orders that followed, volunteers strove to teach still more business practices such as inventory control, scheduling, and price negotiations. But in the end, the ultimate Peace Corps goal is to remove the volunteer from the picture entirely. With this in mind, the importing agency developed working relations with the local English speaking Senegalese community members; in the hopes that they could perform the functions of the Peace Corps Volunteers.
Good things have come out of these few small orders: increased income and standard of living for whole villages involved, competition becoming comrades, and increased business savvy. And now, orders are starting to pick up dramatically. There’s talk that Cost Co wants to buy. While exciting news, I can’t help but wonder. This type of order is way beyond current production levels, meaning more villages would need to sign on to the alliance, as well as trained in the business practices. Increased staffing needs would mean the Peace Corps would probably have to help, instead of exiting the project. And then what happens when Elle Décor Magazine comes out with a different product du jour, and Wolof grass baskets become the new (or should I say washed out trend of) wicker? What will happen to those families in rural villages of West Africa who depended on that steady income?
The original importer in question came to speak to my training class. One of her messages was that in order for the villagers to survive the fickle Western consumer’s change of winds, they would need to be able to change their product to follow the trend. But I ask you this, do you currently own something made of wicker? I don’t have any of the answers, or even one possible suggestion. I don’t work on the project now, but if called to I would certainly come forward; I would teach the principles of product change and adaptation. But I’m not entirely sure I like the taste of this Kool Aid.
It wasn’t always this glorious though, and I will attempt to tell the story of the baskets in my area. Back in the day, woman from villages brought their baskets to the weekly market and competed against each other for minuscule sales at prices that were often below the cost to produce. Volunteers started by talking to the women about basic costing and pricing concepts… attempting to illustrate the losses they were incurring through their undercutting of the competition. There was talk of organizing the sellers, encouraging them to band together against buyers and hold a fixed market price.
A few years back, by chance, one travelling volunteer came across another expat who happened to be in the import business and looking for new endeavors in Western Africa. Baskets produced in the northern region of Thies came into play. And order was placed. The order was too large for any small group of village women, so it was decided that the multiple villages would need to be utilized to fill the order. And so it became apparent that a coalition was needed. Women from surrounding villages could join by paying a small fee. In return they would receive a membership card, a small portion of the order requirements, and guaranteed fair wages per basket produced (which coincidentally were higher than anything they could hope to be paid in the traditional market, and yet somehow lower than the rest of the world’s prices).
Volunteers came in to play once again when the management of basket production. Daily visits to the villages we made to explain and demonstrate quality control practices. Material purchase advances had to be made, and the volunteers went door to door to distribute the funds. Logistics had to be coordinated to get the baskets from each village to the port in Dakar. Peace Corps Volunteers took on the tasks of organizing donkey carts, warehousing, and trucking. The first order was filled; an apparent success stateside. Another order would be placed months later.
Peace Corps strives to promote and assist in projects demonstrating sustainability. Help the people help themselves. Granted this can’t always be done from the get go… so the first order was managed more under the guise of “get it done” and hope for the best; the best being a continuous flow of follow up orders. In the orders that followed, volunteers strove to teach still more business practices such as inventory control, scheduling, and price negotiations. But in the end, the ultimate Peace Corps goal is to remove the volunteer from the picture entirely. With this in mind, the importing agency developed working relations with the local English speaking Senegalese community members; in the hopes that they could perform the functions of the Peace Corps Volunteers.
Good things have come out of these few small orders: increased income and standard of living for whole villages involved, competition becoming comrades, and increased business savvy. And now, orders are starting to pick up dramatically. There’s talk that Cost Co wants to buy. While exciting news, I can’t help but wonder. This type of order is way beyond current production levels, meaning more villages would need to sign on to the alliance, as well as trained in the business practices. Increased staffing needs would mean the Peace Corps would probably have to help, instead of exiting the project. And then what happens when Elle Décor Magazine comes out with a different product du jour, and Wolof grass baskets become the new (or should I say washed out trend of) wicker? What will happen to those families in rural villages of West Africa who depended on that steady income?
The original importer in question came to speak to my training class. One of her messages was that in order for the villagers to survive the fickle Western consumer’s change of winds, they would need to be able to change their product to follow the trend. But I ask you this, do you currently own something made of wicker? I don’t have any of the answers, or even one possible suggestion. I don’t work on the project now, but if called to I would certainly come forward; I would teach the principles of product change and adaptation. But I’m not entirely sure I like the taste of this Kool Aid.
Wednesday, April 21
25 More Random African Things.
1) Poop is Wolof for poop.
2) The packaging of powdered milk advertises that it is fat filled… and it’s a good thing.
3) Stop signs are red and white, octagonal, and say "STOP." This took me months to realize as they hardly exist anywhere. I’ve either seen three of them… or seen the same one three times, it’s unclear.
4) The first American company I saw in Senegal was Shell Gasoline, followed by Hertz Rent-A-Car, Aldo, Guess, Diesel and Curves. Rumors have circulated about an Apple store, but it remains to be seen.
5) Male PC Volunteers have starting wearing head bands. I’m worried.
6) In the US, traffic jams prevent you from getting to work on time. In West Africa, stopping to greet friends and neighbors has the same effect: mandatory and time consuming.
7) On any given day, I can see any one of the following animal body parts in various states of decomposition in the street: chicken head, leg of sheep, squished frog, fish guts, unknown animal jaw, and the list goes on…
8) One of the goals of the current Mayor's administration is to put public restrooms in our town's market area. Others include: rainfall drainage infrastructure, new school classrooms, annexing the distance from town to the beach as part of Mboro, and city wide trash management program.
9) If I have an extreme case of diarrhea it’s perfectly acceptable, neigh welcome, to run to the nearest house and ask for the squat toilet. But they’ll probably ask you to stay for a meal and tea.
10) Peace Corps Volunteers have been in Senegal since 1963, this year we will double the number of volunteers in country to total over 300.
11) The Catholic community in Mboro is hard core and fasts all day long during Lent. It’s a cultural thing I’m sure, to give them street credit with all the Muslims that fast during Ramadan (which is only about 30 days). They also give up a bad habit and don’t eat meat on Fridays. Some “extremists” don’t eat meat on any Friday, Lent or no.
12) Senegal may be a 3rd world country, with poverty meaning anyone NOT making at least $1 a day, but that doesn’t stop its people from holding numerous fundraisers to send money to Haiti.
13) There is a rap song that when translated has a title of “On the Head of My Mom.” Hmm.
14) It’s a good thing Akon came out to Senegal for Independence Day (Apr 4th) because people were just starting to forget about him.
15) The concept of preventative maintenance does not exist. Things are fixed after they break; simple as that.
16) All sort of yearly planning is done around the rainy season (July through September): home improvements before, gardening during, holidays after.
17) Senegal has a unique type of wrestling, pronounced “Loot,” where the first person to fall down looses. It usually last about 1 minute… but there is 4 hours of entertainment leading up to the “big match.”
18) Follow up note: one famous wrestler renamed himself Mike Tyson. Genius.
19) There is a Senegalese version of MTV. It plays Wolof, French, and American music videos. I’d like to tell you that the American videos are the same ones that are popular in the states, but I’m afraid to check the charts.
20) Prostitution is legal; but frowned upon religiously and thus still and underground operation.
