1. Using a French keyboard often enough that my fingers start to forget where the letters are.
2. Wolof words entering the English language, ex. Poop.
3. Having dreams so vivid I wake up crying and call someone to make sure they aren’t real.
4. Wishing my 2 year old host brother was around when he’s gone.
5. Not falling in love with mangoes.
6. Being unable to think of something I’d like to have sent or brought from the States.
7. Day dreaming about having a Peace Corps issued horse.
8. Learning to create tourism websites in (and for) a 3rd world country.
9. Wishing I had enough money to buy a really nice camera.
10. Using an iPhone. Here, in Africa.
11. Not wanting to see the ocean.
12. Incorporating clicks and clucks in my vocabulary.
13. Scooping a fly out of my cold drink, and continuing to drink it.
14. Worrying constantly about how much trash I’m creating.
15. Having access to enough sugar for a self-induced diabetic coma.
16. Being called racist.
17. Having weekly, if not more, conversations with my predecessor.
18. Writing a semi-weekly blog.
19. Being jealous of my brother; who gets rocked to sleep every night.
20. Concluding that my real mother is somehow Wolof due to similar mannerisms.
21. Enjoying onion sauce.
22. Missing the rain, thunder and lightning, so much.
23. Viewing a traffic jam as an opportunity to shop.
24. Abandoning forever more my favorite cookie, Oreo, after a bad night of food poisoning.
25. Accepting cockroaches as part of my world.
26. Naming the lizard in my cubby bathroom: Steve.
27. Talking out loud to people who aren’t here, in a language they wouldn’t understand anyway.
28. Living with all the side effects of Mefloquine.
29. That there’s a tennis court in Mboro.
30. And a pool.
31. Listening to my host parents’ debate of getting a microwave.
32. Or air conditioning.
33. Being able to avoid eating fish at every meal.
34. My host Dad having a car.
35. Changing my mind about not wanting to go home.
36. Not writing in my journal daily like I did the last time I went abroad.
37. Having Wi-Fi internet in my room.
38. Feeling scandalous for dressing how I normally would in the States.
39. Liking Senegalese beer (Gazelle) more than any back home.
40. Wishing I’d packed fewer clothes.
41. And only 2 pairs of shoes.
42. My freckles falling off and the skin healing as if they were never there.
43. My hair curling the way I wanted it to in the states… but without the rollers.
44. Finding the ability to lose my temper quickly, but get over it just as quickly.
45. Making juice from dried hibiscus flowers.
46. Having an air conditioned office, but not going there every day.
47. Acquiring the ability to sit in a room with people for hours at a time and not talk.
48. Learning to operate on less than 6 hours of sleep.
49. Losing so much weight, so quickly.
50. Taking the Foreign Service Officer Test.
Wednesday, June 23
Sunday, June 20
Feeling Alone
I’m never really physically alone; there is always someone in the room. My bedroom door is never shut, because that would mean something is horribly wrong with me. I’ve started to feel weird about even shutting the door to pee in my cubby bathroom. But I feel alone almost all the time. Emotionally it is so hard to connect. Whether it is with my host family, friends I’ve made in town, or other Volunteers… it all seems so transient. Have we all accepted that this will be a temporary thing?
I taught my oldest host brother the word “hug,” and how to give one. He’s not too bad, and for a while he’d give me one every day when he got home from school. It made my day. Then, he became grumpy and told me he didn’t understand the significance. It’s hard to explain. Americans just crave contact more than the Senegalese. I don’t know how to explain why touching someone makes me feel better. The song “Lean on Me” sums it up right? We depend of friends to help us when we are weak? We lean on them, both figuratively and sometimes literally. In the end, he told me it was all mental and that I could change it if I tried. What if I don’t want to try? Who says there’s anything wrong with PDA?
And then there’s me trying to explain happy hour. It’s more than just an hour of discounted drink; it’s a time when coworkers go out to relieve stress. We complain about the job, we talk about life and we get to know each other. A guy I work with and I go for a drink occasionally, and I’ve spend a large amount of time explaining the relevance in American culture of ‘end of the week beer after work.’ I think he finally got it because he asked if we should be continuing to get beers every week- but this is after knowing him for eight months. Given this, you should understand why I would find my paltry version of happy hour a huge success.
Now, about those other PCVs. There seems to be this constant battle between needing a good friend and being paranoid that the other person could be taking it the wrong way. Or maybe it’s all my paranoid, Mefloquine popping, head. Back in my old life, there were coworkers I was cordial with and others that knew my whole life inside and out. Here in Africa, it feels like when I see another American/ coworker/ friend/ PCV that it’s such a rare opportunity that I regurgitate everything I would say to my closest friends without filter. Because hey, I can do it in English to someone who’ll get it! People here are amazingly supportive of each other, and by no means am I saying I am ungrateful. What I am saying is that there’s a part of me that, once done spitting out every last detail, wonders am I really closer to this person now, or was that just too much information?
With the sheer volume of different, and sometimes very frustrating, stimuli here, I need to get something off my chest quickly before it continues to bother me. So, I call or meet up with someone and we talk openly and candidly about the things we go through or see. It honestly feels almost like a secret knowing that no one else around can understand what’s being said. At first it’s mostly rant, but then it turns into a bigger picture conversation about the things we’ve learned, how and how quickly we’re changing, and the people we’ll become by having gone through this. And about this time, I realize I’ve just told someone enough detail about my life to put them squarely into my inner circle back at home… but what does that even mean here?
Interactions, as I’ve said, are few and far between. I go months without seeing friends from the northern or eastern parts of the country. So with a lack of time, I talk about things that matter… sometimes skipping the formalities and going straight to the meaty stuff. Which leads to my second concern of was that too much? Did I just force someone to listen to something they didn’t want to hear? Were they kindly listening, and nodding, and responding politely… but all the while thinking, “Geez, what did I get into? Remind me not to ask next time…”
So, I ask you, where do I draw the line between cordial and inner circle? Time is slipping past my African sand clock and I’m not entirely sure who’ll be left standing at the finish line. My host brothers, friends from town, PCVs that I’ve really only spend a few days in actual company with? Or are these relationships temporary and built on an immediate need that will fall away like the sand once I’m gone?
I’ll deal with the fallout when I get back as I’m quite certain that no matter how many questions I ask, nothing will be solved today. By and large, I’m surrounded by good people… and a few of them quite obviously do care for me. I suppose for now I’ll relax, stop worrying about it, be grateful, and maybe even consider getting off Mefloquine.
I taught my oldest host brother the word “hug,” and how to give one. He’s not too bad, and for a while he’d give me one every day when he got home from school. It made my day. Then, he became grumpy and told me he didn’t understand the significance. It’s hard to explain. Americans just crave contact more than the Senegalese. I don’t know how to explain why touching someone makes me feel better. The song “Lean on Me” sums it up right? We depend of friends to help us when we are weak? We lean on them, both figuratively and sometimes literally. In the end, he told me it was all mental and that I could change it if I tried. What if I don’t want to try? Who says there’s anything wrong with PDA?
And then there’s me trying to explain happy hour. It’s more than just an hour of discounted drink; it’s a time when coworkers go out to relieve stress. We complain about the job, we talk about life and we get to know each other. A guy I work with and I go for a drink occasionally, and I’ve spend a large amount of time explaining the relevance in American culture of ‘end of the week beer after work.’ I think he finally got it because he asked if we should be continuing to get beers every week- but this is after knowing him for eight months. Given this, you should understand why I would find my paltry version of happy hour a huge success.
