In Case You Missed It Last Time

Just in case you have a few extra dollars burning a hole in your pocket this summer and are looking for a needy peace corps volunteer to support, I've just written another grant! It's pretty much the same as last time, turning scary holes in the ground into functional and less terrifying wells. This time I'm doing it in the village next to mine at the request of the community health worker there. This project should double the number of people in the area with access to cleaner water and is coming just in time for the rainy season - when surface runoff and debris cause an increase in contamination of unprotected wells.

My site mate Missy Orr, a sustainable agriculture volunteer, lives in Salamata and has been working on this project along with a few other health-related endeavors with me this year.

Here's the link to our project page: http://appropriateprojects.com/node/1190

Part II: Prudence Savage Animals

The second leg of Bike Trip: Kedougou involved catching an early morning car to the city of Tambacounda. From there we hit the pavement for a 228km ride south. Starting a bike trip at 10:30am during the tail end of hot season is not ideal, but we made good time and rode about 65km plus a lengthy mid-day nap. Our first stop was in the town of Dialokoto, where we found a nice gentleman who agreed to host us in his compound for the night. One of the nicest things about the Senegalese is their hospitality. The nicest thing about our new friend Ibrahima was the delicious dinner he gave us, in addition to the hut he let us sleep in when torrential rains began.

Our chariot from Part I of the Bike Epic

The next day was our endurance trial. A large portion of the Kedougou region is taken up by the Niokolo Koba National Park, which is bisected by the national highway. Although authorities claim there are all sorts of savage animals (lions, baboons, warthog, genies) we pressed on. One guard we met about halfway through the park tried to convince us - while standing next to a rolled over minivan - that biking was too treacherous and we should wait for a car to take us the rest of the way. Our argument that cars in this country are more dangerous than the park's three lions was persuasive enough and he let us go on our way. A few hours later we met that same guard while resting at a checkpoint and feeding the friendly monkeys and warthogs the park guards let hang around. The afternoon brought the first of Kedougou's many hills as we powered through the last of 123km. That night we happened upon a serene little campement (rustic hotel) on the Gambia River.

Our last day was a relatively short 40km but included more hills than I've ever ridden in a morning. We passed numerous trucks broken down on the steep inclines, but the scenery was beautiful and the freshly paved road made the ride less painful.

Prudence: Savage Animals

Mission Accomplished

 After 300km of riding, it was a relief to see the final mile marker and reach the Peace Corps house. After a day of recovery, I went with a group out to the well known waterfalls of Segu and Dindefello for 2 days of hiking and lounging in the mountains. Overall is was a great week topped off by a memorable 4th of July party.

Part I: You Shall Not Pass

Every year, the volunteers in the Kedougou region of Senegal host a few days of fun and festivities for the Fourth of July. There's something about being abroad (and pseudo working for the US government) that makes volunteers excessively patriotic on national holidays, this one especially. Kedougou is easily the most beautiful of Senegal with lush forests, rolling hills and picturesque waterfalls. This year, some friends and I decided to leave a few days early and take the long way south...by bicycle.

The original plan involved leaving the comfortable pavement of the national highway to bushwack our own more exciting path. The first two days involved 70km of dirt road cruising and a less than successful interaction with Guinean border patrol. Once our entry was denied, we caused a minor international incident when we decided to hop on a camion (really big truck) filled with fruit for a 5 hour ride back to the national highway. After about an hour of waiting and negotiations we were on our way on top of a container of citrus with a dozen Guineans. Apparently, the guards didn't want us to get on the truck "in case it rolled over," but I suspect they were just looking for an easy bribe.

Hours later, we rolled into the trading city of Diaobe - home of the largest open air market in West Africa each and every Wednesday. From there we caught another car to crash at another volunteer's house before starting the second leg of our journey.

Brotherly Love

My one year anniversary in Sare Sara (only 10 more months!) was marked by my second family member to visit. Shortly after quitting his job in preparation for business school, my brother Charlie hopped on a plane and made his way to Dakar. After a few moments of craziness at the airport, I let him catch a few hours rest before we headed straight to the beach for jet lag recovery and relaxation. Once Charlie was fully on Senegalese time and able to eat whole fish - bones and all - while avoiding beach hawkers, we headed to Kolda.

We spent three nights in village, with lots of greeting and awkward handshaking. A few other volunteers stopped by to hang out and partake in classic hot season activities - sitting in the shade and sweating. Upon arriving out first day, Omar first announced that Charlie would be named after him and then proudly showed us the ram he wanted to kill for lunch. My attempts to spare the creature's life were unsuccessful, so it was three days of sheep for us. Charlie did great with all the food - even when one dinner bowl was opened to reveal a giant pile of intestines. Yum.