21) I live in a coastal city but have yet to find a single person who knows how to swim. What is that?
22) Except in major cities (read: where there are large populations of foreigners) there is no such thing as a store that sells more than one type of commodity. Hardware, fabric, electronics, prier mats, kitchen utensils, bread, meat, jewelry, shoes, hand bags, sheets, processed food products, fresh food products, gardening tools… all these items have their own special vendor and location.
23) Although the export standards are very high, the in country commercial retail standards don’t even come close. However, some still find registration too complicated and that’s probably why people sell product out of baskets, off tables, and not in a stationary place.
24) Sometimes I find a fruit that looks familiar and go to taste it, only to realize I was way off. This is how I found melon while looking for papaya... turns out melon is football shaped here. And there's a mini mango season that tastes more like a pear apple than a mango, even though I was actually trying to buy ditax. Also, there is a cranberry look-alike I've yet to fully decipher.
25) There is no such thing as a Senegalese cook book. Recipes are passed generation to generation. I’ve been interviewing my host Mom, but I doubt I’ll learn all my favorites in time.
2) The packaging of powdered milk advertises that it is fat filled… and it’s a good thing.
3) Stop signs are red and white, octagonal, and say "STOP." This took me months to realize as they hardly exist anywhere. I’ve either seen three of them… or seen the same one three times, it’s unclear.
4) The first American company I saw in Senegal was Shell Gasoline, followed by Hertz Rent-A-Car, Aldo, Guess, Diesel and Curves. Rumors have circulated about an Apple store, but it remains to be seen.
5) Male PC Volunteers have starting wearing head bands. I’m worried.
6) In the US, traffic jams prevent you from getting to work on time. In West Africa, stopping to greet friends and neighbors has the same effect: mandatory and time consuming.
7) On any given day, I can see any one of the following animal body parts in various states of decomposition in the street: chicken head, leg of sheep, squished frog, fish guts, unknown animal jaw, and the list goes on…
8) One of the goals of the current Mayor's administration is to put public restrooms in our town's market area. Others include: rainfall drainage infrastructure, new school classrooms, annexing the distance from town to the beach as part of Mboro, and city wide trash management program.
9) If I have an extreme case of diarrhea it’s perfectly acceptable, neigh welcome, to run to the nearest house and ask for the squat toilet. But they’ll probably ask you to stay for a meal and tea.
10) Peace Corps Volunteers have been in Senegal since 1963, this year we will double the number of volunteers in country to total over 300.
11) The Catholic community in Mboro is hard core and fasts all day long during Lent. It’s a cultural thing I’m sure, to give them street credit with all the Muslims that fast during Ramadan (which is only about 30 days). They also give up a bad habit and don’t eat meat on Fridays. Some “extremists” don’t eat meat on any Friday, Lent or no.
12) Senegal may be a 3rd world country, with poverty meaning anyone NOT making at least $1 a day, but that doesn’t stop its people from holding numerous fundraisers to send money to Haiti.
13) There is a rap song that when translated has a title of “On the Head of My Mom.” Hmm.
14) It’s a good thing Akon came out to Senegal for Independence Day (Apr 4th) because people were just starting to forget about him.
15) The concept of preventative maintenance does not exist. Things are fixed after they break; simple as that.
16) All sort of yearly planning is done around the rainy season (July through September): home improvements before, gardening during, holidays after.
17) Senegal has a unique type of wrestling, pronounced “Loot,” where the first person to fall down looses. It usually last about 1 minute… but there is 4 hours of entertainment leading up to the “big match.”
18) Follow up note: one famous wrestler renamed himself Mike Tyson. Genius.
19) There is a Senegalese version of MTV. It plays Wolof, French, and American music videos. I’d like to tell you that the American videos are the same ones that are popular in the states, but I’m afraid to check the charts.
20) Prostitution is legal; but frowned upon religiously and thus still and underground operation.
21) I live in a coastal city but have yet to find a single person who knows how to swim. What is that?
22) Except in major cities (read: where there are large populations of foreigners) there is no such thing as a store that sells more than one type of commodity. Hardware, fabric, electronics, prier mats, kitchen utensils, bread, meat, jewelry, shoes, hand bags, sheets, processed food products, fresh food products, gardening tools… all these items have their own special vendor and location.
23) Although the export standards are very high, the in country commercial retail standards don’t even come close. However, some still find registration too complicated and that’s probably why people sell product out of baskets, off tables, and not in a stationary place.
24) Sometimes I find a fruit that looks familiar and go to taste it, only to realize I was way off. This is how I found melon while looking for papaya... turns out melon is football shaped here. And there's a mini mango season that tastes more like a pear apple than a mango, even though I was actually trying to buy ditax. Also, there is a cranberry look-alike I've yet to fully decipher.
25) There is no such thing as a Senegalese cook book. Recipes are passed generation to generation. I’ve been interviewing my host Mom, but I doubt I’ll learn all my favorites in time.
Sunday, April 18
Summer Camp!
I think it’s about time I officially start calling myself a 1st year volunteer; as a new round of trainees have come and work projects are starting to require my attention. One project in particular has taken over my everyday thought process: a girls summer camp.
The idea started in our last phase of training, when we heard an inspiring presentation about a camp held on the other side of the country that incorporates many different sectors of Peace Corps volunteer work. “I wanna do that” was the first thing that came to my mind. Luckily, I wasn’t alone. There are 6 other women in my regional area of the country that also got here last August. We’d already started meeting once monthly for western food, drinks, English, and general relaxation… and of course shop talk. Apparently, we all had the same thought with regards to starting a summer camp in our own region, so a couple weeks after our last round of training we met up for lunch and our first meeting.
We decided on utilizing an existing scholarship program that rewards the top 7th, 8th, and 9th grade girls in each class by paying tuition fees for the following school year (about $10) as an incentive for the girls to stay in school. This is a pretty big problem in Senegal as young women have large amounts of household responsibilities that prevent them from studying. If a student doesn’t pass the end of year exam they’ll get held back. If you’re held back enough times, you get permanently kicked out of the public school system. It’s rare that these kids will then get a chance to go to private school, as it typically costs much more. If that weren’t bad enough, still other girls drop out all together because they marry young and get pregnant. So, when finding about a purpose for the camp, we couldn’t help but think about the perfect “work/ life balance” that American women are taught from a young age.
More volunteers were recruited to help with the project, and staffing positions were assigned. Yours truly, with her aversion to children, was appointed chief financier. My immediate responsibilities are to write the proposal to secure grant funding for the project, and when camp time comes I’ll be in charge of the money, but also of monitoring and recording all purchases in order to submit a final report to the grant committee. Other volunteers hold positions such as Camp Director, Camp Food Coordinator, Documentarian/Videographer, Lead Counselor and Camp Counselor. We plan to have Senegalese counterparts that will job shadow our positions so that in future years the whole project can be turned over to the community, thus creating project sustainability without Peace Corps volunteers. We’ve also started a website for the people involved to share files and keep a group calendar of deadlines. It is our hope that this over-documented project will make it that much easier should any other volunteer wish to start a similar project.