Now, about those other PCVs. There seems to be this constant battle between needing a good friend and being paranoid that the other person could be taking it the wrong way. Or maybe it’s all my paranoid, Mefloquine popping, head. Back in my old life, there were coworkers I was cordial with and others that knew my whole life inside and out. Here in Africa, it feels like when I see another American/ coworker/ friend/ PCV that it’s such a rare opportunity that I regurgitate everything I would say to my closest friends without filter. Because hey, I can do it in English to someone who’ll get it! People here are amazingly supportive of each other, and by no means am I saying I am ungrateful. What I am saying is that there’s a part of me that, once done spitting out every last detail, wonders am I really closer to this person now, or was that just too much information?
With the sheer volume of different, and sometimes very frustrating, stimuli here, I need to get something off my chest quickly before it continues to bother me. So, I call or meet up with someone and we talk openly and candidly about the things we go through or see. It honestly feels almost like a secret knowing that no one else around can understand what’s being said. At first it’s mostly rant, but then it turns into a bigger picture conversation about the things we’ve learned, how and how quickly we’re changing, and the people we’ll become by having gone through this. And about this time, I realize I’ve just told someone enough detail about my life to put them squarely into my inner circle back at home… but what does that even mean here?
Interactions, as I’ve said, are few and far between. I go months without seeing friends from the northern or eastern parts of the country. So with a lack of time, I talk about things that matter… sometimes skipping the formalities and going straight to the meaty stuff. Which leads to my second concern of was that too much? Did I just force someone to listen to something they didn’t want to hear? Were they kindly listening, and nodding, and responding politely… but all the while thinking, “Geez, what did I get into? Remind me not to ask next time…”
So, I ask you, where do I draw the line between cordial and inner circle? Time is slipping past my African sand clock and I’m not entirely sure who’ll be left standing at the finish line. My host brothers, friends from town, PCVs that I’ve really only spend a few days in actual company with? Or are these relationships temporary and built on an immediate need that will fall away like the sand once I’m gone?
I’ll deal with the fallout when I get back as I’m quite certain that no matter how many questions I ask, nothing will be solved today. By and large, I’m surrounded by good people… and a few of them quite obviously do care for me. I suppose for now I’ll relax, stop worrying about it, be grateful, and maybe even consider getting off Mefloquine.
Wednesday, June 16
Foreign Service
I knew nothing about the Foreign Service before coming to Senegal. I try to keep my eyes and ears out for career opportunities that will enable me to fulfill much desired dream of living the expat life… but apparently I don’t know the right kinds of people or I’m not paying enough attention. This is evident in the fact that I didn’t investigate the Peace Corps until my 20s and no one really knew about it even while I applied. But the point isn’t Peace Corps, it’s the Foreign Service.
To be in the Foreign Service means to be an officer of the US State Department. This is the type of job you get in order to work the US embassies around the world. As I understand it, the job rotates countries of assignment every two years and comes with fun list of benefits including: ample vacation time and allowances, housing and health care completely covered, free shipping of my possessions around the world, and access to language and culture instruction. But anyone who really knows me understands that the ability to change countries every so often without having to go through the hell finding a job- well that’s the attraction.
There are 5 different departments within the ranks of Foreign Service: the consular, public diplomacy, economic, political, and management. I can attempt to provide a basic description as I get them, but I probably won’t do them justice. A consular officer works with the Americans abroad as well as VISA applications and fraud. Public diplomacy officers work like the PR department promoting the US and its culture, whilst learning the culture of the host country. Economics officers study the host economy happenings and provide linkages between entrepreneurs foreign and domestic. Political officers do just as one would imagine, schmooze with important people and spread the word of America. And management officers, the path I’ve personally chosen, operate as though the embassy was its own corporation with functions of human resources, finance and accounting, purchasing and contracts, etc.
From the get-go one has to choose their department, or cone as the lingo goes. I picked management because it’s what comes naturally, what I enjoy doing, and generally (I’m told) what I’m good at. A little background never hurt anyone either. It is worth mentioning that I did have strong interests in both the economics and public diplomacy cones. Economics because of my degree and general love of business opportunities (hello, small enterprise development volunteer…) and public diplomacy because I do so much enjoy planning events and explaining why Americans are the way they are. But alas, I have to follow my niche. It helps to hear that one can apparently take a sabbatical on occasion to work outside their chosen cone for a rotation.
Now that I’ve chosen a hypothetical career path, it’s on to the actual application. The process, like most government jobs, is a doozey. First up is a 3 hour long test. Depending on the results (a simple pass/ fail is all you’ll hear) they’ll ask you to write some personal essays. If you happen to speak a language deemed critical (Chinese, Arabic, etc) then someone will call you for an over the phone language test. The results of your test, essays, and language are sent to a panel for judgment; probably something like an HR review meeting after a first round of interviews. If you advance from this stage, it’s on to an oral exam done in a group setting with other contestants and a judgment panel in DC. They say this is the hardest part as many have not survived this round. Though if you do, you’re almost done, for all your scores are combined and you’re plopped onto a hiring list. Then one waits to be called up to service. And once you are, or maybe before, there are a few weeks of orientation and training in DC before heading out to your lucky embassy. I’m told your first few rotations are probationary… but soon enough one can earn tenure and enjoy the jet setting ex-pat life for a long time. Ah… to be so lucky.
Ok, before I get too ahead of myself in day dreams, I’m still back at the beginning. Preparation for the test was only mildly hindered by my current location. Realizing my 6 brothers are a constant distraction, I excused myself to Dakar for 4 days of study either pool side- catching some rays- or in the air conditioned office. Things could’ve been worse.
I did quite a few practice exams with multiple subjects as the exam is a scattering of knowledge: world history and geography, US culture, mathematics, communications, US history, US government, computers and IT, and English grammar. All these categories are conveniently lobbed into one (except English grammar which has its own reading and response section) which makes it only mildly less daunting. Two other phases are incorporated into the tests which are a 30 min opinion essay and a psychology questionnaire. The essay is similar to those found in graduate program entry exams such as the GMAT or GRE, and are more a demonstration of your ability to compose an intelligent response in a short period of time versus your actual opinion on something. The psychology questions ask your friends’ opinions of yourself (which I personally find odd because I rarely ask my friends how they feel I handle various situations). They also ask for short responses to basic interview questions like: “list your previous jobs where answering the phone was an important task and how you handled this,” only the kicker was one had to do so in 200 characters or less; basically in two sentences.
So, I practiced all of that for 4 days. And by the end of the last day I felt burnt out, and admittedly stressed. Not that there was any need to be. The test is free to take (you’re only charged if you don’t show up) and since I still have a year and a half of Peace Corps service left, there is no rush. So why then am I doing this now? …Because if I don’t pass the test I can retake it- but not for another full year. And since the entire application process can take around a year (assuming I pass everything first time around- because if I don’t I’ll have to start all over again from scratch the next year) I figured I might as well get started now to maximize my time.
Anyway, test time came and apparently I and two other Peace Corps Volunteers were the only interested parties. So we sat at computer terminals in a training facility located next to the US embassy in downtown Dakar for 3 hours of fun. I’d heard a lot about how hard the exam is… but I didn’t necessarily agree. Perhaps I did a good job of studying. Perhaps I’m more intelligent than I give myself credit for. Either way, I walked out with a good feeling. Sure, I got a few questions wrong (was there really an upside to Pearl Harbor? Debatable) and I could’ve used 3 more minutes on my essay, but overall a good performance on my part.
Next up… waiting. I won’t know the results of my test for about 3 weeks. So let’s all cross our fingers that Uncle Sam gives me a stellar birthday present (3 weeks lands us very near July 2nd). My friends in town have all said they’ve prayed for me… though I’m sure they assumed I would be automatically assigned the US embassy in Senegal (I’ll have to explain it later, I’m sure, but why ruin a good thing now?). In any case, I’ll take what I can get as this story seems far from over.