After village, Charlie got to see what life is like for Kolda volunteers in our downtime at the regional house (settlers of catan, warm beer, crashing hotel pools) and meet another handful of PCV friends. For our second week, we made a two day trek up to the far northwest corner of Senegal to the city of St. Louis, the former capital of French West Africa, where there is an annual international jazz festival. Although we missed the festival weekend by a day, we did get to enjoy the beach, good food and more volunteer socializing. Our last day was spent in Dakar visiting Goree Island (along with every 7th grader in the city) and sampling the best ice cream in country.

All in all we had a fun time and I successfully played tour guide while convincing Charlie I can actually speak French (not true). He put up with a fair amount of confusion, hours of painful transportation and less than tidy accommodations without complaint. I'm glad that now 2/3 of my immediate family have made it to Sare Sara and will have some idea of what I'm rambling out when I return home.

Paint by Numbers

It's hot season (actually it's rainy season now, but it was hot season when I originally wrote this), thus the perfect time to paint. A few weeks ago my neighbor Missy and I went to town sprucing up the health hut in her village, which is also the closest health facility to my town. Missy painted a delightful scene of mother, child and demonic mosquitoes. I depicted the virtues of family planning by showing that less children = nice clothes. Check them out...

I'm Still Here!

After two months of radio silence, I promise I am still alive and kicking in Senegal. It has been an incredibly busy couple of months as I round the corner on my second year of service. Everyone says you spend your first year twiddling your thumbs waiting for something to happen, then the second year hustling to keep up with too many projects. My second year has definitely started at a run, and it's nice to feel busy.

I promise I actually have been writing posts, they just haven't made it from paper to published. Here's my attempt to flood the blogosphere with what's happened the last two months.

Minding My Tea's and Q's

After legendary singer-songwriter Akon and traditional wrestling, there is nothing my Senegalese friends enjoy so much as drinking Attaya, or tea. The tea ceremony is long and elaborate, mostly an excuse to sit in the shade during the heat of the afternoon (or morning, or evening). I never got very far in the book Three Cups of Tea (he was still lost in the mountains when I gave it up), so for those of you like me here’s a play-by-play of drinking tea:

1. Debate who will buy the tea or hope your guest has brought some (as all good guests should)

2. Send one child in search of the forno (small coal stove), another in search of a the tea set (a small pot and two shot glasses) and a third hunting for lit coals.

3. Arrange all equipment under a mango tree. Wait for water to boil.

4. Add matchbox size package of loose tea leaves. Albarka is the preferred brand in our house, but I can’t tell the difference between any of them. Wait a while longer.

5. Add one full shot glass of sugar. Boil more.

6. Remove the pot from the coal, tap on the group, let sit, do other seemingly pointless gestures to ensure liquid doesn’t boil over.

7. Commence pouring. Amaze friends and neighbors by pouring tea back and forth between the shot glasses and kettle from unimaginable heights. This is ostensibly done to mix and cool the tea, and to create foam within the cups, but I think it just showing off.

8. Return tea to the kettle. Let sit a few more minutes.

9. Pour out shots of tea and have one of the aforementioned children pass them around. Guests (and me) drink first.

10. Repeat for second and third rounds, keeping the same leaves but adding more sugar each time. Rounds move from bitter to sickly sweet (2^nd round is the crowd favorite). Variations include: adding fresh mint leaves, basil leaves, crushed up breath mints or vanilla powder.

Earlier this year I took an anti-tea stand, as some volunteers choose to do. Some just don’t enjoy mainlining sugar but others make it a principled protest. Tea is a waste of money. The 200 CFA (about 50 cents) for each box and sugar is the same as it costs to see the doctor at the health post. When people tell me they have no money for medicine, the easiest rebuttal is to tell them to stop drinking so much tea. While my refusal to drink didn’t stop anyone else from imbibing, at least it raised the issue every time someone offered me a glass.

After a few months though, I have decided to give up my soapbox. Why? Because drinking tea with people make them so damn happy. Some people have said to me, “we don’t drink, we don’t do drugs, we don’t gamble – tea is our one big indulgence.” A fair case could be made that a larger percentage of my monthly pay is spent at the bar, so this defense isn’t entirely unreasonable (but I also don’t worry about having enough money to eat dinner). Tea really does bring people together – it provides perfect opportunities for impromptu health chats and it gives me an excuse to laze around for a few hours every afternoon. After the birth of his 8th child in 10 years my neighbor and I recently enjoyed a nice round of tea while I explained family planning options.

I have kept a few tea rules though: no drinking before lunch, only a cup before bed and just one round of three per day. I don’t want to turn into a tea-brained diabetic in my two years here. 

Well Done

The well improvement project is finally (mostly) done. Although the work itself did not take very long, events conspired and getting the last few bits done took longer than expected. In the end, instead of the planned eight wells we improved nine and only went marginally over budget. While no huge problems came up, I am no longer considering a career in construction management.