As far as day by day, the camp will have one day dedicated to each of the following topics: health (mental health and dealing with stress, malaria prevention, sexual pressures, hygiene, and nutrition), environment (agricultural related topics like container gardening, trash sorting, and composting), gender development (the woman’s role), business skills (costing, pricing, and money management), and future planning (actually creating goals for the short and long term with these girls). In between all that educational bits will be exercise, arts and crafts, and games. In the evening we’re planning movie night, game night, a talent show, a dance, and more. I dare say it’s going to be a hell of a good time, if we can pull it off.
We are fortunate enough to partner up with the University of Bambey (a town a few hours away from Mboro). They're so excited about our proposed program that they offered to donate their campus to host us for the week. Lodging, classroom facilities and equipment, and even their dining hall and staff will be available to us. A major score! This will cut our project costs dramatically and, hopefully, be the beginning of a great program for the University to continue. If we're really successful, maybe in a few years other Universities in the country will copy our model. But I'm getting way ahead of myself and that's out of my service time frame...
Anyway, the whole thing is set to kick off the last week of September, so there’s a lot of work to do now to write all the proposals and to get everyone on board and fix budgets… and then we wait. We’ll receive final word on funding mid-May and formally invite the girls to camp, but the rest of the to-do list won’t pick up again until August or September.
Anyway, wish us luck as we'll probably need it. And if anyone wishes to know more about the scholarship program for the local girls please send me a note and I'll get info to you.
The idea started in our last phase of training, when we heard an inspiring presentation about a camp held on the other side of the country that incorporates many different sectors of Peace Corps volunteer work. “I wanna do that” was the first thing that came to my mind. Luckily, I wasn’t alone. There are 6 other women in my regional area of the country that also got here last August. We’d already started meeting once monthly for western food, drinks, English, and general relaxation… and of course shop talk. Apparently, we all had the same thought with regards to starting a summer camp in our own region, so a couple weeks after our last round of training we met up for lunch and our first meeting.
We decided on utilizing an existing scholarship program that rewards the top 7th, 8th, and 9th grade girls in each class by paying tuition fees for the following school year (about $10) as an incentive for the girls to stay in school. This is a pretty big problem in Senegal as young women have large amounts of household responsibilities that prevent them from studying. If a student doesn’t pass the end of year exam they’ll get held back. If you’re held back enough times, you get permanently kicked out of the public school system. It’s rare that these kids will then get a chance to go to private school, as it typically costs much more. If that weren’t bad enough, still other girls drop out all together because they marry young and get pregnant. So, when finding about a purpose for the camp, we couldn’t help but think about the perfect “work/ life balance” that American women are taught from a young age.
More volunteers were recruited to help with the project, and staffing positions were assigned. Yours truly, with her aversion to children, was appointed chief financier. My immediate responsibilities are to write the proposal to secure grant funding for the project, and when camp time comes I’ll be in charge of the money, but also of monitoring and recording all purchases in order to submit a final report to the grant committee. Other volunteers hold positions such as Camp Director, Camp Food Coordinator, Documentarian/Videographer, Lead Counselor and Camp Counselor. We plan to have Senegalese counterparts that will job shadow our positions so that in future years the whole project can be turned over to the community, thus creating project sustainability without Peace Corps volunteers. We’ve also started a website for the people involved to share files and keep a group calendar of deadlines. It is our hope that this over-documented project will make it that much easier should any other volunteer wish to start a similar project.
As far as day by day, the camp will have one day dedicated to each of the following topics: health (mental health and dealing with stress, malaria prevention, sexual pressures, hygiene, and nutrition), environment (agricultural related topics like container gardening, trash sorting, and composting), gender development (the woman’s role), business skills (costing, pricing, and money management), and future planning (actually creating goals for the short and long term with these girls). In between all that educational bits will be exercise, arts and crafts, and games. In the evening we’re planning movie night, game night, a talent show, a dance, and more. I dare say it’s going to be a hell of a good time, if we can pull it off.
We are fortunate enough to partner up with the University of Bambey (a town a few hours away from Mboro). They're so excited about our proposed program that they offered to donate their campus to host us for the week. Lodging, classroom facilities and equipment, and even their dining hall and staff will be available to us. A major score! This will cut our project costs dramatically and, hopefully, be the beginning of a great program for the University to continue. If we're really successful, maybe in a few years other Universities in the country will copy our model. But I'm getting way ahead of myself and that's out of my service time frame...
Anyway, the whole thing is set to kick off the last week of September, so there’s a lot of work to do now to write all the proposals and to get everyone on board and fix budgets… and then we wait. We’ll receive final word on funding mid-May and formally invite the girls to camp, but the rest of the to-do list won’t pick up again until August or September.
Anyway, wish us luck as we'll probably need it. And if anyone wishes to know more about the scholarship program for the local girls please send me a note and I'll get info to you.
Tuesday, April 13
100 Things I'm Concerned About
Below are things that have me concerned about leaving my life in Senegal (aka things Senegalese culture is making me do or the type of person I'm changing into):
1) I might start asking everything in the negative form. “You don’t have a pencil I can borrow, do you?”
2) I might have the urge to walk to the Post every week, because I wouldn’t trust them to deliver directly to my door.
3) I might be confused as to why I have so much leg room on my flight home.
4) I might believe that wearing makeup is pointless and time consuming (both application and removal), but then go overboard on holidays.
5) I may continue to shower 3 times a day.
6) I might take afternoon naps, regardless of whether or not I’m supposed to be working.
7) I might correct people’s English mid sentence.
8) I might be prone to hiding beef jerky in my dresser.
9) I may start beeping people (calling and hanging up before they answer, and expecting them to call me back) to save credit- or minutes.
10) I might continue to apply sun block daily like moisturizer.
11) I might walk into a room and comment on whatever you’re doing. Example: “Peace be with you. You are sitting.”
12) I might get pissed and start swearing, but not realize that you can understand my swear words because you DO speak English.
13) I may ask your child to go to the store and buy me something.
14) I might wear flip flops in the shower.
15) I might serve you dessert (instead of a real dinner) if you come over for dinner on a Sunday.
16) I might dance without moving my feet- just knees, hips, and arms.
17) I might call you racist if you don’t say “hello” to me on the street.
18) I might dress my best to go on a road trip.
19) I might carry a water bottle around obsessively. And drink mix packets, too.
20) I may sweep my room daily; carpet or no.
21) I may have to buy an oscillating fan in order to sleep.
22) I might go to the grocery store every day because processed and packaged foods won’t make sense to me. Buying in bulk won’t either.
23) I may carry anti-diarrhea meds and malaria prophylaxis in my purse at all times.
24) I might use a mosquito net as decoration, but also obsessively tuck it in before going to bed.
25) I might take an hour to order a beer, because there are more than 2 types available. And my favorite one won’t be there.
26) I may be pissed there isn’t a flashlight function on the end of my phone.
27) I might eat rice every day for lunch.
28) I may say things in a language you won’t understand.
29) I might miss spell every word in the English language.
30) I may bring you fruit if I leave town and come back.
31) I might be confused if on holidays we do more than sit in chairs staring at the ground.
32) I may offer to help pay for the rented sound system for your child’s baptism.
33) I may play my music 20 decibels too loud.
34) I might be confused if the rooster crows only at dawn.
35) I might never use a dryer again.
36) I might not buy a TV, because the screen would be too big for my eyes. And also because my computer will travel with me.