To be in the Foreign Service means to be an officer of the US State Department. This is the type of job you get in order to work the US embassies around the world. As I understand it, the job rotates countries of assignment every two years and comes with fun list of benefits including: ample vacation time and allowances, housing and health care completely covered, free shipping of my possessions around the world, and access to language and culture instruction. But anyone who really knows me understands that the ability to change countries every so often without having to go through the hell finding a job- well that’s the attraction.
There are 5 different departments within the ranks of Foreign Service: the consular, public diplomacy, economic, political, and management. I can attempt to provide a basic description as I get them, but I probably won’t do them justice. A consular officer works with the Americans abroad as well as VISA applications and fraud. Public diplomacy officers work like the PR department promoting the US and its culture, whilst learning the culture of the host country. Economics officers study the host economy happenings and provide linkages between entrepreneurs foreign and domestic. Political officers do just as one would imagine, schmooze with important people and spread the word of America. And management officers, the path I’ve personally chosen, operate as though the embassy was its own corporation with functions of human resources, finance and accounting, purchasing and contracts, etc.
From the get-go one has to choose their department, or cone as the lingo goes. I picked management because it’s what comes naturally, what I enjoy doing, and generally (I’m told) what I’m good at. A little background never hurt anyone either. It is worth mentioning that I did have strong interests in both the economics and public diplomacy cones. Economics because of my degree and general love of business opportunities (hello, small enterprise development volunteer…) and public diplomacy because I do so much enjoy planning events and explaining why Americans are the way they are. But alas, I have to follow my niche. It helps to hear that one can apparently take a sabbatical on occasion to work outside their chosen cone for a rotation.
Now that I’ve chosen a hypothetical career path, it’s on to the actual application. The process, like most government jobs, is a doozey. First up is a 3 hour long test. Depending on the results (a simple pass/ fail is all you’ll hear) they’ll ask you to write some personal essays. If you happen to speak a language deemed critical (Chinese, Arabic, etc) then someone will call you for an over the phone language test. The results of your test, essays, and language are sent to a panel for judgment; probably something like an HR review meeting after a first round of interviews. If you advance from this stage, it’s on to an oral exam done in a group setting with other contestants and a judgment panel in DC. They say this is the hardest part as many have not survived this round. Though if you do, you’re almost done, for all your scores are combined and you’re plopped onto a hiring list. Then one waits to be called up to service. And once you are, or maybe before, there are a few weeks of orientation and training in DC before heading out to your lucky embassy. I’m told your first few rotations are probationary… but soon enough one can earn tenure and enjoy the jet setting ex-pat life for a long time. Ah… to be so lucky.
Ok, before I get too ahead of myself in day dreams, I’m still back at the beginning. Preparation for the test was only mildly hindered by my current location. Realizing my 6 brothers are a constant distraction, I excused myself to Dakar for 4 days of study either pool side- catching some rays- or in the air conditioned office. Things could’ve been worse.
I did quite a few practice exams with multiple subjects as the exam is a scattering of knowledge: world history and geography, US culture, mathematics, communications, US history, US government, computers and IT, and English grammar. All these categories are conveniently lobbed into one (except English grammar which has its own reading and response section) which makes it only mildly less daunting. Two other phases are incorporated into the tests which are a 30 min opinion essay and a psychology questionnaire. The essay is similar to those found in graduate program entry exams such as the GMAT or GRE, and are more a demonstration of your ability to compose an intelligent response in a short period of time versus your actual opinion on something. The psychology questions ask your friends’ opinions of yourself (which I personally find odd because I rarely ask my friends how they feel I handle various situations). They also ask for short responses to basic interview questions like: “list your previous jobs where answering the phone was an important task and how you handled this,” only the kicker was one had to do so in 200 characters or less; basically in two sentences.
So, I practiced all of that for 4 days. And by the end of the last day I felt burnt out, and admittedly stressed. Not that there was any need to be. The test is free to take (you’re only charged if you don’t show up) and since I still have a year and a half of Peace Corps service left, there is no rush. So why then am I doing this now? …Because if I don’t pass the test I can retake it- but not for another full year. And since the entire application process can take around a year (assuming I pass everything first time around- because if I don’t I’ll have to start all over again from scratch the next year) I figured I might as well get started now to maximize my time.
Anyway, test time came and apparently I and two other Peace Corps Volunteers were the only interested parties. So we sat at computer terminals in a training facility located next to the US embassy in downtown Dakar for 3 hours of fun. I’d heard a lot about how hard the exam is… but I didn’t necessarily agree. Perhaps I did a good job of studying. Perhaps I’m more intelligent than I give myself credit for. Either way, I walked out with a good feeling. Sure, I got a few questions wrong (was there really an upside to Pearl Harbor? Debatable) and I could’ve used 3 more minutes on my essay, but overall a good performance on my part.
Next up… waiting. I won’t know the results of my test for about 3 weeks. So let’s all cross our fingers that Uncle Sam gives me a stellar birthday present (3 weeks lands us very near July 2nd). My friends in town have all said they’ve prayed for me… though I’m sure they assumed I would be automatically assigned the US embassy in Senegal (I’ll have to explain it later, I’m sure, but why ruin a good thing now?). In any case, I’ll take what I can get as this story seems far from over.
Sunday, June 13
Accessories
I can’t help but notice how important dress is in African culture. There are similarities and difference between Senegal and the States. For instance: accessories must match, if you go to a meeting you dress to impress, and ironing is important enough to pay someone to do it for you. But unlike the US: one’s Sunday best and casual Friday attires have traded places- as Friday is the big prier day, wearing a bra is never mandatory, and anything less than full length can be a scandal.
Another interesting contrast is that I may wear an article three times before washing it over the course of a few weeks or maybe a month. But here, in Senegal, the people wear the same outfit three days in a row, then wash it and move on to the next one. The concept is the same (conserve water and usage of the clothing, right?) but the effect is wildly different. Or at least it was, until I got the hang of it. Seriously reduces need for thought in the morning, as well as for sorting through all my laundry trying to figure out what I can still wear.
As much as I try to “blend,” and just as I did in the states, I think about my style when I shop. My purchases seem to reflect me: the colors I prefer, the patterns I like, the style of cut. Part of keeping my identity is to blend African fabrics with western style cloths. This isn’t new to the Peace Corps world. We all do it. And this isn’t even the point of this story… because for the most part my family and friends in town don’t seem to mind much what I wear. And hey, not every day can be a fashion show. The people here will compliment me when I wear a nice dress (actually, they ask me to give the dress to them- but that’s just their way). And they pay way too much attention to me on the rare occasions when I do wear traditional clothing, but other than that they leave me alone. That is until my mom couldn’t take it anymore…
I brought two purses over from the States. The smaller being officially in the “going out” classification to be used only on those occasions when hair can be done and make up worn. The latter is a large bag I use every day, to carry everything from money to sun block to my computer, around town or on trips to other cities. It is made of fake red leather.
I’ve developed a relationship with the guy in town that works with leather. I’ve seen him make shoes, belts, smaller bags… and I’ve even commissioned a copy of my J Crew magic wallet (and instant success among PCVs). So, I’ve been talking to him for a while about copying my fake bag into a new and fabulous real leather one. He was all for the challenge. My plan was to give him the actual bag to use as a copy (can’t go wrong with that, right?) but I couldn’t do that until the next quarterly stipend came in (at the end of May) so I told him I’d have find something else to carry all my possessions before giving him the bag.
By June my red bag had weathered almost 10 months in the sand (not to mention the year or so I’d been using it in normal weather) and was basically a fashion embarrassment- though people were kind enough not to mention it. And on the very day that I was finally ready to take the original to my friend, I packed a small reusable shopping bag to carry my things back home, and headed for the door before my host mom stopped me. “Soda,” she says, “That bag…” She just lets the phrase hang out there. I knew what she was getting at. The look of sadness and disappointment said it was way past time to retire the thing and I got the impression I would embarrass her by continuing on with it. “I know, Anna. It has died.” She laughs, and I explain that I’m actually on the way to the market to get a new one made. I show her my shopping sack and she laughs again. “I will loan you my bag.”