Thank you to everyone who contributed, the communities are very grateful and now I can sleep at night know we wont have a Senegalese rendition of Tikki Tikki Tembo. There’s a chance we’ll extend the project once again to the village of Salamata, where my PCV neighbor lives, but I think that will have to wait until next dry season.

Here are some shots of the finished wells and their owners…

Jouer-ing with the Boys

Let me start with a note about today’s title. First, for those of you whose french skills are a little rusty the word “jouer” both means and rhymes with the English word “play.” Like, to play soccer. Second, remember that scene in Top Gun where they were playing beach volleyball? The song during that iconic scene is “Playing with the Boys.”

Despite Senegal’s overwhelming Muslim majority, school vacation is still planned around Easter week. That meant all of my favorite high school boys/23 year old seniors were back in town wreaking havoc and drinking tea. Long time readers may remember last summer when I debated the appropriate-ness of hanging around with the young men in my village, but forged on in my friend-finding mission. While I’ve successfully broadened my social bubble in the last few months (real friends! women! little kids too!) it was nice to have the whole gang of guys back in town for a few days.

Since there’s not much to do in village over break, the guys organize an informal soccer game every evening. I have often joked about playing, but have never joined. Until now. One night last week I took up the offer to suit up. I’ve played soccer only a handful of times in the last decade, so I prayed not to make a total fool of myself. Despite taking 20 minutes to realize where the goals were (apparently not the usual big goal posts but two small sets of sticks) and almost the entire game to figure out who was on my team, I managed to hold my own. I stole the ball from a number of the best players (including my younger host brother, who was not pleased) and performed the only successful header of my soccer-playing life. I think my success was 10% skill and 90% “oh god, why is she running straight at me” panic from boys who’ve never played co-ed sports. I had the aforementioned Top Gun soundtrack song playing in my head pretty much the whole game (not to mention all the guys here are pretty buff so it was like that scene in more ways than just the fading sunlight and sandy playing field).

The news of my soccer prowess swept the town and soon everyone had heard. Omar, my pseudo-host dad/uncle and counterpart, often says nice things to me about my work (undeserved, but I’ll take it) but that night he turned to me and said, “Koumba, now everyone in town likes you. The women, the children and the guys.” As usual, the way to people’s hearts here is to make a fool of myself.

Despite the fun of the game, I’m not sure I’ll be reprising my role as left midfielder any time soon. The guys go back to school next week and after an hour of running on sand my legs were ready to stage a Malian-style coup of their own - plus biking 85 kilometers the next day left me fairly crippled for the rest of the week and physically unable to re-join the game. Maybe over the summer I’ll start to play regularly and even get a spot on the squad for the next multi-village soccer tournament. That would really throw the competition off their game.

Wrap It Up

Check out my friend Dave's post about a sexual health event we did in his site last weekend. Condoms, birth control and theater - fun!

http://seneglove.wordpress.com/2012/03/18/wrapping-things-up/

When Cows Cry

In addition to the mourning cries of women, I heard another type of wailing for the first time this week. Cows. Apparently, when cows see an animal skin they “cry.” This uniquely disturbing noise started at about midnight as our herd caught sight of the drying skins from lunch. From the noise I was convinced a hyena was attacking our livestock, but no – just the mourning cries of cattle. Who knew.

Four Days and a Funeral

Day 1

A few days before I left for Christmas vacation my Senegalese host-Grandmother Nene Hawa - who in truth can’t be much older than my real mother – fell ill and was in the hospital. By the time I returned she was back home, but frail. For my mother’s visit she was named after this grandma - Hawa Kande (Omar’s mom) - but due to her weakened condition the two Hawa’s never met. For the last few months she seemed to be on the mend, with her younger sister and caretaker planning to return to Dakar any day.

Last Saturday, Nene Hawa’s condition took a turn and she was bed ridden once more. On Sunday afternoon we ate “sajaka” – a symbolic meal that is supposed to bring health to the ill. “When the rice is gone, she won’t be sick anymore,” I was told. That night the family sat as usual after dinner, but the mood was noticeably subdued. Monday afternoon, after an unusually productive morning of gardening, I heard sniffles coming from outside. It was obvious that Nene Hawa had passed away.

The truth is, I don’t know what to say when these situations happen in America, since “I’m sorry” always sounds wrong. In Pulaar, I only know one of the cliché mourning phrases, so I am literally at a loss for words. On a few occasions I just reverted to English condolences, concluding it's better to say something in the wrong language than nothing at all. To say I felt awkward is an understatement. For a while we sat under the mango tree, the men making phone calls and the women trickling into the compound. Then the wailing began. One woman – a sister in law – began the full bellied mourning call. Almost immediately, dozens of women joined in and swarmed together, engulfing me in spine tingling ululations. I can’t tell if there are words beneath the sobs, but the meaning behind them was intelligible to any ear.

