Approved!

Hi friends,

I just got word that my well improvement grant was approved. You can check out the project specs here: http://appropriateprojects.com/node/944. Unfortunately the timing couldn't be worse since I'll be away from site until mid-January but this means I'll definitely have work to do post-vacation.

Happy December!

kp

Angst Revisited

After thinking about my “crazy train” post, hearing from other volunteers and having a particularly grumpy day in village, I realized that the irrational anger that flares up from time to time is actually something I have experienced before life in the Peace Corps. The emotion I recognize isn’t the anger triggered by a random guy hissing in the market (which I think is actually 100% valid, if somewhat blown out of proportion) but it’s the frustration I sometimes feel with my host family. They’re great, so let me explain.

My recent grumpy day was triggered by a seemingly innocent gesture – my family calling me to breakfast. Now, I don’t eat breakfast at home because 1) I don’t like Senegalese breakfast (it’s either my least favorite item – mooni – or partially reheated dinner) and 2) I don’t get to make any decisions in village regarding what, when or how much to eat so this is my little way to declare a modicum of independence. On a handful of occasions – usually when I’m being lazy and stay in bed late – I have eaten at home, but usually I head downtown for beans, bread and café (condensed milk and hot water). On this particular day, I just wasn’t in the mood to be told what to do but I obliged and drank the mooni.

After breakfast I went behind my house to do some gardening, hungry and slightly peeved. My war against the weeds isn’t going in my favor, but after an hour it was looking better. For no sane reason I like to keep a few weed bushes around for appearances, to pretend that my backyard is actually landscaped and not a forgotten wasteland. After trimming down my lawn with a machete – a process only slightly more effective than mowing your lawn with a butter knife – my dad came home to ask why I hadn’t come for breakfast. He then proceeded to grab my tools and rip up every bush I’d strategically left behind and to chuck them over the fence. No using those for compost.

This is when the blind rage kicks in. There is no way to explain – either in English or Pulaar – why I want to keep ornamental weeds in my douche to maintain the illusion that I’m bathing in a tropical paradise without sounding like a lunatic. Just the same, I spent the rest of the day bubbling with irrational irritation. Not anger that they’d acted maliciously or really done anything wrong, but that they just didn’t get it.

My emotional deja vue harkens back to the hayday of emotional angst – high school. Remember that feeling when your parents just didn’t understand? For me, it wasn’t the rare occasions that my parents got mad but the absolutely infuriating times when they were being nice. Their attempts at being helpful just highlighted how phenomenally out of sync I thought we were, what with my extremely complex teenage emotions. That’s the exact feeling that I get here – frustration with my complete inability to express myself, my family’s ignorance to the fact that there’s something I want to say and the sneaking suspicion that even if I could put my feelings into words, I would sound just as crazy and irrational as I feel.

I have no doubt that my family here feels the same way about many of my actions, and in a cross-cultural experiment like this I don’t think there’s a way around it. I realize that most of my frustration – which I can acknowledge is unfounded even in the throws of it – comes from other factors. Still, between the cultural chasm and language wall, I can’t help but feel like a 15 year old again looking across the car at my mother and thinking, “we are from completely different planets.”

Crazy Train

In America, I think I’m pretty sane – almost even keeled to a fault. Here though, I think there’s something in the water (besides amoebas) that makes us all a little crazy. Every volunteer I know experiences the same cycle of daily highs and lows. Not just good days and bad days, but good hours and bad hours, good minutes and bad minutes that come and go with the flip of a switch. My morning can be humming along, bright and sunny as could be when one off-hand comment of “you can’t speak pulaar” or hiss in the marketplace (a not-always-rude but 100% annoying occurrence) sets me off. Back home, it was only once in a blue moon that I really wanted to throw a right hook at a perfect stranger, but these days I find myself practicing more self-restraint than I’m proud of (and sometimes practicing no restraint at all, saying whatever I feel like because I know no one will understand me). That’s not to say I’m unhappy every day, just more riled up than in a previous life – in the words of another volunteer “this country reveals parts of myself that I didn’t know existed.” Many of those parts are good, some are bipolar.

As I approach the 6-month mark in village, these highs and lows seem to be dissipating and I feel less crazy day-to-day. Hopefully by the time I get back to an English speaking country my habit of telling people off in public doesn’t end up with me getting socked in the face.

Busy Week

So much went on this week, I don’t know where to start! After spending two days in Kolda (city) writing my well grant and doing other paper-work/life-organizing I headed to the eastern part of Kolda (region). I went with Sharon to visit our friend Sarah in her village of Sare Coly Sali, do some training-group catching up and watch a project of a second year health volunteer, Charlene, nearby. Sharon, Sarah and I pretty much spent two days in tears laughing at each other and one afternoon at a nutritional porridge-making demonstration. Charlene is in the middle of a huge project in six villages where she works with women’s groups to teach nutritional porridge making and other things nutrition-related. The demo was great – very clear and something I’d love to do, albeit on a smaller scale, in Sare Sara. And to top it off, the peanut butter-banana-millet porridge we made was delicious.

After two days out east, Sharon and I decided to pinch a few pennies (aka save $6) and bike back west to the finale celebration of Kelly’s relais training (I went to one of them a few weeks ago, another great event I want to copy). The bike from Sare Coly to Thiewal Lao is about 78 kilometers and took us just over 4 hours. Luckily the morning was cloudy and with a brief midday rest in Dabo we made it in one piece.