37) I might miss bissap, tamarin, and bouie juices.
38) I might be addicted to MSG.
39) I may blatantly lie about why I didn’t call you back because I’ll think you can’t dispute me.
40) I might be fashionably late to everything.
41) I may be uncomfortable using toilet paper.
42) I might make a clucking noise in the place of verbal agreement or nodding.
43) I may spend ten minutes restating something someone else has already said, because I agree with them.
44) I might try to negotiate prices at the grocery store, or maybe even Target. Definitely with cabs.
45) I might not notice when flies land on me.
46) I may stop to talk to complete strangers for long periods of time on the street.
47) I might not realize someone is hitting on me if they aren’t asking me to marry them within the first 5 minutes of conversation.
48) I might look around for the screwdriver in order to roll down the car window.
49) I may tickle your palm with my finger secretly during a hand shake to indicate wanting to sleep with you.
50) I might be deathly afraid of the rain.
51) I might dig a hole in order to bury the carcass if you tell me we are eating a large game animal for a meal.
52) I may put up post it notes of vocabulary in multiple languages.
53) I might burn my trash.
54) I might use the same piece of cloth for a sheet, robe, towel, blanket or skirt.
55) I may be overly paranoid when someone gets a fever.
56) I might think a spaghetti sandwich is normal.
57) I might not respond to my American name.
58) I might expect to be able to shop during traffic jams… and be upset when I can’t.
59) I may comment about the weather in every conversation.
60) I might wear a belly chain with beads because I’ll think it’s sexy.
61) I may call you just to say “Hello.” And then just hang up after without saying goodbye.
62) I may treat every meal like an eating contest to see who can finish first. I will not speak during this contest.
63) I may filter my water forevermore.
64) I may eat an unhealthy amount of mangos.
65) I might not hate children as much as I did when I left. Or I might hate them more. It’s still unclear.
66) I might be used to the sound of children getting beaten and therefore get rejected when applying for a job at child protective services.
67) I might beat your kids if they don’t greet me.
68) I might have to buy a whole new wardrobe, as I’m sure nothing will fit anymore.
69) I might not be deathly afraid of mice.
70) I may appreciate that lizards eat all the other bugs I hate.
71) I may come to believe that climate control in a motor vehicle means ability to roll down the window.
72) I may hang curtains in the back seats of my next car, in order to keep out the sun and heat.
73) I may think that stickers of old men I don’t know are a valuable art form that should be displayed both in the house and all over my car.
74) I might be confused when the next election happens promptly and there are legitimate opposing candidates to the current president.
75) I might wear what you will assume to be my pajamas in public.
76) I might prefer large bulky metal jewelry that incorporates the shape of balls.
77) I may ask everyone I meet if they have a husband/ wife- and if not offer to set them up.
78) I might forget the meaning of personal space.
79) I may confuse a gay couple for brothers or sisters, because I might forget that gay is an actual preference and not something that “DOES NOT EXIST.”
80) I might repeat your last name 5 to 10 times when I see you because I think it is a sign of respect.
81) I may secretly text someone else if I decide to spend the night anywhere other than my house; and I will think it’s for my own safety.
82) I may expect to hear about public demonstrations and riots throughout the country via text message.
83) I might be confused if, when asked how you are. you reply with anything other than “I’m here” or “I’m in peace only.”
84) I may add an insane amount of sugar to my coffee, tea and juices.
85) I might find a way to add onions to every meal.
86) I might obsessively keep notes on blog ideas.
87) I might complain that US currency is not color and size coded.
88) I may tell you that you know nothing if you do not understand something I try to explain.
89) I may be nervous and panicked when left alone.
90) I may likely change all my cloths regardless of who is in the room, and without closing the door.
91) I might try to order café Touba (which tastes like a mixture of chai tea and coffee) at Starbucks.
92) I may complain that there is a serious lack of decent tailors.
93) I might assume that although you live near water, you have no idea how to swim.
94) I may sit on the floor when you have me over and tell me dinner is ready.
95) I might leave my shoes on when entering the house, but take them off when entering the sitting room.
96) I might be depressed when the power goes out, assuming I won’t be able to sleep at night.
97) I might have a stock pile of candles and matches, because I assume the power will go out.
98) I might take time off of work to celebrate holidays according to other religions.
99) I might be disappointed that I can’t go to church to listen to good music and tune out the rest.
100) I might miss Senegal.
1) I might start asking everything in the negative form. “You don’t have a pencil I can borrow, do you?”
2) I might have the urge to walk to the Post every week, because I wouldn’t trust them to deliver directly to my door.
3) I might be confused as to why I have so much leg room on my flight home.
4) I might believe that wearing makeup is pointless and time consuming (both application and removal), but then go overboard on holidays.
5) I may continue to shower 3 times a day.
6) I might take afternoon naps, regardless of whether or not I’m supposed to be working.
7) I might correct people’s English mid sentence.
8) I might be prone to hiding beef jerky in my dresser.
9) I may start beeping people (calling and hanging up before they answer, and expecting them to call me back) to save credit- or minutes.
10) I might continue to apply sun block daily like moisturizer.
11) I might walk into a room and comment on whatever you’re doing. Example: “Peace be with you. You are sitting.”
12) I might get pissed and start swearing, but not realize that you can understand my swear words because you DO speak English.
13) I may ask your child to go to the store and buy me something.
14) I might wear flip flops in the shower.
15) I might serve you dessert (instead of a real dinner) if you come over for dinner on a Sunday.
16) I might dance without moving my feet- just knees, hips, and arms.
17) I might call you racist if you don’t say “hello” to me on the street.
18) I might dress my best to go on a road trip.
19) I might carry a water bottle around obsessively. And drink mix packets, too.
20) I may sweep my room daily; carpet or no.
21) I may have to buy an oscillating fan in order to sleep.
22) I might go to the grocery store every day because processed and packaged foods won’t make sense to me. Buying in bulk won’t either.
23) I may carry anti-diarrhea meds and malaria prophylaxis in my purse at all times.
24) I might use a mosquito net as decoration, but also obsessively tuck it in before going to bed.
25) I might take an hour to order a beer, because there are more than 2 types available. And my favorite one won’t be there.
26) I may be pissed there isn’t a flashlight function on the end of my phone.
27) I might eat rice every day for lunch.
28) I may say things in a language you won’t understand.
29) I might miss spell every word in the English language.
30) I may bring you fruit if I leave town and come back.
31) I might be confused if on holidays we do more than sit in chairs staring at the ground.
32) I may offer to help pay for the rented sound system for your child’s baptism.
33) I may play my music 20 decibels too loud.
34) I might be confused if the rooster crows only at dawn.
35) I might never use a dryer again.
36) I might not buy a TV, because the screen would be too big for my eyes. And also because my computer will travel with me.
37) I might miss bissap, tamarin, and bouie juices.
38) I might be addicted to MSG.
39) I may blatantly lie about why I didn’t call you back because I’ll think you can’t dispute me.
40) I might be fashionably late to everything.
41) I may be uncomfortable using toilet paper.
42) I might make a clucking noise in the place of verbal agreement or nodding.
43) I may spend ten minutes restating something someone else has already said, because I agree with them.
44) I might try to negotiate prices at the grocery store, or maybe even Target. Definitely with cabs.