Over the next hour or so, it seemed every woman in town came to sit, wail and offer words. The men sat stoically on their own mats under a nearby tree. Cell phones have revolutionized the news spreading process – calls are made to every surrounding village and relatives near and far.

I am often faced with situations in which I don’t know how to act, since "American polite" and "Senegalese polite" can be polar opposites. I wanted to stay out of the way, but it seemed rude to go to my room. Usually it’s easy enough to ask for an impromptu etiquette lesson, but it didn’t seem like an appropriate time.

Day Two

I’m not sure if anyone left Monday night. By the time I was up Tuesday morning, the courtyard of our compound was as packed as the night before. The day proceeded along the same lines: sitting, staring, small talk. While Monday I had recognized most of the people filing through to pay their respects, by mid-morning Tuesday it was a sea of unfamiliar faces. I passed a majority of the morning sitting with the women and taking breaks to hide in my douche (shower/bathroom) to read where no one could see me. Sitting on your bathroom floor to avoid detection is a new low in anti-social avoidance.

By noon I had donned my complet (full dress outfit) and reassumed my seat on the mats. The problem I have with small talking strangers – especially the elderly – is that their Pulaar is significantly more difficult to understand. Each village has its own vocabulary and idiomatic phrases of choice. My villagers mostly know what I know and help me out a little. Strangers don’t do this. Beyond being unable to speak coherently with most of our guests, those with whom I can converse generally pick one of four topics to discuss: 1. What happened to your dog? 2. Why don’t you have a husband? 3. Where’s Issa (Martin)? 4. Teach me English. There are only so many places I can go with each of these.

One of the many impressive skills of Senegalese women is the ability to cook for large numbers of people. It seems every female over the age of 15 knows how to cook in a 50 gallon caldron with a 4 foot mixing stick. Despite the huge amount of work that needed to be done I am 100% useless in this arena and stayed far away from the fire. While Monday was noticeably lacking in food, a grand feast was prepared for lunch Tuesday (and then again Wednesday and Thursday) – animal sacrifices included. After lunch (~3pm) all of the men gathered together for prayer. Post-prayer we ate a little more, including kolda nuts and chobal – a chalky ball of pounded rice, water and sugar that is eaten at baptisms. Finally by 5 the crowds thinned but a large cohort of out-of -towners stayed for the night and the socializing continued well into the night.

Days 3 and 4

For two more days we continued to sit, eat, drink tea and pray. I still don’t understand the physics of housing two dozen guests in our compound, but by the time I left Friday morning, mostly everyone had returned home.

While some aspects of the week were significantly different from an American funeral, many were similar. I’ve never sat shiva, but I imagine it is similar to what we did. Despite the lack of any actual activity, last week was one of the most exhausting I’ve had at site and while culturally interesting, not something I hope to repeat.

Food Fight

It is said that all good marriages are alike in that these couples argue about the same thing over and over, while all unhappy marriages are different because their fights are always about something new. According to this logic, I have been happily married to my host family for 10 months. Our marriage fight revolves around one topic only – food. More specifically, our fight focuses on the amount of food that I eat. The downside of replacing a 6’2” male volunteer is that no matter how hungry I get, my powers of ingestion will always pale in comparison to his. Like many cultures, your perceived enjoyment of a meal is directly related to how much you eat not how much you compliment. And it’s not only the women who are trying to fatten me up like a Tabaski ram – in every Pulaar there is a Jewish grandmother. Unfortunately, after a year of village cuisine the novelty of rice, rice and rice has worn off. There is a finite amount of white rice my body can consume in any one sitting, a limit which falls drastically short of my family’s expectations.

So this is what we fight about. “Koumba, eat.” “I’m full.” “Koumba, eat more.” “I’m really full.” Every. Single. Meal. The argument has taken many forms as my deflection tactics have evolved from the serious to the humorous to the silent. Until recently, the daily food fight was more annoying – and occasionally funny – than truly problematic. Last week though, it was decreed that the problem is that while everyone else inhales their portions I eat much too slowly and thus am denied my proper share. This is entirely false, I eat exactly how much I want. To solve the inequality, the men decided I should get my own bowl, alone in my room.

Objectively, this should be a good solution. I can eat at my own pace, stop when I want and not share my plate with germy little boys. But this is not a good solution. I don’t eat village food because it’s good, but because of that magical process of “integration” that happens over a shared meal (also, I’m too lazy to cook). If I am going to eat rice, rice and sandy couscous I better be with other people. If anything, the solo eating experience made me eat less since no one was there to guilt me into a few more bites.

Anyway, after only a few meals on my own my family recognized my discontentment and invited me back to the big bowl. Village meals may not be cheeseburgers and ice cream sundaes, but there’s still something satisfying about plain white rice when you’re sharing it with others – and if this is the only fight I have with my family, I’ll happily stay married to them for another year.