When I come back from the market she sends one of my brothers in with the purse she’d been using all week. I accept it, graciously, and load up all my possessions… It’s a nice white bag that matches almost everything in my African closet (where as the red disaster probably didn’t match anything, but was the most functional thing I could’ve brought). Later in the week, it’s clear that my new bag will take a few weeks to produce and that I have to head out to Dakar for a long weekend. I approach my mom to tell her I’m going and offer to give the bag back… in case she wants to use it during the weekend. She laughs yet again. “Soda, I have many bags. You’re not going to be interrupting my wardrobe.”
How did this happen? When did I become the type of girl who only has one bag? And I let it get to a point of utter uncoordinated embarrassment. Fashionable friends who read this, I’m sorry. I suppose my excuses include a lack of space to house a collection of accessories, or the desire to spend my meager stipend on other things like cold beer and non-Senegalese food. But we can all rest easy in the knowledge that a new bag is on the way. It will be an inexpensive (a mere $40) brown leather work of art that will probably match nearly everything in my drawer of cloths. I imagine I’ll end up as the type of girl who only really needs ONE hell of a universal accessory. But just in case I’m not, there is an entire box of ‘em back in Michigan awaiting my reentry into the 1st world.
Another interesting contrast is that I may wear an article three times before washing it over the course of a few weeks or maybe a month. But here, in Senegal, the people wear the same outfit three days in a row, then wash it and move on to the next one. The concept is the same (conserve water and usage of the clothing, right?) but the effect is wildly different. Or at least it was, until I got the hang of it. Seriously reduces need for thought in the morning, as well as for sorting through all my laundry trying to figure out what I can still wear.
As much as I try to “blend,” and just as I did in the states, I think about my style when I shop. My purchases seem to reflect me: the colors I prefer, the patterns I like, the style of cut. Part of keeping my identity is to blend African fabrics with western style cloths. This isn’t new to the Peace Corps world. We all do it. And this isn’t even the point of this story… because for the most part my family and friends in town don’t seem to mind much what I wear. And hey, not every day can be a fashion show. The people here will compliment me when I wear a nice dress (actually, they ask me to give the dress to them- but that’s just their way). And they pay way too much attention to me on the rare occasions when I do wear traditional clothing, but other than that they leave me alone. That is until my mom couldn’t take it anymore…
I brought two purses over from the States. The smaller being officially in the “going out” classification to be used only on those occasions when hair can be done and make up worn. The latter is a large bag I use every day, to carry everything from money to sun block to my computer, around town or on trips to other cities. It is made of fake red leather.
I’ve developed a relationship with the guy in town that works with leather. I’ve seen him make shoes, belts, smaller bags… and I’ve even commissioned a copy of my J Crew magic wallet (and instant success among PCVs). So, I’ve been talking to him for a while about copying my fake bag into a new and fabulous real leather one. He was all for the challenge. My plan was to give him the actual bag to use as a copy (can’t go wrong with that, right?) but I couldn’t do that until the next quarterly stipend came in (at the end of May) so I told him I’d have find something else to carry all my possessions before giving him the bag.
By June my red bag had weathered almost 10 months in the sand (not to mention the year or so I’d been using it in normal weather) and was basically a fashion embarrassment- though people were kind enough not to mention it. And on the very day that I was finally ready to take the original to my friend, I packed a small reusable shopping bag to carry my things back home, and headed for the door before my host mom stopped me. “Soda,” she says, “That bag…” She just lets the phrase hang out there. I knew what she was getting at. The look of sadness and disappointment said it was way past time to retire the thing and I got the impression I would embarrass her by continuing on with it. “I know, Anna. It has died.” She laughs, and I explain that I’m actually on the way to the market to get a new one made. I show her my shopping sack and she laughs again. “I will loan you my bag.”
When I come back from the market she sends one of my brothers in with the purse she’d been using all week. I accept it, graciously, and load up all my possessions… It’s a nice white bag that matches almost everything in my African closet (where as the red disaster probably didn’t match anything, but was the most functional thing I could’ve brought). Later in the week, it’s clear that my new bag will take a few weeks to produce and that I have to head out to Dakar for a long weekend. I approach my mom to tell her I’m going and offer to give the bag back… in case she wants to use it during the weekend. She laughs yet again. “Soda, I have many bags. You’re not going to be interrupting my wardrobe.”
How did this happen? When did I become the type of girl who only has one bag? And I let it get to a point of utter uncoordinated embarrassment. Fashionable friends who read this, I’m sorry. I suppose my excuses include a lack of space to house a collection of accessories, or the desire to spend my meager stipend on other things like cold beer and non-Senegalese food. But we can all rest easy in the knowledge that a new bag is on the way. It will be an inexpensive (a mere $40) brown leather work of art that will probably match nearly everything in my drawer of cloths. I imagine I’ll end up as the type of girl who only really needs ONE hell of a universal accessory. But just in case I’m not, there is an entire box of ‘em back in Michigan awaiting my reentry into the 1st world.
Wednesday, June 9
Technology Wave
Growing up in the States, one could say we lived on the forefront of technology. New technologies were invented, tested, and eventually mass produced over decades. I remember my father talking about computers being invented, about how one used to fill an entire room and have less computing power and memory than the one pound tiny gizmo I’m typing on now.
But yet, when I was a kid I remember getting our first computer at home. And I remember in 6th grade class when typing (or keyboarding as we called it) became a mandatory class in school. Computer software classes were electives in 7th and 8th grade. By high school we used computers to write essays and finish other homework assignments. And somewhere in there the internet became a part of my world. I remember when my family first signed up for AOL and we all used one email account, because we didn’t know free ones existed. Back then it would take 5 minutes to load a web page, and we assumed that to be normal. By college, computer classes were mandatory, class notifications were dispersed by email, and I even took classes completely online- never once stepping into a classroom.
In the retrospective, the above describes about 10 years of my life. That’s pretty quick in the world of innovation. Think about how long it took the telephone to go from the days of Alexander Graham Bell to Apple’s iPhone; much more than 10 years. And from the first model T to the hybrid car.
What’s the point, and how does that relate to life in Africa? Well, from where I’m sitting there were some advantages to taking our time getting to know technology. For one, we got to work out all the kinks, learn from mistakes. And for another, over time we developed a set of standards or etiquette for our technologies. And I feel as though both of those key elements are lacking here in Senegal.
Let’s continue with the telephone example. The kinks I speak of include: live operators transferring to automatic dialing; no one home to answer the phone gets solved with answering machines and then voicemail; land lines to car phones, and then portables; miles of telephone cables changing to cellular towers; and then again to satellite; and quick conversations transmitted by beeper and then text message. The list goes on.
As for etiquette, there once was a time when there wasn’t a phone in every room and making a call was a big deal. People were excited to receive calls, were cordial and dropped everything. But as time went on and technology increased, novelty wore off and practicality took over. Now there is etiquette to follow: no calls during dinner or work place meetings. There are a few more etiquette rules to live by as well (as discussed in my previous posting), but the point is that we as Americans lived through all the changes in etiquette and can therefore appreciate why they exist and from where our social rules come.
By no means am I trying to say there isn’t an upside to being behind the technology curve. Where American soil is littered with telephone cables that I believe will be completely useless by the time my kids are my age, West Africa will have only cell towers- and a few of them at that as we transition to satellite communications. Thus their skyline will not be riddled with hideous metal poles and wires for devices no longer utilized.
Still though, I prefer to have lived my American life. With phone etiquette intact, you won’t hear my phone go off during a meeting and I promise to uphold other rules of etiquette.