Wednesday was the big fete at Kelly’s health post. The event was mostly run by the health post ICP (head nurse/semi-doctor/master in chief) and a trainer from World Vision, who are both excellent. The event included skits put on by the new relais as well as demonstrations with anti-mosquito neem lotion, nutritional porridges and condoms. In true Senegalese fashion there was a huge speaker system, incredibly loud gas generator and no concern for scheduling.

After five days away I finally made it back to Sare Sara Wednesday night, only to turn right around Thursday morning and head back to Dabo for Tigi’s first visit with the vet. After so much biking earlier in the week I opted to brave a car and luckily she was incredibly well behaved on both buses – even though she shook like a leaf half the time and got me a few crazy looks from other riders (who, for the record, had much more annoying chickens/goats/babies while Tigi was perfectly silent and stayed on my lap the entire time). Kelly met us in Dabo with her dog Kindi but our grand plans of a puppy play-date were shattered as they spent the entire day snarling at each other. Overall it was a success though, and now Tigi is one rabies shot down.

I finally got one day back in Sare Sara to do laundry, scrub my hut, greet everyone in town and meet a few visiting missionaries. Now I’m back in Kolda preparing for another week of traveling - up to Thies for our health summit on Monday, then a few days off at the beach, Halloween in Tamba and then a potential visitor (Maria) in Dakar.

It’s going to be a crazy next few weeks with lots more travel, holidays and projects starting but it’s nice to feel like I’m getting things done, doing semi-real work and pleasing my village - they give me a hard time for being away butt are always supportive when I’m off seeing other projects that I can bring back.

Grant-ed

Hi folks. I just submitted my first grant for a well improvement project in Sare Sara and a few of the small surrounding villages. The organization I submitted to is called Water Charity and they fund a ton of projects for Peace Corps Volunteers throughout the world. All of the projects are water and sanitation related with a limit of $500. Check them out here: www.appropriateprojects.com.

Here's a picture of what we're hoping to fix:

I'm hoping the have it all done by Thanksgiving and then do a second phase in the village where our health hut is located.

The World According to Koumba

My muraling endeavors have reached a pinnacle. The world map at the community center is finished, and while it wasn’t as big as I thought it would be, it still took 4 days to complete. I may be retiring my paint brushes for a little while.

Here's a (reverse, whoops) time-lapse look at what it takes to do a 4-by-6 foot mural...

Oh Baby

This was written on Monday…

In an effort to practice full disclosure to my loyal blog audience, I will admit that my work has no gone exactly according to plan 100% of the time (shocking, right?). Those “baby weighings” I’ve mentioned have not been the most successful events – with my two attempts thus far either crashing soon after takeoff due to weather or never making it off the runway (publicity error). In all honesty though, I’m not too discouraged. My village attitude is the same as my college one – work smart, not hard. I’m taking the approach of seeing just how much work I need to put in to motivate/encourage/facilitate my community and counterparts. This hands off approach is perhaps not the most productive – it involves a fair amount of waiting – but I’m justifying it with an effort to promote sustainability. Yes, I just used the development cliché of the decade, my apologies. Aside frohm being a convenient way to justify my innate laziness, I really do want my community to take ownership of our projects – that they requested! – so beyond doing the things they really can’t do (write grants, get supplies, access information) I’m trying to let the projects happen on their own time. Want a community garden? I’ll be here all week, come get me when you’re ready to work. I don’t want to feel like I’m forcing my community into anything (which let’s be honest, I don’t really have the backbone to do anyway) or that I have hold their hand through the whole thing (I’ve never done most of this stuff either!).

This part was written on Friday…

So that whole thing about “working smart, not hard” – I had the “not hard” part down just fine but only just figured out the smart part - relating to baby weighing anyway. On Wednesday afternoon I had my first successful baby weighing with my new female counterpart, Anta. In an effort to make my baby weighings seem legitimate I was trying to hold them at the community center. I figured it would be a win-win: pretty new building and I wouldn’t have to deal with the politics of having it at the chief’s house. Not to mention, there’s a roof. Now, Sare Sara is not a big place -it takes exactly 4 minutes to walk from one end to the other. While the community center is located slightly outside of the main “residential area” it is right on the road and within 5 minutes of every compound. I also thought that by having my event at the center we could practice a modicum of confidentiality, so that when I told a woman her baby was malnourished not everyone in town could hear. News flash: HIPPA does not exist in Senegal. Confidentiality is not high on the list of baby weighing concerns for my village moms. What is high on the list? Dressing up.

So on Wednesday I tried the community center situation once more, but quickly realized is just wasn’t going to work. Anta and I relocated to her compound, which conveniently is also the compound of the head of the women’s group (her mother-in-law, and yes I believe nepotism was involved in her counterpart appointment). Five minutes later and the women started pouring in. I still felt uncomfortable telling women their baby is underweight in front of a whole crowd, but clearly I was the only one with such reservations. Once again, my awkwardness is the only thing standing in my way.

Another excitement of the day was the introduction of Koumba’s Special Health Cards. Since so many of the women either don’t have or can’t read their health cards – and honestly neither can I, doctor scribble is nearly impossible to decipher in French – I decided to make my own. The cards I made are incredibly simple – just three rows of boxes to indicate the baby’s age, weight and color-coded nutrition status. All the moms need to know now is that green is good, yellow isn’t good and red is really bad – no reading necessary. I had told Omar that I want to start an incentive program – controversial, I know, but everyone likes prizes – and while I wasn’t ready to announce it he went ahead and told everyone they get prizes for three greens in a row. I’m thinking the first ones will be a printed picture of the mom and her healthy baby but I still have a few months to work on that. I only had 8 cards to give out this time, but they seemed be a hit and hopefully in a month they won’t all be lost (I imagine the format is going to take a little tweaking to ensure clarity and durability).