Meet Me In Tambacounda

Meetings in Senegal are comical. I recently spent a week in Tambacounda at a USAID training where I found myself continually amused at how it was being conducted. Here is what happens at the start of every meeting I have attended in the past year:

-Rules are established. The guidelines of meeting etiquette have not been fully adopted by the Senegalese, so they must be set down a new by each group. This often includes: don’t let your phone ring, be on time, respect one another. These may also have been the rules posted in my middle school cafeteria.

-Penalties are set. If you break a rule, there will be consequences, and they will usually constitute public humiliation. You’re the regional director of water and sanitation? Doesn’t matter, you were late and now you’ve got to dance. Professionalism is not defined the same way in Senegal.

-Reports will be made. Every day a participant is chosen as “the reporter.” At the start of each morning, the reporter from the previous day must present what happened – a reading of the minutes. This reading though, invariably goes into excessive detail of events that happened barely 18 hours prior and for the same group of people who lived through them the first time.

-Fancy dress will be worn. Senegalese professional attire falls into two categories – western and traditional. Both are quite fancy and would make me feel underdressed on a good day. PCV professional attire also falls into two categories – clean and dirty (or: what I wore yesterday and what I didn’t).

So there you have it. Meetings Senegalese style: well dressed and moving at a snail’s pace but always leaving time for a “pause café” and a post-lunch nap. This is where your tax dollars are going.

Castaway

As exciting as village life can be, there are time when the isolation from outside news leaves me feeling like a ship-wrecked Tom Hanks – making conversation with sports equipment (my bike is named Jack) and writing compulsively on my cave (hut) walls. It is a fact of volunteer life that we are removed from American culture and always feel a few weeks (or months) behind the trends. With the 24/7 news cycle, stories break, peak, fade and are completely forgotten between trips into town. This is not entirely unfortunate, since stories that last only 1 issue of US Weekly are probably better missed. There are times though, when it would be nice to know what’s happening in my natal land. I by no means want to know every detail of the 2012 election, but it’s nice to know who’s in the race. I didn’t watch the Oscars, but I still want to know who won (and what they were wearing).

Anyway, the real point of this post is not to blabber about my lack of current cultural awareness but to profess my love…for podcasts. I was a novice podcast listener before Peace Corps but have recently turned into a rabid downloader of all things NPR. I don’t know if podcasts have grown in popularity over the last 12 months or if I am only now discovering the deep subculture of radio on demand.

Here are some of my current favorites and sanity savers:

-I am a longtime lover of RadioLab and spend many hours on I-95 between New York and Virginia with Jad and Robert. My only complaint is that there aren’t enough of them, so I’ve been rediscovering the early years. If you know anyone at NPR, my life dream is to read the closing credits.

-Another yuppie favorite, This American Life, is great for biking – until the episode of scary stories when you find yourself alone in the woods. Thanks Ira.

-Two other NPR releases are Fresh Air and Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me – which I imagine my mother listening to at the same time.

-My recent discoveries from Slate.com are their Gabfests, one on pop culture and the other on politics. Although I’ve rarely seen the movies they discuss and can’t watch a presidential debate, the hosts always seem to be having a great time and I invariably end up with a list of things to Google later on.

-TED talks are all the rage, and although the talks are less fun without the visuals they’re still good to hear.

-Keeping in line with my 2012 new year resolution to improve my French skills, I’ve been listening to Coffee Break French. I think it’s helping my language skills but may also be giving me a Scottish accent.

-For the public health nerd in me, there are tons of long and short episodes focused on current trends in global health released by universities and think tanks. I consider listening to these “work.”

When I just need to get away and listen to English for a little while, you can find me doing laundry or biking along with a podcast.

Video Fun

Although I've been hanging around the Kolda house all day waiting for my bike to be repaired (note to self: stop trying to do DIY bike maintenance) I have been too busy catching up on american pop-culture (aka Top Chef) to type up the blog notes I jotted down last week. I promise to have riveting new entries for your reading pleasure later this week.

In the mean time, please enjoy this gem of volunteer creativity...

Spring (or the apocalypse) is Coming!

Despite the unusually cold weather (read: 80 degrees) we've been having this month, hot season is definitely on its way. This is not entirely unfortunate because hot season has two redeeming qualities: mandatory afternoon naps and mangoes. The baby mangoes have just started to form and now my daydreams are filled with thoughts of the coming bounty.

In addition to the mangoes, it seems the apocalypse may also coming to Kolda. Due to the annual Harmattan winds, the entire Sahara desert has relocated itself in a giant cloud above Senegal. Last week the sun was partially blocked out behind thick clouds that looked either pre-blizzard and post-nuclear holocaust. I imagine it's something like what the dinosaurs saw.

Check here for an actual report of the recent weather phenomenon: http://af.reuters.com/article/topNews/idAFJOE81706Z20120208

Coming up Next...