But yet, when I was a kid I remember getting our first computer at home. And I remember in 6th grade class when typing (or keyboarding as we called it) became a mandatory class in school. Computer software classes were electives in 7th and 8th grade. By high school we used computers to write essays and finish other homework assignments. And somewhere in there the internet became a part of my world. I remember when my family first signed up for AOL and we all used one email account, because we didn’t know free ones existed. Back then it would take 5 minutes to load a web page, and we assumed that to be normal. By college, computer classes were mandatory, class notifications were dispersed by email, and I even took classes completely online- never once stepping into a classroom.
In the retrospective, the above describes about 10 years of my life. That’s pretty quick in the world of innovation. Think about how long it took the telephone to go from the days of Alexander Graham Bell to Apple’s iPhone; much more than 10 years. And from the first model T to the hybrid car.
What’s the point, and how does that relate to life in Africa? Well, from where I’m sitting there were some advantages to taking our time getting to know technology. For one, we got to work out all the kinks, learn from mistakes. And for another, over time we developed a set of standards or etiquette for our technologies. And I feel as though both of those key elements are lacking here in Senegal.
Let’s continue with the telephone example. The kinks I speak of include: live operators transferring to automatic dialing; no one home to answer the phone gets solved with answering machines and then voicemail; land lines to car phones, and then portables; miles of telephone cables changing to cellular towers; and then again to satellite; and quick conversations transmitted by beeper and then text message. The list goes on.
As for etiquette, there once was a time when there wasn’t a phone in every room and making a call was a big deal. People were excited to receive calls, were cordial and dropped everything. But as time went on and technology increased, novelty wore off and practicality took over. Now there is etiquette to follow: no calls during dinner or work place meetings. There are a few more etiquette rules to live by as well (as discussed in my previous posting), but the point is that we as Americans lived through all the changes in etiquette and can therefore appreciate why they exist and from where our social rules come.
By no means am I trying to say there isn’t an upside to being behind the technology curve. Where American soil is littered with telephone cables that I believe will be completely useless by the time my kids are my age, West Africa will have only cell towers- and a few of them at that as we transition to satellite communications. Thus their skyline will not be riddled with hideous metal poles and wires for devices no longer utilized.
Still though, I prefer to have lived my American life. With phone etiquette intact, you won’t hear my phone go off during a meeting and I promise to uphold other rules of etiquette.
Sunday, June 6
Phone Etiquette
It’s time to discuss the use of cell phones in Senegal. The device is basically the same. There are different versions of Nokia and Samsung products, with exceptions including the use of French language settings and the ability to utilize two different sim cards, from two different providers, simultaneously attached to the same device. Yes, this means there are two different send buttons when you wish to make a call. Which phone number/ sim card/ stock of credit do you wish to use for this call?
What’s lacking from this picture is the sense of phone etiquette. When someone calls, they barely greet you (in comparison to in person African culture where you will greet someone with no less than 2 minutes of formalities). There is no idle chit chat… conversations are directly to the point- almost insultingly- and then there is an abrupt disconnect and the call is over. Part of this could be the structure of the language, where there is no room for politeness or niceties. Senegalese rarely say please (I actually have no idea how to say that in Wolof) or thank you, and it took me months to learn how to say “you’re welcome” (and again I’m the only person I’ve ever heard use it). But the other reason for the abrupt nature is the cost of credit.
Phone credit is a staple, but not necessarily a cheap one. Where in the states a majority of the population uses calling plans in which we have a specified amount of contracted minutes (rounded up each time we burn them), Africa uses as prepaid method. You purchase the phone and the sim card, then you purchase small cards with which you reload your sim card with credit. CFA is purchased, loaded onto the sim card, and deducted based on seconds used for each phone call or 20 CFA for a text (100 CFA for international texts). Occasionally there is bonus day, where you receive 50% additional value of credit if you refill on that day. But I digress. Back to the issue of etiquette...
There is another whole topic of missed calls. At home, if that person was stored in my contact list, it means our relationship is such that I’d call them back. But if not, I’d just leave it. I’d operate under the guise that if it is important enough to the other party, they will call back. Here, it’s never a matter of importance… it’s about using phone credit. People will call, letting the phone ring once and then immediately hang up. They assume the person receiving the call has more phone credit (and money) and will happily call them back on their own dime (or CFA, if you will). Me, with my pretty white skin that says I’m made of money, I get a lot of these "beeps" as their called.
At first I didn’t want to let anyone down, so I'd call back the people whose numbers were stored in my phone. But generally, I found they were merely demonstrating to a friend or relative that they knew an American who couldn’t speak French or Wolof and was gullible enough to call back. Thus, I adopted the “they’ll call back” mantra. And it seems to work, the beeping has subsided. As time progresses I still get them from time to time, but people I communicate with regularly have had discussions with me about my version of phone etiquette.
First, I chose not to fight the lack long greetings because it’s generally uncomfortable to me anyway. But I did explain that it is rude to make someone else pay when you want to talk, so beeping is out of the question and I will not be responding to them. Ever. And that to call without a purpose is a waste of my time. I explain that if I’m in a meeting my phone is on vibrate so as not to disturb the flow of the meeting… and therefore I will not answer calls during said meeting either. Should my friends need me, but I haven’t answered the phone, they can text me the purpose of their call. I have no problems texting back, provided it does not interrupt the meeting. Or, if needed, I will return their call when I am free again. And lastly, I took the route of saying that it is impolite to abruptly hang up the call without warning. Perhaps the other party had more they wished to communicate… and thus more credit is wasted in calling back than waiting a few seconds to say goodbye. I also may have exaggerated in saying there is bad luck in not saying goodbye to someone. To not wish them a good day is to assure that something bad will happen to them on that day. And while this may not be entirely true, it does seem to have worked.
And now my friends and work partners call when they need something; we discuss it quickly and then say our goodbyes. They text when I am unreachable. And some of them have even caught on to the ease of texting the entire conversation. Say all you need to say in one quick note. Done. The Senegalese seem to respond well to the logic that texting uses less credit than a phone call. And since texting has caught on so well with my family, as a quick means of communicating where I'm going and when I'll be home, it was a huge relief when I was able to take it one step further and notify them of my whereabouts via Skype (Bamm! No credit necessary).
In conclusion, little by little I am leaving my mark on Senegal. Even if it's only one phone call at a time, the majority of my phone interactions have significantly improved in quality. And dare I say cost as well?
What’s lacking from this picture is the sense of phone etiquette. When someone calls, they barely greet you (in comparison to in person African culture where you will greet someone with no less than 2 minutes of formalities). There is no idle chit chat… conversations are directly to the point- almost insultingly- and then there is an abrupt disconnect and the call is over. Part of this could be the structure of the language, where there is no room for politeness or niceties. Senegalese rarely say please (I actually have no idea how to say that in Wolof) or thank you, and it took me months to learn how to say “you’re welcome” (and again I’m the only person I’ve ever heard use it). But the other reason for the abrupt nature is the cost of credit.
Phone credit is a staple, but not necessarily a cheap one. Where in the states a majority of the population uses calling plans in which we have a specified amount of contracted minutes (rounded up each time we burn them), Africa uses as prepaid method. You purchase the phone and the sim card, then you purchase small cards with which you reload your sim card with credit. CFA is purchased, loaded onto the sim card, and deducted based on seconds used for each phone call or 20 CFA for a text (100 CFA for international texts). Occasionally there is bonus day, where you receive 50% additional value of credit if you refill on that day. But I digress. Back to the issue of etiquette...
There is another whole topic of missed calls. At home, if that person was stored in my contact list, it means our relationship is such that I’d call them back. But if not, I’d just leave it. I’d operate under the guise that if it is important enough to the other party, they will call back. Here, it’s never a matter of importance… it’s about using phone credit. People will call, letting the phone ring once and then immediately hang up. They assume the person receiving the call has more phone credit (and money) and will happily call them back on their own dime (or CFA, if you will). Me, with my pretty white skin that says I’m made of money, I get a lot of these "beeps" as their called.