The other good thing to see was that although 20% of the babies were in the “yellow zone,” most of them were within about a kilogram of the good “green zone.” This means I have some good candidates for an intensive nutritional porridge program I’m considering doing that is designed to close that small gap in a short period of time. Also, the percent of babies in the yellow went down considerably from the first weighing which happened during Ramadan, and indicates that starving season is coming to a close (thank god, I’m so sick of white rice).

And, a special shout out to my new favorite baby - Samuel Brandt Eisner! Congratulations to my cousin Ben and his wife Jess on their new addition, and thank you Sam for taking over the role as the youngest cousin.

Yay babies!

Pup-date

Since I'm destined to be that crazy dog lady upon my return to America, here's some gratuitous footage of Tigi running around my yard. Also, it's 5am and I can't sleep...

My Game Plan

I spent last week working at a USAID sponsored camp that’s meant to jump start students' summer vacation-addled brains before the school year begins in October. The camps are a week long and offer middle school students refresher lessons in math, French, life-skills, singing (?) and a few other generally silly subjects. Two other health volunteers and I provided lessons on malaria, hand washing, oral-rehydration solution, home-made mosquito lotion making and sex-ed (FYI bananas aren't always the best choice for condom demonstrations). Although the ratio of time spent napping under a tree to time spent actually teaching was less than ideal, it was great practice (plus, free t-shirt!).

I’m back in Kolda for two days this week to do another USAID sponsored event, a “training of coaches,” that’s meant to teach skills for youth outreach. I’m hoping it will give me some ideas for working with the local school (assuming I understand any of the training, which is always a question) and potentially doing some life-skills sessions once classes restart in October.

After this it’s time to head back to village to start some “real” work. The game plan for the next few months is:

-repair community garden fence

-dig garden beds and plant the first round of seeds with the women’s group

-install a hand-crank pump in the garden well

-visit nearby (and supposedly awesome) community gardens for inspiration

-dig and plant my own backyard garden (including fun flower beds)

-improve 8 wells in Sare Sara and surrounding villages (a continuation of my anciene’s work)

-2011 health summit in Thies with all health volunteers the last week of October (and subsequent visit to the beach)

-Celebrate Halloween

-continue monthly baby weighings (and hopefully a few causeries)

-Action Plan meeting with Peace Corps officials and my entire village

-observe a 2^nd year volunteer’s nutritional porridge project (more inspiration)

-help with another volunteer’s enriched flour project

-Celebrate Thanksgiving

-Potential bike trip to work off my “turkey” indulgence

-Christmas! Family! London!

-Mama P comes to Senegal

-All volunteer conference and annual West African Invitational Softball Tournament

For those of you working 8-hour days in a cubicle I’m not sure if this seems like a lot or a little, but I’m excited and now that I’ve written it on the blog I can be held somewhat accountable. I’m sure that other things will come up, some will get dropped off and nothing will go according to plan but so be it.

All toads, no prince

No this post is not about the (rumored) rampant intra-Peace Corps incest, it is actually just about frogs...

They say there’s a season for everything. In addition to the cornucopia of weeds that has recently taken over my backyard, critters of all shapes and sizes emerged from the saturated ground this rainy season to inhabit the once barren landscape. Most notably, the frogs. I’m not talking your typical spring-time level of amphibious visitation, but a plague-level invasion. After a week in Kolda I returned to my once semi-clean hut to find the floor covered in hardened droppings. My closest neighbor claims to have once thrown 100 frogs down his latrine in the course of one week (he claims it was an effort to control the flies…). Each night I return from my evening shower to find a dozen would-be princes staring up at me, as if I’m the unclothed intruder. I’ve awoken to find them trapped in plastic bags, backpacks, on my headboard and under the bed. And Senegalese frogs aren’t just abundant, they are clearly a few cards short of a full deck - often jumping straight into my oncoming broom, a nearby wall or an obviously too small crack under the door. While I assume this proliferation of hoppers happens annually, Senegalese people are comically afraid of them – which is amusing until I find myself shrieking in shock as one pops out of an open trunk.

In addition to the transient amphibian visitors, my hut is also home to one human, one dog, one mouse and a nest of baby birds. It’s a full house here at Chez Koumba – a real wildlife adventure!

Everything I ever needed to know, I learned in kindergarten (through 5th grade)

Last weekend I sat in on two days of a training session for community health workers – called relais here in Senegal. The four-day “formation” was organized by a second year health volunteer – Kelly – and was led by a World Vision employee and his assistant. It took place at Kelly’s health post and brought together volunteer relais from all around the post’s catchment area. The training covered the basics of communication – how to introduce yourself to a group, how to ask the chief for permission to hold a causerie (small, semi-informal health lesson), how to do a home visit – and a range of common health topics including malaria, diarrhea, nutrition, respiratory infections, pre-natal care and STDs. A relais’ primary function is to provide basic information and counseling for his or her community, not to practice any sort of hands-on medicine. In the highly decentralized Senegalese healthcare system they essentially provide the same information that web-MD or middle school health classes do in America. Relais are generally volunteers but midwives, nurses and doctors can also assume the role when they perform causeries and general health outreach. The event was really great to see and something I’m looking into doing in my own village, which lacks anyone with such training (limited as it may be). This post isn’t really about the training though, it’s about what I was thinking as I watched many of the participants (mostly the females) during the 8 hour days…

I’m fortunate to have attended a great high school and fantastic university, and I really try not to take those for granted. What I don’t often think about is the education I received before that – especially in my first few years of elementary school. In those years I learned to read and write, to ask questions and to solve problems. Whatever can be said about the American educational system, even our worst schools can usually perform these tasks. Even if all American students aren’t reading at the proper grade level, at least most of them can read. For the majority of my village friends – especially the women – this isn’t the case. I’ve given embarrassingly little thought to the limitations of illiteracy until coming here, since it is certainly something I do take for granted in my own life.