It seems like forever ago that I wrote my last "coming soon" entry about my plans through new years (I should go back and see if I actually did it all...) but here's what's coming up through the spring:

-Finish construction on the wells

-USAID training in Tamba on behavior change and Community Lead Total Sanitation

-Begin a latrine building project with the help of USAID

-Continue monthly growth monitoring

-Initiate a Care Group to train a group of health workers in my village

-Begin a bed net education campaign before a universal bed net distribution project

-Potential Kolda-wide malaria tournee

-GAD Games: Olympics to promote gender and development

-Continue promoting homemade enriched flour and porridge

-Midservice medical appointments and assisting at training for new health volunteers in early April

-My brother comes to visit in mid-May!

At times I've felt like 2 years is an eternity, while at others it seems impossibly short. I believe the next few months will be dominated by the latter feeling.

Tuesday Night Smackdown

Last week I returned to town in time for an exciting night of traditional Senegalese wrestling, aka "sipiro." Fences were commandeered from nearby houses to create an arena, while 250 cfa - about 50 cents - bought an all access pass.

I arrive around 6:30pm to find pre-event drumming accompanied by the requisite circle of women dancing. The style of dance involves bending 45 degrees at the waist, sticking your butt out and stamping the ground with the apparent objective of kicking up as much dust as possible. Arms are either held straight out to the side or bent at the elbow like a scarecrow. Of course, I am lured into the center to make a fool of myself in yet another activity that everyone else can do with style. Thankfully, I am saved from a second round of ground stomping when the main event begins.

Sipiro is equal parts skill, showmanship and silly outfits. Amateur wrestlers, unlike their overpaid and overfed professional counterparts, are extremely fit young men with a penchant for spandex and pom pom adorned kilts. Given Sare Sara's lack of electricity, I assumed the festivities would be over by sundown. Oh how wrong I was. As the sun melted below the horizon the fun had only just begun. The first wrestler to appear could only be described as spritely as he pranced around the makeshift ring "warming up" with dramatic lunges, hops and sprints. Others followed suit until 10 or so beefy young men were circling the ring trailed by "handlers" and a whistling trio of drummers.

With no pre-arranged round robbin schedule, pairs of wrestlers began to match up seemingly at random. A bout begins with the opponents swinging their arms at each other - a sort of windmill mixed with fly swatting and bitch slapping. Then they take each other in a bent over head lock/double half nelson. This position is held for minutes at a time - what they're waiting for I couldn't tell you - until one makes a move to grab the leg/belt/skirt/neck of the other. This is when it gets exciting. Unlike professional matches which end after a few seconds (why bother fighting when the outcome is rigged anyway?), these fights went on for many minutes as the pairs attempted to trip, flip and pin each other. With no designated ring the tussling pairs frequently sent spectators leaping from their benches to avoid a rogue elbow or clod of dirt in the face. The winner need only get his opponent down for a second before taking a well deserved victory lap. With 2-3 pairs wrestling at a time it's important to keep an eye out in all directions. With the sunlight gone, a roaring bonfire was built in a corner opposite the ring from where I sat. Dust swirling in the firelight looked like mist rising from the ground and illuminated the athletes and onlookers with an eery, infernal glow. Of course, this is when I wished I had my camera.

Due to another transit strike, the merry band of wrestlers was stuck in town for a few extra days. They eyed me with obvious confusion and I wondered the physics involved in growing necks so thick.

Project Update

Construction on the wells is underway and nearing completion! All of the bricks are molded and dry, nearly all of the well heads are finished and supplies for the covers are en route. Everything should be done in a week or two, then I'll post pictures of what we've done. Thanks again to everyone who chipped in!

WAIST

After bidding goodbye to my mom - and the luxury of the Radisson Blu - I headed east to the PC training center in Thies for the annual West African All Volunteer Conference. The 2-day event brings all of Senegal's 240+ volunteers plus a handful from other countries together to discuss projects, best practices and training. It is one of the few times all of PC/Senegal gets together and is a good chance to see out of region friends. While no sessions were truly earth shattering, I saw many interesting presentations and got excited about new things to do back at site.

Before going home though, there was WAIST aka the West African Invitational Softball Tournament. This annual event is hosted by the Dakar expat community and includes teams from Peace Corps, the US Embassy, the International School of Dakar and anyone else interested in 3 days of mediocre ballgames. Each PC/Senegal region fields a themed team, while other countries take the games semi-seriously and the legitimate teams actually bother to practice beforehand. Team Kolda was themed "South of the Border/Wild West" in reference to our position south of The Gambia.