At first I didn’t want to let anyone down, so I'd call back the people whose numbers were stored in my phone. But generally, I found they were merely demonstrating to a friend or relative that they knew an American who couldn’t speak French or Wolof and was gullible enough to call back. Thus, I adopted the “they’ll call back” mantra. And it seems to work, the beeping has subsided. As time progresses I still get them from time to time, but people I communicate with regularly have had discussions with me about my version of phone etiquette.
First, I chose not to fight the lack long greetings because it’s generally uncomfortable to me anyway. But I did explain that it is rude to make someone else pay when you want to talk, so beeping is out of the question and I will not be responding to them. Ever. And that to call without a purpose is a waste of my time. I explain that if I’m in a meeting my phone is on vibrate so as not to disturb the flow of the meeting… and therefore I will not answer calls during said meeting either. Should my friends need me, but I haven’t answered the phone, they can text me the purpose of their call. I have no problems texting back, provided it does not interrupt the meeting. Or, if needed, I will return their call when I am free again. And lastly, I took the route of saying that it is impolite to abruptly hang up the call without warning. Perhaps the other party had more they wished to communicate… and thus more credit is wasted in calling back than waiting a few seconds to say goodbye. I also may have exaggerated in saying there is bad luck in not saying goodbye to someone. To not wish them a good day is to assure that something bad will happen to them on that day. And while this may not be entirely true, it does seem to have worked.
And now my friends and work partners call when they need something; we discuss it quickly and then say our goodbyes. They text when I am unreachable. And some of them have even caught on to the ease of texting the entire conversation. Say all you need to say in one quick note. Done. The Senegalese seem to respond well to the logic that texting uses less credit than a phone call. And since texting has caught on so well with my family, as a quick means of communicating where I'm going and when I'll be home, it was a huge relief when I was able to take it one step further and notify them of my whereabouts via Skype (Bamm! No credit necessary).
In conclusion, little by little I am leaving my mark on Senegal. Even if it's only one phone call at a time, the majority of my phone interactions have significantly improved in quality. And dare I say cost as well?
Wednesday, June 2
Pilgrimage
The annual catholic pilgrimage to Popenguine is quite the experience. I began my own pilgrimage on Saturday afternoon. I took the normal sept place to Thies and in doing so discovered a Pulaar man, who spoke no French and Wolof that seemed only slightly better than mine, also headed to Popenguine. At the garage in Thies, I would have normally gotten in another car to Mbour, which is a destination farther along the same route, and paid full price only to get out early and take a small taxi car to the beach. Instead, with help from the Pulaar man, I was escorted to another smaller garage, a ten minute walk through town, which hosted car rapides- like a large conversion van outfitted with too many bench seats to be comfortable- directly to the small town I would’ve gotten out at anyway. Doing this saved me 25% of the travel cost I was willing to pay. Score! It paid to be friendly with the elderly man, even though we couldn’t communicate. This would also serve as a sign to the light hearted atmosphere I was about to encounter during the event.
At the small road town of Sindia, I utilized a gendarme escort to cross the main road. Traffic was beginning to back up and people were crowding the streets looking for transportation to the beach. Even after crossing, a fight broke out and I found myself attempting to duck out of the way by jumping further into the street. It was nothing major, just a simple fight over open seats on another car rapide, and it was over in under a minute. At this point another kind person took notice and escorted me to a taxi with an open seat… and off to Popenguine we went.
In town, I utilized my knowledge of my previous visits to navigate through the hundreds of booths, tents and promotional stands that were half constructed to the far side of town where my friend was waiting for me at the bar with a cold beer. Relaxing and making future plans with his friend the tailor, we enjoyed our beers until it was time for dinner back at my friend’s house. We ate some truly amazing meal of chicken with veggies and just as we finished some mango slices for dessert another friend arrived in town. Back on the street we found grilled pork sandwiches and tried a new beer in Senegal called “33,” with a taste in between the current two- Gazelle (my favorite- like a light beer) and Flag (like a wheat beer). We continued to walk around town to checkout restaurant tents, watering holes, and promotional booths that we’d have to come back to the next day. The vendors of said booths were already fast asleep on the streets in blankets or tents made of rice sack bags.
We grabbed some fresh bottles of palm wine. It comes from the local palm trees (of which there are apparently many versions and I can’t tell you which gives wine and which gives dates, but I’ll get there someday). At first it takes like a sweet juice… but the longer it sits the more it ferments and before you know it a bitter tasting liquid is getting you very drunk very quickly. We took it to the beach, which I’m told is closed off for the weekend because people get drunk and end up trying to swim (when they apparently can’t) and drown. Somehow, we got down there for a moonlight gaze at the ocean. We continued to walk around the quiet, sleeping town and bought 3 more bottles of palm wine for the next day before calling it quits.
After a hot night’s sleep in my friends packed house (apparently every family member brought a handful of their friends for the event), it was back to the town to experience the pilgrimage. We started by hitting up the local cell phone company booth to look for free t-shirts (that would come “later”) and then quit pretending we weren't in it for the booze and found some beers. We pulled up plastic chairs and hung out with a view of the ocean and some cold drinks. People all around were still setting up for the fete. As afternoon came another friend arrived by car and we decided to grab some lunch; yassa pork and grilled pork. It felt great to eat pig again! We walked around some more, drank some more, and ate more sandwiches. In all honesty, it felt like tailgating. So naturally, we took a ‘post game’ nap. Upon waking up, we found that the walkers had started to arrive.
People walk from all over the area to Popenguine each year; arriving in packs from Dakar, the Delta region, and even from the north. The event is apparently well organized, as you pay an entry fee at your respective take off point which gets you a badge, free meals, transportation of your baggage, and tent space in Popenguine (Hello, Breast Cancer 3-day walk, are you hearing this? Senegal has organization skills. Think about it). The people walk because apparently a while back someone did this from Dakar to Popenguine and upon arriving saw the “Black Mary.” Yeah, I don’t know what that could possibly implicate, but as they found it an enjoyable experience so be it. The event has grown over the years so as to make necessary the following: organized walking (as described above), permanent infrastructure (in which to conduct mass for the masses), and even the printing of event t-shirts and other souvenirs. Port-o-potties (which I have never seen in country before this), massive amounts of pork and beer, and all the largest companies in country played a role in our entertainment.
We went to my friend’s favorite watering hole in the afternoon, sat on the roof (with more beer, is it possible?) and waited for our friends who were walking. Curiously, they were both female. Girls can walk farther than guys in Africa too? (Dearest 3-day organizers, seriously, are you listening to this?) We waited for the sun to set and started in on the sandwiches once again. We headed to the church and the market to view the merchandise… it is possible to purchase a glowing (even blinking- Vegas style) statue of the Virgin Mary. Score! One also found t-shirts proclaiming that “without Jesus there is no life,” and that Jesus wants you to “come to me.” They ran out of pink, so I choose to pass on purchasing one.
Later, we stopped by midnight mass. Thousands of people crowded under and around the cement pavilion built on top of a hill for this occasion. Multiple sets of sound systems were set up to broadcast someone I couldn’t actually locate. Mass was in French.
We went looking for a party, so headed to the beach once more, which was littered with couples doing things I didn’t care to investigate. Back during training we rented a house on the water and that night we wandered back to it. Apparently some people had rented it out, turned it into a club, and were open to a small group of white people crashing the party. Good times, with good music, until someone started throwing bottles and we got out quickly. And on the way home we got more sandwiches. Are you surprised?