I’ve started to think of all the things I do on a daily basis that would be impossible without the education I received so early on, and how that may explain the behavior of my village friends. It’s nearly impossible to find out what time an event will take place – but without basic numeracy, is it fair to expect the entire women’s group to arrive at the same time? Every day I send and receive a dozen text messages from friends and Peace Corps staff, but even simpler is that I can dial a phone number to call my family – something my host sisters can’t do because they never went to school.

For students who make it through the earliest grade levels and become semi-proficient readers, the Senegalese school system still falls short on other fronts. The problem solving and critical thinking skills so emphasized in my early education – I still remember the math games I played in first grade and red herring word problems we did in third – are completely absent in this memorization and regurgitation heavy system. Granted, the ministry of education just implemented a massive curriculum overhaul that focuses more on critical reasoning and application than rote memorization, but I imagine it will take years for this new style to become the norm.

Back to the training I went to – how much information could you retain from 4 straight 8-hour days of health lectures? How much could you retain without writing down a single word? Or without reading any of the notes on the blackboard? I remembered being in Asia last summer and looking at the signs around me in Chinese, Vietnamese, Thai and Laotian thinking, it’s all just scribbles – that can’t possible mean anything. Fortunately there are some great visual aids available to health workers that can fill in the literacy gaps, unfortunately there aren’t nearly enough to give to every relais so they often must make due with memory alone.

Experts say that the single greatest predictor of childhood health is maternal literacy. After four months in country, I can see exactly why. I’ve seen the community health worker at our neighboring health hut hand two packets of seemingly identical white pills to a young mother and say, give him one of these three times a day and the other one twice a day for a week. No further explanation, no differentiation between identical pill packs, nothing written down. During baby weighings every mother is supposed to bring a health-post issued card that contains all of their pre- and post-natal health information as well as the baby’s vaccination history and weight gain chart. Not that medical charts in the US mean much to the casual observer, but at least I can discern when my follow-up appointment should be or how much my baby weighs. Here the cards are essentially useless to illiterate mothers since health workers take no time (or have no time) to explain what each section means. If pre-natal care, vaccinations, growth monitoring and proper dosage of medicines all require some amount of literacy it’s easy to see why maternal literacy is so crucial.

I’ll stop ranting and end on a positive note. Even though many of the young mothers in Sare Sara missed out on school the first time around, things may be looking up. The organizations that just built the beautiful new community center will be starting literacy classes in October – I happened to wander into a planning meeting this afternoon. Both of the women in my compound – Khady and Coumba – will be attending and I’m hoping to check it out to see if I can get to know some of the young moms a bit better. I think the end goal is to help women make money by running their businesses more efficiently – basic accounting, record keeping, new revenue producing ventures – but I'm hoping there’s a health benefit as well.

So Cliche

This will be short. About two weeks ago I had one of those truly nauseating “this scene would be in the Lifetime movie of my Peace Corps experience” experiences, but actually it was great. A Spanish NGO that works in Sare Sara (and built the pre-school and I’ve covered in murals) gave the women’s group a large quantity of follere (hibiscus) seeds. Not quite knowing what to expect, I followed the women out to a nearby field and ended up helping about 35 of them plant a huge plot of land. I had thought the NGO was returning to do a training session, but these women knew exactly what they were doing and had a whole team-oriented system in place. About 20 women lined up in a row and started walking across the field with their hand hoes chopping the ground every 6 inches or so. Then a second row of women (me included, this is the low skill part) followed in their footsteps to scatter the seeds and tamp down the ground with our bare feet – I got reprimanded for my shoes fairly quickly, Koumba no one else is wearing shoes, don’t you see that? Even though I was a bit slower with my scattering, the women seemed genuinely pleased with my technique and presence. By the end of an hour they were all saying that I “waawi awde” – can plant – with the subtext meaning I’m a somewhat competent human being (this has been doubted for a while now since I can’t cook, clean or dress myself properly). Lots of laughing ensued, usually at my expense, but fun nonetheless.

That night I got home and heard from Oumar how happy of the women were with my willingness to help out, especially the president of the women’s group (who is a bit of a hardass and likes to give me a tough time). Then he went on to say essentially what I’d been thinking all day - how it was such a cliché scene of African community and I should have taken a picture to send my mom in America. It was, and I should have.

While drinking tea and shooting the breeze is a fine way to bond with the men of Sare Sara, this outing proved yet again that the women aren’t going to give me anything until I break a sweat and prove I’m willing to get my hands dirty.