45) I might not notice when flies land on me.
46) I may stop to talk to complete strangers for long periods of time on the street.
47) I might not realize someone is hitting on me if they aren’t asking me to marry them within the first 5 minutes of conversation.
48) I might look around for the screwdriver in order to roll down the car window.
49) I may tickle your palm with my finger secretly during a hand shake to indicate wanting to sleep with you.
50) I might be deathly afraid of the rain.
51) I might dig a hole in order to bury the carcass if you tell me we are eating a large game animal for a meal.
52) I may put up post it notes of vocabulary in multiple languages.
53) I might burn my trash.
54) I might use the same piece of cloth for a sheet, robe, towel, blanket or skirt.
55) I may be overly paranoid when someone gets a fever.
56) I might think a spaghetti sandwich is normal.
57) I might not respond to my American name.
58) I might expect to be able to shop during traffic jams… and be upset when I can’t.
59) I may comment about the weather in every conversation.
60) I might wear a belly chain with beads because I’ll think it’s sexy.
61) I may call you just to say “Hello.” And then just hang up after without saying goodbye.
62) I may treat every meal like an eating contest to see who can finish first. I will not speak during this contest.
63) I may filter my water forevermore.
64) I may eat an unhealthy amount of mangos.
65) I might not hate children as much as I did when I left. Or I might hate them more. It’s still unclear.
66) I might be used to the sound of children getting beaten and therefore get rejected when applying for a job at child protective services.
67) I might beat your kids if they don’t greet me.
68) I might have to buy a whole new wardrobe, as I’m sure nothing will fit anymore.
69) I might not be deathly afraid of mice.
70) I may appreciate that lizards eat all the other bugs I hate.
71) I may come to believe that climate control in a motor vehicle means ability to roll down the window.
72) I may hang curtains in the back seats of my next car, in order to keep out the sun and heat.
73) I may think that stickers of old men I don’t know are a valuable art form that should be displayed both in the house and all over my car.
74) I might be confused when the next election happens promptly and there are legitimate opposing candidates to the current president.
75) I might wear what you will assume to be my pajamas in public.
76) I might prefer large bulky metal jewelry that incorporates the shape of balls.
77) I may ask everyone I meet if they have a husband/ wife- and if not offer to set them up.
78) I might forget the meaning of personal space.
79) I may confuse a gay couple for brothers or sisters, because I might forget that gay is an actual preference and not something that “DOES NOT EXIST.”
80) I might repeat your last name 5 to 10 times when I see you because I think it is a sign of respect.
81) I may secretly text someone else if I decide to spend the night anywhere other than my house; and I will think it’s for my own safety.
82) I may expect to hear about public demonstrations and riots throughout the country via text message.
83) I might be confused if, when asked how you are. you reply with anything other than “I’m here” or “I’m in peace only.”
84) I may add an insane amount of sugar to my coffee, tea and juices.
85) I might find a way to add onions to every meal.
86) I might obsessively keep notes on blog ideas.
87) I might complain that US currency is not color and size coded.
88) I may tell you that you know nothing if you do not understand something I try to explain.
89) I may be nervous and panicked when left alone.
90) I may likely change all my cloths regardless of who is in the room, and without closing the door.
91) I might try to order café Touba (which tastes like a mixture of chai tea and coffee) at Starbucks.
92) I may complain that there is a serious lack of decent tailors.
93) I might assume that although you live near water, you have no idea how to swim.
94) I may sit on the floor when you have me over and tell me dinner is ready.
95) I might leave my shoes on when entering the house, but take them off when entering the sitting room.
96) I might be depressed when the power goes out, assuming I won’t be able to sleep at night.
97) I might have a stock pile of candles and matches, because I assume the power will go out.
98) I might take time off of work to celebrate holidays according to other religions.
99) I might be disappointed that I can’t go to church to listen to good music and tune out the rest.
100) I might miss Senegal.
Sunday, April 11
Have I Met A Guy???
A number of people have asked me if I’ve met a guy here. The short of it is, yes.
I’ve met the 6 men in my family, all my neighbors, the guys at the post and mayor’s office, the teachers at the school, the men who run the cyber café and even the friends of friends at the boutique. I’ve met them all, and quite frankly, the search for Mr. Right continues.
Some qualities I’ve figured out I don’t appreciate:
• asks me to marry him within 5 minutes of knowing him,
• has someone else ask me to marry him—ever,
• asks me for money,
• gets offended because I refuse to respond to cat calls,
• has no idea how to cook,
• thinks sweeping (or cleaning of any form) is beneath him,
• is under the impression I’m looking to spend the rest of my life financially supporting him,
• has, or believes in having, multiple wives,
• beeps me (calls and hangs up before I can answer) constantly and actually expects me to call back,
• thinks I’m an idiot just because I don’t speak his language,
• expects me to have children,
I think that covers most of my recent epiphanies, but what about the nice normal American guys in Peace Corps? It is true that there are decent men here; attractive, like-minded, and lacking qualities above. But alas, there are still barriers… Remember your last college relationship (where a date is getting drunk at a house party and going back to bunk beds to pass out) because that’s what dating a PCV is like… and I’ll pass. Am I alone here?
I’ve met the 6 men in my family, all my neighbors, the guys at the post and mayor’s office, the teachers at the school, the men who run the cyber café and even the friends of friends at the boutique. I’ve met them all, and quite frankly, the search for Mr. Right continues.
Some qualities I’ve figured out I don’t appreciate:
• asks me to marry him within 5 minutes of knowing him,
• has someone else ask me to marry him—ever,
• asks me for money,
• gets offended because I refuse to respond to cat calls,
• has no idea how to cook,
• thinks sweeping (or cleaning of any form) is beneath him,
• is under the impression I’m looking to spend the rest of my life financially supporting him,
• has, or believes in having, multiple wives,
• beeps me (calls and hangs up before I can answer) constantly and actually expects me to call back,
• thinks I’m an idiot just because I don’t speak his language,
• expects me to have children,
I think that covers most of my recent epiphanies, but what about the nice normal American guys in Peace Corps? It is true that there are decent men here; attractive, like-minded, and lacking qualities above. But alas, there are still barriers… Remember your last college relationship (where a date is getting drunk at a house party and going back to bunk beds to pass out) because that’s what dating a PCV is like… and I’ll pass. Am I alone here?
Sunday, April 4
Fishing
There are quite a lot of fish consumed in Senegal. Not by me, of course, but it’s a huge part of the country’s economy. So it’s only natural that fishing becomes a part of the tourism world as well. And although I wouldn’t call it a patriotic duty or anything, I definitely felt I had to try it out for myself.
Last weekend, my fellow volunteers and I rented another amazing house on the ocean front coast in the town of Popenguine. The volunteer that lives there organized a fishing trip with some of his friends in town. We woke up early on a Sunday morning and hiked across town to their launching point.
Set back a hundred feet from the shore were the wooden boats resting on logs in the sand between two houses. The boats are long and narrow, like gondolas. I’m sure there’s a better name for them, but I don’t know it. They’re painted vibrant primary colors with the name of the person who owns the boat and a year. A small motor, like the kind you’d use for canoe fishing, was brought out and attached to the back of the boat. It was secured with rope. With the help of about 20 Senegalese men, we pushed two boats out with 5 Americans and 2 Senegalese guides per boat into a very black ocean.