The next day, it became clear there were too many people in the house as everyone went to shower in one bathroom. It was the first time I saw a squat toilet overflow. I have no idea how one fixes that (and I’m told it’s still a problem over a week later). People dressed to impress as they went to morning mass at 10a. More people than the night before attended the event. We couldn’t even get near the pavilion there were so many thousands of people. Someone had even organized the local boys/girls scouts to act as first aid… which we witnessed in action as they carried a passed out (probably dehydrated) pilgrim into a tent with a red cross on it. (3-day people, this is not your last chance, but come on!)
We walked around town some more checking out the souvenir merchandise and tasted a new promotional milk (it’s a big breakfast drink of choice). Mass went from 10 to lunch, then was to recommence until mid-afternoon. Intense, no? In an effort to beat the traffic, we left town around noon. Our final round of sandwiches was consumed as we hiked to the garage outside of town. There we negotiated a small taxi to drive us to Dakar (we were going for PC training the following day), and though he said he had to be back at a certain time, the driver was happy to oblige. Half way there, he decided he needed to turn around so he pulled over, bargained another taxi, paid the man, and helped us transfer to the new car… which drove us straight to the Peace Corps house. Best ride to Dakar by public transport I’ve ever had. And we even missed all the traffic! It was another awesome experience.
At the small road town of Sindia, I utilized a gendarme escort to cross the main road. Traffic was beginning to back up and people were crowding the streets looking for transportation to the beach. Even after crossing, a fight broke out and I found myself attempting to duck out of the way by jumping further into the street. It was nothing major, just a simple fight over open seats on another car rapide, and it was over in under a minute. At this point another kind person took notice and escorted me to a taxi with an open seat… and off to Popenguine we went.
In town, I utilized my knowledge of my previous visits to navigate through the hundreds of booths, tents and promotional stands that were half constructed to the far side of town where my friend was waiting for me at the bar with a cold beer. Relaxing and making future plans with his friend the tailor, we enjoyed our beers until it was time for dinner back at my friend’s house. We ate some truly amazing meal of chicken with veggies and just as we finished some mango slices for dessert another friend arrived in town. Back on the street we found grilled pork sandwiches and tried a new beer in Senegal called “33,” with a taste in between the current two- Gazelle (my favorite- like a light beer) and Flag (like a wheat beer). We continued to walk around town to checkout restaurant tents, watering holes, and promotional booths that we’d have to come back to the next day. The vendors of said booths were already fast asleep on the streets in blankets or tents made of rice sack bags.
We grabbed some fresh bottles of palm wine. It comes from the local palm trees (of which there are apparently many versions and I can’t tell you which gives wine and which gives dates, but I’ll get there someday). At first it takes like a sweet juice… but the longer it sits the more it ferments and before you know it a bitter tasting liquid is getting you very drunk very quickly. We took it to the beach, which I’m told is closed off for the weekend because people get drunk and end up trying to swim (when they apparently can’t) and drown. Somehow, we got down there for a moonlight gaze at the ocean. We continued to walk around the quiet, sleeping town and bought 3 more bottles of palm wine for the next day before calling it quits.
After a hot night’s sleep in my friends packed house (apparently every family member brought a handful of their friends for the event), it was back to the town to experience the pilgrimage. We started by hitting up the local cell phone company booth to look for free t-shirts (that would come “later”) and then quit pretending we weren't in it for the booze and found some beers. We pulled up plastic chairs and hung out with a view of the ocean and some cold drinks. People all around were still setting up for the fete. As afternoon came another friend arrived by car and we decided to grab some lunch; yassa pork and grilled pork. It felt great to eat pig again! We walked around some more, drank some more, and ate more sandwiches. In all honesty, it felt like tailgating. So naturally, we took a ‘post game’ nap. Upon waking up, we found that the walkers had started to arrive.
People walk from all over the area to Popenguine each year; arriving in packs from Dakar, the Delta region, and even from the north. The event is apparently well organized, as you pay an entry fee at your respective take off point which gets you a badge, free meals, transportation of your baggage, and tent space in Popenguine (Hello, Breast Cancer 3-day walk, are you hearing this? Senegal has organization skills. Think about it). The people walk because apparently a while back someone did this from Dakar to Popenguine and upon arriving saw the “Black Mary.” Yeah, I don’t know what that could possibly implicate, but as they found it an enjoyable experience so be it. The event has grown over the years so as to make necessary the following: organized walking (as described above), permanent infrastructure (in which to conduct mass for the masses), and even the printing of event t-shirts and other souvenirs. Port-o-potties (which I have never seen in country before this), massive amounts of pork and beer, and all the largest companies in country played a role in our entertainment.
We went to my friend’s favorite watering hole in the afternoon, sat on the roof (with more beer, is it possible?) and waited for our friends who were walking. Curiously, they were both female. Girls can walk farther than guys in Africa too? (Dearest 3-day organizers, seriously, are you listening to this?) We waited for the sun to set and started in on the sandwiches once again. We headed to the church and the market to view the merchandise… it is possible to purchase a glowing (even blinking- Vegas style) statue of the Virgin Mary. Score! One also found t-shirts proclaiming that “without Jesus there is no life,” and that Jesus wants you to “come to me.” They ran out of pink, so I choose to pass on purchasing one.
Later, we stopped by midnight mass. Thousands of people crowded under and around the cement pavilion built on top of a hill for this occasion. Multiple sets of sound systems were set up to broadcast someone I couldn’t actually locate. Mass was in French.
We went looking for a party, so headed to the beach once more, which was littered with couples doing things I didn’t care to investigate. Back during training we rented a house on the water and that night we wandered back to it. Apparently some people had rented it out, turned it into a club, and were open to a small group of white people crashing the party. Good times, with good music, until someone started throwing bottles and we got out quickly. And on the way home we got more sandwiches. Are you surprised?
The next day, it became clear there were too many people in the house as everyone went to shower in one bathroom. It was the first time I saw a squat toilet overflow. I have no idea how one fixes that (and I’m told it’s still a problem over a week later). People dressed to impress as they went to morning mass at 10a. More people than the night before attended the event. We couldn’t even get near the pavilion there were so many thousands of people. Someone had even organized the local boys/girls scouts to act as first aid… which we witnessed in action as they carried a passed out (probably dehydrated) pilgrim into a tent with a red cross on it. (3-day people, this is not your last chance, but come on!)
We walked around town some more checking out the souvenir merchandise and tasted a new promotional milk (it’s a big breakfast drink of choice). Mass went from 10 to lunch, then was to recommence until mid-afternoon. Intense, no? In an effort to beat the traffic, we left town around noon. Our final round of sandwiches was consumed as we hiked to the garage outside of town. There we negotiated a small taxi to drive us to Dakar (we were going for PC training the following day), and though he said he had to be back at a certain time, the driver was happy to oblige. Half way there, he decided he needed to turn around so he pulled over, bargained another taxi, paid the man, and helped us transfer to the new car… which drove us straight to the Peace Corps house. Best ride to Dakar by public transport I’ve ever had. And we even missed all the traffic! It was another awesome experience.
Sunday, May 30
Fun (Unsubstantiated) Tourism Facts
Facts I learned in Eco-Tourism Conference this past week. They were given by various departments of the Senegalese government, though we don't know how the information was collected and if any of it can be substantiated.
1) 800,000 potential tourists entered Senegal last year but only 34% spend the night.
2) 90% of tourists to Africa go to the Northern, Eastern, and Southern regions. 10% of tourists go to the Western and Central regions.
3) 50% of tourists come to Senegal for the beach.
4) 30% of tourists stay in Dakar; 30% stay in Thies.
5) Senegal plans to have capacity for over 2,000,000 visitors by 2020. 1,500,000 by 2015.
6) Tourism grows by 5% a year, but eco-tourism grows by 20 -34% a year.
7) Hotels are currently at 35% bed capacity now but expansion of hotels and resorts, etc continues in Senegal. Break even is at 30% bed capacity.