Do's and Don'ts

While I’ve gotten a ton of invaluable advice from older volunteers and lots of patient cross-cultural advice from Senegalese nationals, most of my day-to-day lessons on living in a Senegalese village come from experience (and often times, failure). Here’s a list of do’s and don’ts in case you find yourself in a small African village in the near future…

Do ask your fellow their villagers their names when you first get there, it’s awkward to have to ask 5 months later…or just never address anyone by their name

Don’t put on your fancy clothes a 10am on holidays, no one else will be getting dressed until 4pm and you just look silly

Don’t buy the light brown hair extensions because you’ve developed “natural highlights” – you may be white, but you’re still not blonde

Do make sure to always have enough books in your hut, and always carry one on your person when using public transportation

Do not hesitate to bring your machete into the bank, you will be met with quizzical looks but excellent service

Do ensure that your bike straps are securely fastened before setting out – they will unravel and become wrapped around your gears when you are in the middle of the woods and out of cell phone range

Do eat that piece of mystery liver meat tossed to your section of the bowl – it has a nice smoky flavor and is less rubbery than it appears (and since you’re probably anemic you definitely need the iron)

Do heed local expertise – your neighbors have lived through a lot more rainy seasons than you have

However, don’t believe everything Senegalese people tell you – mirrors and cell phones do not attract lightening, eating lemons doesn’t cause abortions and the flood waters are not up to your neck

Do be careful cooking with propane tanks, minor gas leaks lead to major gas fires

Dressed to the Nines

Korite: Feelin' Fancy

Koumba and the Ark

Rainy season got off to a slow start, arousing concern among farmers throughout the region, but if last week is of any indication those fears have been put to rest. Sunday night brought one of the most violent storms I’ve ever experienced in a thatched roof dwelling – filling my ceiling tarps with gallons of water and rising the faro water levels well beyond their usual limits. Luckily Tigi is an eager snuggler and was more than happy to comfort me as deafening thunder claps shook my hut’s questionable foundation. This story isn’t really about the storm though, epic as it was. This story is about the next day...

I had planned to leave Sare Sara bright and early Monday morning to begin the trek to Fass Kahone, my friend Sharon’s site in the middle of the bush. The ride to Fass Kahone entails 15km on the main road (paved) and another 20km on a bush path (unpaved, unmarked, uninhabited). Sunday afternoon we confirmed our plan - rain or shine Sharon was to meet me on the main road and lead the way down the bush path. Due to the intensity of the rain – torrential for about 6 hours – that changed slightly Monday morning. Plan 2.0 was for me to take a car 35km to Dabo, then bike a laterite road (gravel but nice) about 20km to our friend Kelly’s village in order to visit her newly opened health post (something we were planning to do later in the week), then head to Fass Kahone in the afternoon. Game time thinking, no problem.

I caught a car out of Sare Sara by 8, and was on the turn off to Kelly’s village – Chewa Lau – around 10. You can’t go there today, some old women advised me, the road is washed out. Hm. Harnessing the very limited cell reception in the area and the last juices of my cell phone battery I reached Sharon, who was supposed to be meeting me at about that time (a back road from Fass Kahone meets up with the laterite road about 20 km after Chewa Lau, which is 20 km from Dabo). My family won’t me leave the village, she said, let’s try to meet up tomorrow. Oh, ok. I then biked down to see this washed out road for myself, and sure enough a lake had sprung up and people were streaming away from it like refugees as children splashed about. While I imagine I could have made it through the water, fighting the flood of people was more than I was willing to attempt so I headed back to the road, somewhat at a loss as to what I should do 20km away from the highway with no reachable friends in the near vicinity.

Another phone call to Sharon. I’m just going to come and I’ll swim if I have to, I told her, just tell your village you can’t get a hold of me. So off I went down the laterite road, unsure if it was even possible to reach my final destination, in which case I would be 40km out in the bush and easily two hours from any automobile. 40 minutes later I reached the turn off to the bush path and headed into the woods. About 100 yards in I met 2 young men with 6 of the mangiest dogs seen in Senegal and large machetes in hand. You can’t go that way, they protested. Well I’m not going to stay here with you, I said while riding by (a friend’s recent unpleasant encounter with machete wielding men fueling my resolve to continue - don't worry, no physical harm done).

A minute later I saw what had stopped their progress. The entire bush path and all of the forest visible on either side was fully submerged for about 100 yards. Super. Sharon’s sisters had claimed that the water was up her neck, but ignoring that information I marched straight into. There weren't any crocodiles (I didn’t consider snakes until later) and the water wasn't moving, so how hard could it be? After a few steps I heard Sharon calling my name from downstream and charged on. This plan went well for the first 50 feet or so, the water only coming up to my ankles. Then it started to get deeper. And deeper. And deeper. Halfway through the flood zone and I was holding my backpack on my head with one hand and dragging my half-floating bike through the water with the other as chilly flood waters came up to my waist. Sharon had a prime spot to watch this scene unfold and was practically in tears as I reached dry land, just in time for it to start raining again.

Another few minutes of bush path and I reached Fass Kahone a little wet but no worse for wear. The entire village (150 people) now know me as the fearless - and somewhat crazy - toubob who braved the flood waters (which they claimed was impossible). Thankfully the only casualty of the day was my water bottle that floated out of its holder while under water.

Sharon and I have already requested Peace Corps issue inflatable kayaks for next rainy season and are planning a boat tour of the Kolda faro system – potentially attempting to paddle from Sare Sara all the way into Kolda if we have another epic rainy season next year. I can only imagine the looks my villagers would give me if I blew up a pool float and took to the water for an afternoon float, but aside from the inevitable schistosomiasis infection it’s quite tempting. Just an idea for the next care package...

More Masterpieces

Here are the other two murals I did last week, plus the finished version of my first one.

Putting the Friend in Friendly

I wrote once before that the hardest part of being a volunteer is not having your friends around the corner to make those bad days look a little brighter. I think in general this still holds true and is a universal volunteer challenge. On a more personal level though, I think my greatest challenge is the constant, 24/7, political campaign trail-esq socialization required of living in a 500 person village and even more the challenge of making real cross-cultural friends. Generally speaking, I think I’m fairly sociable. In America I have friends, I’m confident in my ability to make new friends and I think people who meet me, on average, think I’m alright.