Motoring 12 kilometers west and directly into the ocean, we could hardly make out the shore between the mists. What looked like a four large hooks welded together to be thrown over a medieval castle wall yet to be scaled was actually thrown down to act as an anchor. I couldn’t tell you if it worked.
We sat neatly aligned up the middle of the boat on slabs of wood resting on ledges carved on each side. Leaning to one side caused the whole boat to rock; making movement a coordinated effort. 8x10 pieces of plywood were passed out which contained yards of fishing line wrapped lengthwise around it. At the end was a hook, followed by a weight, and another hook. Raw fish was brought as bait, diced up, and passed out. Luckily, I was able to ask a friend to bait for me.
We dropped our lines and started catching fish about 10 minutes later. I couldn’t tell you what kind, but they were grey and white and about 8 inches long. A line only stayed in for about 4 minutes before it would have to be brought up either with a fish or to remedy a lack of bait.
To pass the time, we chatted or spotted jelly fish floating by. They jelly fish were the size of an upside down cereal bowl. They were mostly red with white spots and white looking tentacles only a few inches long. They could only be seen when they were basically at the surface. They seemed to travel relatively alone- or we couldn’t see the others. And every time we saw one the camera couldn’t be unburied from its waterproof protection fast enough to catch the evidence.
We were told there was quite a current that prevented us from catching the big fish and in larger quantities… so we changed locations every so often. But the water was choppy, so within a short period of time 4 out of 5 Americans on our boat felt seasick and we decided to head back a bit early.
The rest of the afternoon was spent swimming, napping, and drinking beers on the porch while admiring the view. In the evening, we gutted and grilled the fish (about 9 total), and made yassa poulet (onion and vinegar sauce with white rice and chicken) and meatballs to soak up all the beer. In the evening we built a bonfire pit, took several attempts to create a roaring fire, set off rocket fireworks out of the empty beer bottles, and played beer pong. It was hands-down one of my favorite days in Senegal.
Last weekend, my fellow volunteers and I rented another amazing house on the ocean front coast in the town of Popenguine. The volunteer that lives there organized a fishing trip with some of his friends in town. We woke up early on a Sunday morning and hiked across town to their launching point.
Set back a hundred feet from the shore were the wooden boats resting on logs in the sand between two houses. The boats are long and narrow, like gondolas. I’m sure there’s a better name for them, but I don’t know it. They’re painted vibrant primary colors with the name of the person who owns the boat and a year. A small motor, like the kind you’d use for canoe fishing, was brought out and attached to the back of the boat. It was secured with rope. With the help of about 20 Senegalese men, we pushed two boats out with 5 Americans and 2 Senegalese guides per boat into a very black ocean.
Motoring 12 kilometers west and directly into the ocean, we could hardly make out the shore between the mists. What looked like a four large hooks welded together to be thrown over a medieval castle wall yet to be scaled was actually thrown down to act as an anchor. I couldn’t tell you if it worked.
We sat neatly aligned up the middle of the boat on slabs of wood resting on ledges carved on each side. Leaning to one side caused the whole boat to rock; making movement a coordinated effort. 8x10 pieces of plywood were passed out which contained yards of fishing line wrapped lengthwise around it. At the end was a hook, followed by a weight, and another hook. Raw fish was brought as bait, diced up, and passed out. Luckily, I was able to ask a friend to bait for me.
We dropped our lines and started catching fish about 10 minutes later. I couldn’t tell you what kind, but they were grey and white and about 8 inches long. A line only stayed in for about 4 minutes before it would have to be brought up either with a fish or to remedy a lack of bait.
To pass the time, we chatted or spotted jelly fish floating by. They jelly fish were the size of an upside down cereal bowl. They were mostly red with white spots and white looking tentacles only a few inches long. They could only be seen when they were basically at the surface. They seemed to travel relatively alone- or we couldn’t see the others. And every time we saw one the camera couldn’t be unburied from its waterproof protection fast enough to catch the evidence.
We were told there was quite a current that prevented us from catching the big fish and in larger quantities… so we changed locations every so often. But the water was choppy, so within a short period of time 4 out of 5 Americans on our boat felt seasick and we decided to head back a bit early.
The rest of the afternoon was spent swimming, napping, and drinking beers on the porch while admiring the view. In the evening, we gutted and grilled the fish (about 9 total), and made yassa poulet (onion and vinegar sauce with white rice and chicken) and meatballs to soak up all the beer. In the evening we built a bonfire pit, took several attempts to create a roaring fire, set off rocket fireworks out of the empty beer bottles, and played beer pong. It was hands-down one of my favorite days in Senegal.
Sunday, March 28
Teaching English
Second grade is the time when one learns the concept of short and long vowels. I never learned this. I don’t remember circumstances- if I wasn’t there or if I never understood the lesson- but I do remember the embarrassment of not knowing this simple concept. Honestly, I still don’t quite get it. The point is that for the rest of my public school education I told myself I wanted to be a teacher. I wasn’t going to let another kid feel left out like I had.
Then one day I realized I didn’t like kids, and threw the whole teaching idea out the window.
And I later moved to Senegal. Here, my predecessor introduced me to one of his work partners, the headmaster at the local Catholic school. Pierre is a very motivated guy. He believes in shaking up the system, doing everything for the kids, and making the important things happen no matter the cost. He’s not only the headmaster but also a full time teacher.
So, when he asked if I could spend an hour a week with his class giving them an intro to English class, I accepted. He explained that the kids wouldn’t start learning English for another few years when they got to high school, but that he thinks it’s an important language and that the kids would be more excited to learn it from an “expert.”
I was scared. I’m no expert. And having given up the teaching idea long ago, my head is filled with business concepts and models- not grammar and vocabulary. The first day, I drew from my recent Peace Corps experience of learning new languages and started to nervously rattle out greetings and responses. Pierre stayed in the class with me that day helping to keep the kids under control and reminding me to help them with pronunciation.
After the first day I had a migraine. I tried to get a beer with Devin, my predecessor, but threw it up. I went to bed at 6p. The second time, I had a simple headache but it didn’t derange my night. The third time I started to worry more about the content of my lessons.
The thing is, the kids were really starting to show an interest. One week I showed up to school to find every class room completely empty except the one with my kids. The kids were sitting quietly at their desks, notebooks and pens out, and patiently waiting for me. When I asked what was going on I was told that they’d spent the whole week studying for a national exam equivalent to the stress level of the MEAP in Michigan or perhaps like the SATs for grade school kids. But when Pierre asked them if they wanted their usual Friday afternoon English class at the end of their long week, they insisted, even though every other kid in the country got the rest of the day off. I was blown away.
It was officially time for me to take an active role in teaching these kids. So I went to the Peace Corps resource library in Dakar and found some books on teaching English. I checked one out related to teaching with on a zero budget. I started a notebook with activities and lesson topics tailored to my beginner’s level class. I’m trying to organize a pen pal program with a school back in the states, which the kids are really excited about.
Not wanting, or having the authority, to give an exam I recently organized our first review session into a game of Pictionary. The winning team walked away with brand new pens (thanks to a care package from home). The kids loved it!