8) Bed capacity is a unit of measuring that comes from African culture of sharing everything. (Americans rent by the room, and then fill rooms). Rooms are rented by person by night, though you will get your own room if travelling alone.
9) 481 guides in Senegal have official government certification to be a guide.
10) 10 types of eco-tourism certifications exists for the lodging industry; 3 unique to Africa.
1) 800,000 potential tourists entered Senegal last year but only 34% spend the night.
2) 90% of tourists to Africa go to the Northern, Eastern, and Southern regions. 10% of tourists go to the Western and Central regions.
3) 50% of tourists come to Senegal for the beach.
4) 30% of tourists stay in Dakar; 30% stay in Thies.
5) Senegal plans to have capacity for over 2,000,000 visitors by 2020. 1,500,000 by 2015.
6) Tourism grows by 5% a year, but eco-tourism grows by 20 -34% a year.
7) Hotels are currently at 35% bed capacity now but expansion of hotels and resorts, etc continues in Senegal. Break even is at 30% bed capacity.
8) Bed capacity is a unit of measuring that comes from African culture of sharing everything. (Americans rent by the room, and then fill rooms). Rooms are rented by person by night, though you will get your own room if travelling alone.
9) 481 guides in Senegal have official government certification to be a guide.
10) 10 types of eco-tourism certifications exists for the lodging industry; 3 unique to Africa.
Wednesday, May 26
The Day The Music Died
Someone once asked me what I was most afraid of. I remember that I was far from home, traveling with my sister, and asked by a friend of a friend that I barely knew. I had never given much thought this; more serious people would probably say death or failure. And without thinking about it, just knowing it to be true, I replied that my biggest fear was a lack of good music.
Death and failure are certain. Their magnitude and exact moments may not be, but they themselves are inevitable. I know I will die one day. This is why I have legal documents drafted. And why I often tell my family and friends how I care for them. I also know that I will fail. I will fail to do well on a test, or fail to get a job. I will fail at a match of tennis, and I will fail to always please my father. But I’m sure that all the times I fail, I will pick myself up again and go on to do bigger and better things. Understand these certainties, do the best you can to work with them, but don’t bother being afraid.
So I fear a lack of music; the day the music died. Not the supposed day of a plane crash killing musicians Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and The Big Bopper, as Don MacLean’s “American Pie” leads one to believe. I fear the day when I turn on the radio and can’t find a single station playing a single song I can appreciate. Without something enjoyable, the silence seems unbearably scary.
I think about how some of the most important things I’ve done with my life have been accompanied by my own mental sound track. When I spent a summer in California… I think of John Mayer driving on the highway. I think of not having a single picture from that summer because of the song 3x5. I think about his August concert at UC Berkley; the feel of the concrete stadium seats. I think of my favorite quote “Everybody is just a stranger, but that’s the danger in going my own way…”
When I spent a semester in Italy… I think of Linkin Park on a crowded bus where the old lady is surprised equally by the harshness of the music overflowing from my ears and my act of kindness in offering her my seat another language. Perhaps I’m just as surprised? Or walking the streets at night past unbelievable monuments listening to a playlist I’d made for a boyfriend long gone away, knowing that both the sites and the boy would be forever imprinted in my mind.
But it’s not just the big stepping stones. It’s the holidays and everydays. When I hear Taps, I remember the trumpets, piloted by friends, emanating from various locations in the cemetery on Memorial Day. I remember the grey clouds in the sky. And I feel the starch in my marching uniform. I feel sorrow for my long gone grandfather. Then there are the lyrics that, when heard, will transport me to a moment in time where I see someone else enjoying a birthday party, a special dinner, an afternoon in the car, a dance at prom…
And for every moment I can remember, there are so many more that are just barely forgotten. I know that throughout my life there have been so many countless moments where I was overcome with feeling because of a song. Or, even better, I was affected some other life stimulant… and became utterly content to find a song that perfectly matched that feeling.
But it isn’t just about the past. When I applied to Peace Corps, I kept telling them that music was my coping mechanism. “And, what else?” they’d say. I get that it’s not an end all- cure all but it’s a very powerful tool to have in the repertoire. When culture clashes, insects and reptiles, food, and heat threaten my inner cool… I resort to my headphones. When the states, my family and friends, and my previous life feels too far away to be real… I resort to my headphones. And it helps.
Music, a perfectly matched song, is like a companion; my best friend. When I am happy, it will share my enthusiasm. When I am alone, we are alone together. When I am angry, music will drum the anger away. When I am sad, it will compel me to pick myself up and sway. For every difficulty that I face, no matter where I rest my head on this earth, I know that music will follow. Or at least I can bring my headphones with me.
I suppose this means I'm not really afraid of anything... but I doubt that.
Death and failure are certain. Their magnitude and exact moments may not be, but they themselves are inevitable. I know I will die one day. This is why I have legal documents drafted. And why I often tell my family and friends how I care for them. I also know that I will fail. I will fail to do well on a test, or fail to get a job. I will fail at a match of tennis, and I will fail to always please my father. But I’m sure that all the times I fail, I will pick myself up again and go on to do bigger and better things. Understand these certainties, do the best you can to work with them, but don’t bother being afraid.
So I fear a lack of music; the day the music died. Not the supposed day of a plane crash killing musicians Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and The Big Bopper, as Don MacLean’s “American Pie” leads one to believe. I fear the day when I turn on the radio and can’t find a single station playing a single song I can appreciate. Without something enjoyable, the silence seems unbearably scary.
I think about how some of the most important things I’ve done with my life have been accompanied by my own mental sound track. When I spent a summer in California… I think of John Mayer driving on the highway. I think of not having a single picture from that summer because of the song 3x5. I think about his August concert at UC Berkley; the feel of the concrete stadium seats. I think of my favorite quote “Everybody is just a stranger, but that’s the danger in going my own way…”
When I spent a semester in Italy… I think of Linkin Park on a crowded bus where the old lady is surprised equally by the harshness of the music overflowing from my ears and my act of kindness in offering her my seat another language. Perhaps I’m just as surprised? Or walking the streets at night past unbelievable monuments listening to a playlist I’d made for a boyfriend long gone away, knowing that both the sites and the boy would be forever imprinted in my mind.
But it’s not just the big stepping stones. It’s the holidays and everydays. When I hear Taps, I remember the trumpets, piloted by friends, emanating from various locations in the cemetery on Memorial Day. I remember the grey clouds in the sky. And I feel the starch in my marching uniform. I feel sorrow for my long gone grandfather. Then there are the lyrics that, when heard, will transport me to a moment in time where I see someone else enjoying a birthday party, a special dinner, an afternoon in the car, a dance at prom…
And for every moment I can remember, there are so many more that are just barely forgotten. I know that throughout my life there have been so many countless moments where I was overcome with feeling because of a song. Or, even better, I was affected some other life stimulant… and became utterly content to find a song that perfectly matched that feeling.
But it isn’t just about the past. When I applied to Peace Corps, I kept telling them that music was my coping mechanism. “And, what else?” they’d say. I get that it’s not an end all- cure all but it’s a very powerful tool to have in the repertoire. When culture clashes, insects and reptiles, food, and heat threaten my inner cool… I resort to my headphones. When the states, my family and friends, and my previous life feels too far away to be real… I resort to my headphones. And it helps.
Music, a perfectly matched song, is like a companion; my best friend. When I am happy, it will share my enthusiasm. When I am alone, we are alone together. When I am angry, music will drum the anger away. When I am sad, it will compel me to pick myself up and sway. For every difficulty that I face, no matter where I rest my head on this earth, I know that music will follow. Or at least I can bring my headphones with me.
I suppose this means I'm not really afraid of anything... but I doubt that.
Sunday, May 23
Sept Place Satire
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.
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.
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
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