In village though, it’s a little more difficult. It is practically required by law that everyone greets everyone every day. Did I just greet you? No problem, let’s do it again just to be sure. I like being friendly, but my friendly is more of a New Yorker’s “brief wave, half smile, minimal touching and no more conversation than absolutely necessary” rather than the Senegalese “let’s drag this out while shaking hands for the fifth time even though I saw you 30 seconds ago.” I just don’t have the friendly reserves to be that friendly all day. By the time I make it to my breakfast bean sandwich I need a nap just to be able to smile again. This is how I know I will never run for public office.

This leads me to the second challenge – making friends. It’s harder than you think! It’s actually something I’ve spent quite a bit of time pondering with my friends, how does one go about making friends in village? Sure, everyone is really friendly. But many times they’re also asking me for 1) money 2) medicine 3) my bike 4) to take them to America 5) to marry me. How do you know who’s really your friend? Since sarcasm doesn’t really translate (trust me, I’ve tried and met many blank stares in return), I am left with little in my humor arsenal and, as we’ve already covered, I’m just not that friendly.

My lack of village friends was made abundantly clear to me last week when a young guy (who I had never met prior) took it upon himself to berate me in front of my entire town for having no friends. Really, guy? Really?!? As if is wasn’t something I didn’t know already but to have Mr. Stranger announce it to everyone I know was not particularly encouraging for my sense of integration. I meekly refuted his claims (and a few people half-heartedly rose to my defense) but it was an effort not to burst into tears on the spot, and you can imagine the shade of red I must have turned. His barrage of questions and insults included: Issa (my annciene) had friends, Issa was nice, Issa gave out medicine, why don’t you give out medicine, Issa was better than you, you should give out medicine. Awesome. As you can imagine, I really wanted to be in village after that gem of a conversation.

Although I was tempted to leave Sare Sara and hole up in Kolda for the rest of Ramadan, I’ve made an effort this past week to really step up my friend game. One of my initial reservations has been making friends with men. Generally, the guys in my age group (15-25) are the easiest to talk to, most outgoing, funniest and most interested in talking to me. As I’ve mentioned, the women in that same group are more difficult to relate to because they’re usually much shier, are married and have 1-3 small children. My concerns about making friends with the male demographic is mostly an issue of reputation – I’m worried about what people will say if I’m always hanging around with the guys. I’m very careful never to have guys alone in my hut (for both safety and appearances) but I didn’t know if hanging out with them in town would send the wrong message. This week I’ve let go of those reservations and thrown myself in with the guys, trying to learn their (incredibly confusing) card games and helping out with their English practice. My new strategy seems to be working, and I’m actually much happier to go sit around and shoot the shit with my new gang (ok we’re not quite there yet, but it’s getting better!). I’m hoping I’ll get in with the guys first, the moms with my baby weighing and everyone else little by little.

As for Mr. Stranger, he’s taken to following me around everywhere – spending 2 hours watching me paint my mural, trying (unsuccessfully) to teach me cards, demanding English lessons. I think he wants an American wife. No thanks, jerk.

Call Me Michaelangelo

My masterpiece!

Returning to the issue of what my job actually is, this is something I’m still trying to figure out too. Now that I’m a “real” volunteer in theory I can start projects of my own. As I wrote before though, Ramadan isn’t the ideal time to do that and I still have to wait until my “Action Plan” meeting in October before I can begin writing grants or doing large scale projects. That gives me about two more months to finish my baseline survey and hammer out what my action plan will actually be (more on that in a few weeks, inshallah). To occupy my time, and not annoy any grumpy hungry people, I’ve started doing little things around Sare Sara to keep myself busy (and create the illusion – for myself and my village – that I’m not entirely useless).

A popular side project of many volunteers is to mural – yes, large and public paintings to both educate and entertain. Art isn’t exactly my forte, so I wasn’t keen to jump on the muraling bandwagon but after completing my first work of art I’m excited to paint the town red (and yellow, blue, green, orange…). My first mural, a map of Senegal at the nursery school, was a huge hit with my counterpart and the village leadership and I’ve been asked to do a few more, both at the school and the new Centre Polyvalent (more on this building later, it’s a beautiful newly opened training center in Sare Sara that I’m hoping to commandeer for my own projects).

I’ll be continuing to mural my heart out this week with more maps – one of the world and one of the African continent. Both of these are going to be significantly larger/more detailed than my first so wish me luck. Assuming these go well, I’ll move on to murals with an actual health focus in the hope of eliciting behavior change Inception-style. And they thought handwashing was their idea…

In a less covert effort to change behavior, I’m having my first baby weighing next weekend to give me an idea of nutrition problems within the village. Although the women’s group has asked me to address malnutrition, I’m interested to see how big of a problem it really is (the kids mostly look healthy to me, but what do I know). Here’s hoping my mamas actually show up and I can make this a monthly event!

Halfway and Hungry

Returning from IST two weeks ago I was under the impression that my job here would suddenly become clear; a parting of the clouds after 2 months of hand shaking, baby kissing and wondering what a volunteer actually does. Well to be honest, that’s not really been the case. Ramadan is a less than ideal time to begin work – everyone is either a) fasting b) working in the fields or c) grumpy and irritable from doing a) and b). Although I had hoped to “share the experience” of Ramadan for a few days, I lasted a grand total of one day (or approximately 10 hours) before concluding that without the religious aspect, it’s just meaningless starvation. Unfortunately, since no one else in my house is eating I’m left to my own devices in terms of daytime eating and have ended up fasting by default from breakfast until about 5pm when bean/spaghetti sandwiches appear downtown. In all honesty, even though I’m able to eat and drink at will I’m probably a hundred times grumpier than my neighbors who seem to be doing more work now than they were last month.