As usual, Kolda-ites ran in many directions with their costume choices but we maintained a modicum of cohesion with outfits ranging from marriachi band members and mexican peasants, cowboys and saloon girls, a taco, a pinata and Ms. Chaquita Banana. I spent the first day as "spring break cabo" and the second as "border patrol." We successfully forfeited every time. I played in just one game, wore no shoes, missed the one pop fly that came to center field and scored one run! Despite a nasty head cold that rendered me voice-less for a week, it was a great time.

Due to the influx of homeless PCVs, generous Dakar dwelling expats agreed to take many of us in for the weekend. I had a fantastic homestay with 7 other girls, a real house with hot water, TV and living room furniture. We were well fed, if not entirely well rested due to a few very late nights out.

To add to the fun of formal WAIST activities, each night is a themed party. This year we had a talent show, PC Prom and date auction, and the grand finale dance party. Despite a few broken chairs, pots, mirrors and bones it was a great time.

Dog Days Are Over

It is with great sadness that I must report the death of my blog co-host, Tigi Tigi. She was hit and killed by a passing car while I was on vacation in London, just days before my mom arrived with bags of christmas treats. My host dad did what he could, but with no "dog medicine" available, there was little to be done. It really was a May to December love affair and she will be sorely missed.

Guest Post: Nene Koumba in Senegal

After a relaxing, indulgent and only mildly culture shock inducing week in London, I returned to Senegal with mom in tow just in time to ring in 2012. We spent 11 days braving Senegalese transportation, catching our dinner in village and working on our tans in Dakar. She did geat and didn't complain once - setting the bar quite high for future visitors. Here's the guest post she wrote for me...

Katie and I traveled to her village the Peace Corps Volunteer way: by sept-place. This literally means seven-seat—it’s the number of spots in a small Renault station wagon.

Like most vehicles I saw in Senegal, both the odometer and speedometer had been disconnected, with the last recorded mileage at 585,549 kilometers. Our vehicle for the first leg of our two-day trip to Kolda

was hired at the garage of Pompier in Dakar. Garage would imply a structure, but this was an open-air trip marketplace where one seeks out a driver going to one’s destination, and then sits in the Renault until it fills with seven passengers (plus children on laps, who ride free). How to make friends with fellow passengers at Pompier? Do what we did, and purchase all the remaining seats, (in our case three extra) and the now-fully bought car leaves right away. Is the driver pleased? No. He’s paid extra for the baggage, which is tied to the roof. So with only two bags for five places sold, he’s grumpy. Cost per seat for the 500 kilometer trip: about $20.

One of our fellow passengers was a Senegalese teacher-trainer who was heading out to the provinces. The other was a young man of uncertain nationality reading a book by the Dalai Lama in Spanish. French was our common language, though the Afro-pop on the radio drowned out much conversation. After an hour or so the music became less noticeable. Outside of Dakar the dry-scrub countryside of Senegal north of the Gambia River was visible in the form of flat, dry land punctuated by baobab trees. Animal life consisted of free

-range donkeys, cows, sheep, goats and chickens as we passed through villages. A few vultures circle high overhead or roost in the larger trees. A pair of disturbingly large monkeys streak across a field as the traffic passes. The excitement of the day is provided by the condition of the road, the main paved route north of the Gambia River between Dakar and Tambacounda, the midpoint in our journey, where we will spend a night. Potholes of all shapes and depths appear at fairly regular intervals. The driver prefers not to slow down, but to play an elaborate game of chicken for several hours. He calculates the shortest, flattest route around the trucks, bikes, donkey carts called charettes, pedestrians, livestock and deep potholes. Sometimes it’s quickest to two-wheel it onto the dirt shoulder; others it’s best to plunge ahead. “I don’t look, Mom,” advises Katie from the back seat.

It’s hot, dry, dusty. The heat and sun are mitigated by the black muslim curtains hung around the back and side windows of the Renault. Sleep is possible, and then there is the PCV solution: an I-Pod filled with NPR podcasts. I catch up on “Fresh Air” and “Feakonomics.” Katie’s alone in the far back seat, enjoying videos via her hidden Netbook with earphones. Best not to flash electronics around. We arrive in eight hours.

We head to the Hotel Niji, the best in town. The restaurant and pool area are simple and pleasant, though the rooms upstairs have the look of a third-world fugitive’s safehouse. Outside groups of Talibe (TA-lee-bay) boys hunt for alms with their yellow margarine-tub begging bowls.

Poor families give their sons—ages seven through fourteen—to men who will feed and instruct them in Islam. Part of their work is to beg much of the day, usually in cities far from their families. Katie gives them food, never money. When I later inquire about the potential for abuse I’m told it is a choice made by families who cannot feed their sons.

We hunt for a cab the next morning, and they are suspiciously absent from the dirt streets. We take a horse-drawn charette to the Tambacounda garage and learn the problem.