I don’t know how much I’ll be able to accomplish in the rest of this school year, or even next year, but I’m excited. I’m excited to find new and interesting ways to present my language (and yes, some culture too). I’m excited to motivate people in my town. I’m excited to have a side project to all my business plans. And I’m even a little excited that I don’t totally hate the kids. Ok, maybe just thankful, but still… it’s cool, right?
Then one day I realized I didn’t like kids, and threw the whole teaching idea out the window.
And I later moved to Senegal. Here, my predecessor introduced me to one of his work partners, the headmaster at the local Catholic school. Pierre is a very motivated guy. He believes in shaking up the system, doing everything for the kids, and making the important things happen no matter the cost. He’s not only the headmaster but also a full time teacher.
So, when he asked if I could spend an hour a week with his class giving them an intro to English class, I accepted. He explained that the kids wouldn’t start learning English for another few years when they got to high school, but that he thinks it’s an important language and that the kids would be more excited to learn it from an “expert.”
I was scared. I’m no expert. And having given up the teaching idea long ago, my head is filled with business concepts and models- not grammar and vocabulary. The first day, I drew from my recent Peace Corps experience of learning new languages and started to nervously rattle out greetings and responses. Pierre stayed in the class with me that day helping to keep the kids under control and reminding me to help them with pronunciation.
After the first day I had a migraine. I tried to get a beer with Devin, my predecessor, but threw it up. I went to bed at 6p. The second time, I had a simple headache but it didn’t derange my night. The third time I started to worry more about the content of my lessons.
The thing is, the kids were really starting to show an interest. One week I showed up to school to find every class room completely empty except the one with my kids. The kids were sitting quietly at their desks, notebooks and pens out, and patiently waiting for me. When I asked what was going on I was told that they’d spent the whole week studying for a national exam equivalent to the stress level of the MEAP in Michigan or perhaps like the SATs for grade school kids. But when Pierre asked them if they wanted their usual Friday afternoon English class at the end of their long week, they insisted, even though every other kid in the country got the rest of the day off. I was blown away.
It was officially time for me to take an active role in teaching these kids. So I went to the Peace Corps resource library in Dakar and found some books on teaching English. I checked one out related to teaching with on a zero budget. I started a notebook with activities and lesson topics tailored to my beginner’s level class. I’m trying to organize a pen pal program with a school back in the states, which the kids are really excited about.
Not wanting, or having the authority, to give an exam I recently organized our first review session into a game of Pictionary. The winning team walked away with brand new pens (thanks to a care package from home). The kids loved it!
I don’t know how much I’ll be able to accomplish in the rest of this school year, or even next year, but I’m excited. I’m excited to find new and interesting ways to present my language (and yes, some culture too). I’m excited to motivate people in my town. I’m excited to have a side project to all my business plans. And I’m even a little excited that I don’t totally hate the kids. Ok, maybe just thankful, but still… it’s cool, right?
Sunday, March 21
WAIST
WAIST (or West African Invitational Softball Tournament) is an excellently masked excuse to gather mass amounts of Americans in the biggest city in West Africa for a long weekend of pure debauchery (none of which can be fully described without naming names).
Peace Corps has by far the largest turnout with volunteers coming from Niger, Mali, Burkina Faso, Ghana, Mauritania, Benin, Gambia, and of course Senegal. But also in attendance are embassy, NGO, and UN workers who work very hard to have American products shipped in for consumption: hot dogs, cheeseburgers, candy bars and other packaged lunch snacks. Booze is available at all hours.
Teams are formed between coworkers and countries, and team uniforms are generated. This year my team of Dakar regional PC volunteers dressed as wrestlers... and accompanying us were teams of cave men, country club members, lumberjack, mimes, bums from unnamed countries, and more. A social league runs a parallel tournament to the more competitive bunch but in the end the trophies are the same size, though neither rest with my team.
Between games, we caught rays of sun and drinks by the pool. Any partying not accomplished by day (pesky game schedule!) is more than made up for at night. A well organized schedule of events scattered across the weekend and Dakar included: open mic night downtown, date auction at the home of the US marines, mingling at the local hotspot, all night dancing at the club on the beach, and culminating in an awards banquet resembling homecoming in both attire and venue (high school gym, I kid you not!).
It’s no wonder why volunteers dream, long for, and anticipate this event throughout the year; reminiscent of Christmas to a 3 year old. A documentary has even been made in homage this time-honored fest. And I too count the days until next February…
Peace Corps has by far the largest turnout with volunteers coming from Niger, Mali, Burkina Faso, Ghana, Mauritania, Benin, Gambia, and of course Senegal. But also in attendance are embassy, NGO, and UN workers who work very hard to have American products shipped in for consumption: hot dogs, cheeseburgers, candy bars and other packaged lunch snacks. Booze is available at all hours.
Teams are formed between coworkers and countries, and team uniforms are generated. This year my team of Dakar regional PC volunteers dressed as wrestlers... and accompanying us were teams of cave men, country club members, lumberjack, mimes, bums from unnamed countries, and more. A social league runs a parallel tournament to the more competitive bunch but in the end the trophies are the same size, though neither rest with my team.
Between games, we caught rays of sun and drinks by the pool. Any partying not accomplished by day (pesky game schedule!) is more than made up for at night. A well organized schedule of events scattered across the weekend and Dakar included: open mic night downtown, date auction at the home of the US marines, mingling at the local hotspot, all night dancing at the club on the beach, and culminating in an awards banquet resembling homecoming in both attire and venue (high school gym, I kid you not!).
It’s no wonder why volunteers dream, long for, and anticipate this event throughout the year; reminiscent of Christmas to a 3 year old. A documentary has even been made in homage this time-honored fest. And I too count the days until next February…
Sunday, March 14
Ode to Christine
I've actually spent the last month away from Mboro. I have enough obsessive compulsive disorder in me to have created blogs in advance of my departure and schedule them to post at a specific time each week, so as not to interrupt the entertaining stream of blog fun.
But in actuality I was gallivanting Senegal for a month partaking of a variety of activities such as: cool graoul (monthly ex-pat party), super bowl party (and somehow I didn't actually watch it!), learning how to create a perma-garden, All Volunteer Conference- for all Peace Corps volunteers in West Africa, WAIST (West African International Softball Tournament), and almost 3 weeks of IST (or in-service training). While I didn't always have internet, I did have a plethora of free time to spend getting to know and enjoying my fellow volunteers. I made some new friends (I hope) and began to really appreciate my current ones.
The culmination of this extravaganza was the long car ride home tonight with my neighbor and best friend in country, Christine. Between conversation topics, it dawned on me that we're making amazing memories daily... and we're doing it together. Some days Christine gets on my nerves and me on hers or the Senegalese get on both our nerves, but thus far we've weathered it together and are closer because of that. At some point we'll leave Senegal, but we'll be friends for a very long time. One could even have a Mefloquine dream about what she’d say to my wedding videographer’s candid camera.
So here’s to freak-out text messages, hysterical phone calls, PC crushes, club 84, tequila on the grave or that actually is Patron, gravy mishaps, “AM,” steps that trip you out of no-where, Christmas in paradise, wrestler shopping trips, bunk sharing, and all of my future favorite memories. Here’s to my partner in the sand box, Christine.