Although I’m not expected to fast, people enjoy giving me a hard time about it (actually, they give me a hard time about whatever I do – fast, not fast, work, cook, garden, anything). When people ask why I’m not fasting my responses vary from “It’s too hard” to “I’m not Muslim.” This garners laughs but has led to some serious discussions of what religion I actually am. This isn’t a question I readily have an answer for in everyday American life, so I’ve been fudging the response with a vague Christian-Jewish half answer. During PST we were told that having no god here is equivalent to having no morals, so a white lie is usually the best bet. For the record, no one here seems to care what I am – Christian, Jewish – but they do seem happy that I’ve said something. I can play along with that game.

But back to the fasting question. One guy I spoke with inquired why I’m not fasting, and I said that I’m not Muslim. I asked if he’ll be fasting on Yom Kippur, the day when Jews fast. Of course not, he replied. So there, I thought, point made - I don’t have the same god so I don’t have to fast. But there’s only one god and that’s Allah, he answered. Well…let’s just agree to disagree on that one.

Other villagers have tried to strike deals with me – fast Saturday, Monday and Wednesday only. Ok, but that still involves waking up at 5 am which I’d really rather not do. This week I’m going to make an effort to fast one more day, maybe tomorrow (I think my biggest problem last time was that I missed the 5am meal, bad idea).

So that’s where we are in Ramadan, 12 days down and 18 (?) to go. While I can’t say I’m on board with the voluntary starvation idea, my Senegalese family and friends have shown some serious strength this month and I for one have been continuously impressed – I can barely stay awake for a full day in this heat as it is, but my brothers have spent 3 hours in the fields by the time I get up at 8am and are still pretty damn chipper until break-fast at 8pm.

Texts from my Hut

Technology has made Peace Corps service a drastically different experience today than it was 50 years ago. I’ll write more one day about the pluses and minuses of having an iPod in village but today I’d like to focus on another gadget that the first volunteers half a century ago didn’t have – the cell phone. My phone keeps me sane, plain and simple. My day is made infinitely better by texts and phone calls that let me know my friends are experiencing the same highs/lows/frustrations/exultations and cultural misunderstandings that I am. I also have some pretty hilarious friends here.

Please enjoy this first installment of Texts from My Hut…all messages will remain anonymous to protect the dignity of senders and receivers.

-My fam just crushed up aspirin and put it directly on this cut thing behind the baby’s ear. WTF.

-Things I find challenging include not picking scabs

-Cipro is magic. Feel so much better.

-I love not wearing pants. They’re such an imposition.

-I think it might be time for pantsless dash to the douche.

-Ways to know you have bad hygiene: today I washed my hair for no reason other than I accidentally pulled too much water, so I though “ugh, might as well”

-By the way, I told my mom I wipe my butt with my hand. She doesn’t believe me. She’s sending tp

-I have a lot of those moments. I think my pc service will be my selective memory’s greatest challenge yet.

-What am I doing? Oh, you know, just attracting the crazies, like usual.

Let the Fasting Begin

Sadly with all of this momentum built up post-IST I will be returning to village at potentially the least work-conducive time of year: Ramadan. Yes, Senegalese Islam is somewhat more relaxed than elsewhere but I have been told that this is one thing they do take seriously. Starting tomorrow (assuming the moon plays along) there will be no eating or drinking between sun up and sun down.

Volunteers all take their own approach to Ramadan, with some not even attempting to fast and others going the whole month. There is no expectation (in most areas) that we will fast. We are not only recognized at not Muslim, but generally seen as weak and child-like (thus the surprise when I actually pull my own water from the well). However, most volunteers give fasting a try simply to better understand what everyone else will be feeling for the next month, even if just for a day or two. I plan to try to fast – but will still drink water, I’m not that crazy – for a few days just to see what it’s like. I see this as an exercise akin to living in the same homes, eating the same foods and taking the same kind of bucket baths as everyone else – it’s a way for me to better understand the community, what they’re going through day-to-day and how it impacts their health.

Now, I’m probably going to cheat. I mean, let’s be honest – anyone who’s lived with me knows I can get a little grouchy when hunger sets in (remember that morning in Laos, Maria Li?). But I really will make the effort for a few days and probably pretend not to eat lunch the rest of the month while actually sneaking power bars in my hut (apparently, the lunch that is made for the kids is usually unappealing leftovers from the night before – no thank you). I’m also planning to try out my new nutritional porridge recipes so that when work gets going in September I’ll be ready (and maybe supplement the kids’ diets this month if I can get them to be taste testers). I will also be spending a bit more time in Kolda than usual in order to prepare visual aids and work on the language textbook that Sharon and I have volunteered to revise.

IST: Together Again

My two weeks of in-service training have ended after what seemed like a marathon of 45-minute technical sessions, debriefs and recaps. The topics we covered ranged from action planning to tree planting, grant writing to mango grafting, and porridge making to pest management. Many of the sessions were led by older volunteers whose insight into what works – and more importantly what doesn’t – will be incredibly useful. After the first week, my fellow stagieres and I were uniformly pumped to head back to village and start being “real” volunteers with our own projects and actual work to do. Unfortunately, IST lasted another (less inspiring) week and I for one left the Thies training center a bit overwhelmed with all of the possible projects – and their associated pitfalls – we can now choose from. After this inundation of information, blogging took a backseat to cheeseburger cravings and post-session cocktails (my apologies).