Drivers are striking to protest the $8 a gallon fuel cost, which has recently risen. No cars to Katie’s village can be hired that day. Rocks are being thrown at drivers on the roads. We’re back at the Niji for another 24 hours. There is nothing to do, see or buy in dusty Tambacounda. Here again, technology saves the day. I continue my reading of the Steve Jobs biography on my I-Pad, and then watch the entire season of “Homeland” on Katie’s Netbook.

The following day we are successful—Katie pulls strings to hire a small pick-up truck, with a pleasant, less-aggressive driver. I don’t mind the second-hand Marlboro smoke, as it serves to mask a mix of other smells. Katie is then asked the usual question: “Have a husband?” And she gives her usual reply, “No. But my father wants 50 cows for me.” She’s too costly for our driver; a typical dowry is the value of one cow. Our trip is uneventful, and then we are flagged down by a man in military uniform. Should I be worried? No. It’s the “bush mail” system at work. The soldier needs a package dropped off some 20 minutes drive down the road. He doesn’t know the driver, but trusts it will be delivered, and it is. After three hours and 100 kilometers we arrive in Sare Sara, Katie’s village. What follows could be called “Friends: the PCV Episode.” We are met by Sharon and Dave, PC colleagues who live relatively nearby.

They’ve biked over to welcome us and catch up on PC gossip. The Kolda region’s PCVs seem to have an admirable support system, facilitated by cell phone connectivity, a comfortable regional house and frequent bike trips. We share lunch, made by Khady Diamanka, the mother in Katie’s host family. It’s fried fish balls over rice, with an excellent brown sauce. As we’re guests we get large spoons (vs. hands), but otherwise eat Senegal-style, seated on a mat and sharing a large aluminum pan. Etiquette requires no use of the left hand, and sticking to one’s own roughly defined section of the bowl. Also, conversation during the process of eating is frowned upon. One eats and then conversation recommences. All future lunches and dinners will be a variant on this formula. Rice, or pounded millet or corn meal fills the bowl. Then fish, chicken, or peanut sauce is placed on top.

I’ve reflected on my visit to Sare Sara, on what life is like for those who live on a few dollars a day. What I saw were strong extended families, and women who work from dawn to the moonlit nights. It’s said that babies are carried “a year in front; two in back,” and this is true. Infants are nursed on demand for two years, and are usually wrapped around their mother’s or aunt’s or sister’s back with two rectangular lengths of cloth. That constant connection makes them quite content. Once they are two-year-old walkers their independence begins. Except for a daily bath, which involves vigorous scrubbing by mom, they are free, and are expected to entertain themselves with friends, sibs and the free-range livestock. Cooking fires, well openings, animal droppings, road traffic and other hazards seem to be avoided with little maternal intervention. Mom is pounding grain, killing a chicken, scaling fish, hand washing garments, shelling peanuts, planting a garden, or harvesting hibiscus flowers, and has no time to hover.

Omar Diamanka, Katie’s host dad, is a local mover, fixer, entrepreneur and café owner.

From dawn to evening he’s running his roadside café, serving breakfast of peppery bean-paste on bread and tea, or fruit slices at mid-day, to travelers, mostly truckers. Many other men in the village seem to be less gainfully employed, and are found conversing at the mosque, or outside Café Omar. Early January is neither planting nor harvest season, so there’s less work for the men.

What there is always time for is greeting, and here I see Katie’s (aka Koumba) popularity. “Koumba!” is called from all sides as we enter a family compound. I was taught various greetings appropriate for the time of day: “A fini” or “Jarama” and then the all-purpose “Jamtan.” My mix-ups are cause for giggles. Everyone shakes hands, and looks you straight in the eye—it’s endearing, not formal. Omar has christened me “Hawa Kunde,” his mother’s name, and I have the fun of being the “tokara” (TOK-ara) or namesake, of several “Hawas” in the village. This gains me bonus points during the meet ‘n’ greet festivities. I see that Katie is respected, valued and genuinely liked in Sare Sara. Her Pulaar is now advanced enough to encompass good-natured jokes and necessary bargaining.

I see Katie’s connection with the young mothers of the village while I help out at a monthly baby-weighing.

The scale is hung in the branch of a mango tree, and Katie records the little squirmers’ weights, checking them against a standard growth chart.

My assistance involves taking photographs of the mothers with their infants. Later Katie will use the pictures as an incentive for future weighings.

Meanwhile many women have gathered to process hibiscus-flower heads that were harvested that day. I assist with the stripping of the fleshy red leaves (to make bisap tea) and saving of the seed-heads. My competence here pleasantly surprises some. We return to Katie’s home compound for a daily afternoon rest, reading time and the daily bucket bath. Dinner is late, after sunset.

After dinner around the fire we sat on low stools or a woven bench and enjoyed the peace and the moonlight. The women are finally at rest, their work over. There is no television or radio, no bills to pay, nothing to fix, no email to read, no preparations for the next day. The serenity of those nights of fireside conversation remains with me. I see why my daughter loves Africa.