But in actuality I was gallivanting Senegal for a month partaking of a variety of activities such as: cool graoul (monthly ex-pat party), super bowl party (and somehow I didn't actually watch it!), learning how to create a perma-garden, All Volunteer Conference- for all Peace Corps volunteers in West Africa, WAIST (West African International Softball Tournament), and almost 3 weeks of IST (or in-service training). While I didn't always have internet, I did have a plethora of free time to spend getting to know and enjoying my fellow volunteers. I made some new friends (I hope) and began to really appreciate my current ones.
The culmination of this extravaganza was the long car ride home tonight with my neighbor and best friend in country, Christine. Between conversation topics, it dawned on me that we're making amazing memories daily... and we're doing it together. Some days Christine gets on my nerves and me on hers or the Senegalese get on both our nerves, but thus far we've weathered it together and are closer because of that. At some point we'll leave Senegal, but we'll be friends for a very long time. One could even have a Mefloquine dream about what she’d say to my wedding videographer’s candid camera.
So here’s to freak-out text messages, hysterical phone calls, PC crushes, club 84, tequila on the grave or that actually is Patron, gravy mishaps, “AM,” steps that trip you out of no-where, Christmas in paradise, wrestler shopping trips, bunk sharing, and all of my future favorite memories. Here’s to my partner in the sand box, Christine.
Sunday, March 7
What Hobbies?
Before I left, there were a number of different interviews to join the PC. One face to face, and quite a few more via telephone. If memory serves, in every one of them I was asked how I was going to cope with the stresses of this new job. I can't remember my answers specifically, but I'm sure it was nothing those guys in DC hadn't heard before: something about finding new hobbies or keeping up with my old ones.
Well, my old stress releasing hobbies included watching movies, tennis, working out, reading, and cooking. After I've been here nearly 6 months, I can effectively determine which of these will work, and which wont. There is a tennis court in the westernized neighborhood, but as I didn't bring my racket and I haven't met anyone else who plays... we're out of luck there. And speaking of workout in general, there's no gym per se here so I'm left to my own devices (not the best scenario). The PC bike I was issued isn't useful in the land of sand. And as it is so hot, I'm considering a modified version of bichrem yoga (heat provided by Mama Africa).
There is a mild shortage of reading material. There are books, but this requires 1) reading in french or 2) going to the PC library- out of Mboro- and trading out on a regular basis. Who has the time for that? I could get an online subscription, but that costs money. For now, I'll keep reading, but at a reduced pace, utilizing the library and Google news. Movies are a little more readily available. There is an underground trading of movies throughout PC, and now that I have a very large external hard drive (thanks Dad) I am building a database of my favorite movies and TV shows to keep myself entertained.
And lastly, cooking. I'm fairly certain that my family not only doesn't believe that I've lived alone before, but they also are sure I can't cook. I've made things for them. I've explained that I lived alone. I even talk about recipes and preparation methods with my mom. They still don't trust me. I can cook when I go to PC regional houses out of Mboro, but again that's a vacation time scenario. Occasionally, I can force my hand at home (when fish is being served for everyone else) if I jump in before my mom and start making something, but that doesn't happen often as I do try to work a lot.
OK, at this point I have movies, some reading, potential yoga (although I'd need to find a mat), and sporadic cooking experiences. It's time to find other hobbies. Preferably something involving motion as movies already covers the sitting on my butt style. A few weeks back I was feeling particularly bored and guilty for sitting in my room for hours at a time during the afternoon, so I grabbed my camera and started taking pictures of my brother. Then I wandered around outside and took a few more shots. The next day I started walking around town taking photos. I did this a few more times, even going to the market with my mom one day. I rather enjoyed myself- though I took a lot of boring stupid shots- because I did accidentally find some really cool things to shoot, played with the old beat up camera figuring out some different techniques, and got myself out of the house. Aside from the nice long walks, and people I got to meet because of this activity, I found out that my town is creating a website and there is the potential that some of my pictures could be utilized there. Score.
Other possibilities I'm considering are joining the church choir (because they have a keyboard I could potential borrow), but I have a feeling that requires a certain amount of religious commitment I'm not thrilled about. Or there's taking up running in the wee hours of the daylight. I hate running. Perhaps I can skip trying cooking myself meals, and start baking desserts or breakfast items. I suppose that one could also consider blog writing to be a new hobby, though I frequently find myself mildly stressed at the self-imposed "one entry per week" mandate and the constant reminder the back of my mind to be on the look out for discussion topics. But what's a girl to do? Gotta keep the folks apprised of the situation.
Well, my old stress releasing hobbies included watching movies, tennis, working out, reading, and cooking. After I've been here nearly 6 months, I can effectively determine which of these will work, and which wont. There is a tennis court in the westernized neighborhood, but as I didn't bring my racket and I haven't met anyone else who plays... we're out of luck there. And speaking of workout in general, there's no gym per se here so I'm left to my own devices (not the best scenario). The PC bike I was issued isn't useful in the land of sand. And as it is so hot, I'm considering a modified version of bichrem yoga (heat provided by Mama Africa).
There is a mild shortage of reading material. There are books, but this requires 1) reading in french or 2) going to the PC library- out of Mboro- and trading out on a regular basis. Who has the time for that? I could get an online subscription, but that costs money. For now, I'll keep reading, but at a reduced pace, utilizing the library and Google news. Movies are a little more readily available. There is an underground trading of movies throughout PC, and now that I have a very large external hard drive (thanks Dad) I am building a database of my favorite movies and TV shows to keep myself entertained.
And lastly, cooking. I'm fairly certain that my family not only doesn't believe that I've lived alone before, but they also are sure I can't cook. I've made things for them. I've explained that I lived alone. I even talk about recipes and preparation methods with my mom. They still don't trust me. I can cook when I go to PC regional houses out of Mboro, but again that's a vacation time scenario. Occasionally, I can force my hand at home (when fish is being served for everyone else) if I jump in before my mom and start making something, but that doesn't happen often as I do try to work a lot.
OK, at this point I have movies, some reading, potential yoga (although I'd need to find a mat), and sporadic cooking experiences. It's time to find other hobbies. Preferably something involving motion as movies already covers the sitting on my butt style. A few weeks back I was feeling particularly bored and guilty for sitting in my room for hours at a time during the afternoon, so I grabbed my camera and started taking pictures of my brother. Then I wandered around outside and took a few more shots. The next day I started walking around town taking photos. I did this a few more times, even going to the market with my mom one day. I rather enjoyed myself- though I took a lot of boring stupid shots- because I did accidentally find some really cool things to shoot, played with the old beat up camera figuring out some different techniques, and got myself out of the house. Aside from the nice long walks, and people I got to meet because of this activity, I found out that my town is creating a website and there is the potential that some of my pictures could be utilized there. Score.
Other possibilities I'm considering are joining the church choir (because they have a keyboard I could potential borrow), but I have a feeling that requires a certain amount of religious commitment I'm not thrilled about. Or there's taking up running in the wee hours of the daylight. I hate running. Perhaps I can skip trying cooking myself meals, and start baking desserts or breakfast items. I suppose that one could also consider blog writing to be a new hobby, though I frequently find myself mildly stressed at the self-imposed "one entry per week" mandate and the constant reminder the back of my mind to be on the look out for discussion topics. But what's a girl to do? Gotta keep the folks apprised of the situation.
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