One of the nice parts of IST was seeing my training stage and hearing all of their crazy stories from the first two months at site. There are 44 of us left (2 ET, 2 med-sep) and for the most part I think everyone is doing really well. Those of us in the south (Kolda and Kedougou) bragged of the lushness of our regions and abundance of green, leafy trees. Those in the north grumbled about their never ending sand dunes and thorny bushes (however they didn’t hesitate to remind us of their far superior cuisine). Aside from a few mysterious rashes (aka Zombie Rash), lost toe nails, slimmer waist lines and chipped teeth we were no worse for wear.

Although IST was long and my enthusiasm waned by the 12^th day of 7-hour session, there are a few things I really can’t wait to try out in Sare Sara. One, is to begin a child nutrition project that my counterpart and the head of the woman’s group requested. I’m hoping to incorporate baby weighings, growth monitoring, causeries (casual information sessions), nutritional porridge making and potentially a community garden into the project. I would love to do some first aid training, and see about getting a relais or two (volunteer health worker) trained in my village, since at the moment there is no one with any sort of health training. The week before heading to Thies, my counterpart and I began scoping out wells in our village and the surrounding ones in order to continue my ancienne’s well rehabilitation project, so that is also in the works. So much to do! See the next post for why none can really happen for the next 30 days...

Getting a Census of Things

One of the biggest tasks we are charged with our first few months a site – aside from moving into a remote Senegalese village, learning the language and not contracting dysentery – is conducting a baseline survey of the community. As a health volunteer especially it’s important to know where I’m starting, and hopefully be able to show that things have changed for the better after two years.

Now, waltzing into a community with, at best, a tenuous grasp on the local language and culture isn’t the best time to begin asking about their latest prenatal visit or post-bathroom use habits. Everyone thinks I’m weird enough, thank you very much, I need to be building bridges not incinerating them. To ease into the process I decided to begin with a census of the entire village. Over the course of a few mornings, my female counterpart Mata and I visited every compound in Sare Sara to learn the age, sex, marital status, number of spouses, number of children and occupation of every man, woman and child. In somewhat broken Pular I explained my rationale for writing all of this down – “in order to help the village, I first need to know the people” – and Mata pretty much did the rest. Fortunately, everyone was incredibly receptive and seemed happy to be included in my first “project.” In addition to getting important demographic information on my village, I now have a cheat sheet with everyone’s names (which I admit I’m still far from knowing).

The second piece of my baseline entailed a visit to the nearby health hut in the neighboring village of Salamata (my closest Peace Corps neighbor, Jason, is a sustainable agriculture volunteer there). The health hut is a relatively nice building – thank you World Vision – constructed a few years ago but almost entirely empty of supplies and almost never open – thank you Senegalese health system. I arranged with the ASC (community health worker in charge of running the health hut) to get access to the health records and spent a morning copying 14 months’ worth of data.

After a bit of number crunching here are some of the preliminary results from Parts 1 and 2. Hope this gives you a better idea of what – and who – I’m working with out here…

Total number of compounds: 46

Total population: 422

Men: 128

Women: 116

Boys (14 and under): 90

Girls (14 and under): 88

Children under age 5: 72

Youngest: 1 wk

Oldest: 100 years

Number of farmers (men): 64

Number of gardeners (women): 59

Number of tailors: 3

Number of fishermen: 1

Number of students: 160

Number of pre-schoolers: 49

Number of university students: 1

Number of students enrolled in Koranic school: 4

Number of women of child bearing age: 98

Number of women with at least one successful pregnancy: 89

Babies born in the last year: 13

Average number of children per woman: 3.86

Visits to the health hut in the last 6 months: 114

Visits in the last 12 months: 290

Visits during the last 5-month rainy season: 112

Percentage of babies weighing in the healthy “green zone” September 2010: 53%

And in the moderately malnourished “yellow zone”: 47%

Percentage of babies weighing in the healthy “green zone” November 2010: 64.5%

And in the “yellow zone”: 35.5%

Most common health hut diagnosis: Upper respiratory infection

Other popular diagnoses: Trauma, Malaria, Headaches, Parasites and “infectious syndromes” (exact translation pending)

Less common diagnoses: High blood pressure, conjunctivitis and diarrhea

That’s just the beginning of what I’ll be finding out through direct questioning and covert observation over the next few months. I finally feel like my language and overall comfort within my village has reached a level where I am able to ask the trickier questions. In all honesty, I think I have more trouble asking these questions – I feel so nosey! – than people have answering them. I’ll just have to get over myself.

So how many latrines do you have?

And I'm Back!

Hi friends,

Apologies for my blog neglect recently, life has been hopping on this side of the pond for the past month and I haven't had the time or attention span to write much. I've been back up at the training center in Thies for the past week for IST (inter-service training), where I'll stay until next weekend. I'm hoping to churn out a few posts in the next few days to update everyone on what I accomplished my first 2 months at site, what I'm learning now and what I hope to do when I return south.

I know, the anticipation is almost too much to handle...more soon!

kp

Home Sweet Kolda

New Pictures of Kolda in full bloom!

Family Matters

Since I’ll be living with my new family for quite some time, I think it’s about time to introduce them. Her they are, in vaguely chronological order….

Baaba: ~70, the resident grandpa of our compound. Until my third week in village I never saw him leave the rice-sac chair located under the awning of his hut. Then, one day when I was sick in bed he made it all the way across the compound to see how I was doing. He moves around more these days – comically leading a large bull around by the horns or hanging downtown at the market – but usually he’s keeping sentry from his hut.

Neene Toolye: ~60, grandma #1. I’m not sure if she’s Baaba’s actual wife or a wife he inherited from his brother, but Neene Toolye mostly does typical grandma things – watching the children, cleaning around the house, taking advantage of the “no shirt, no shoes, no problem” dinnertime policy.

Neene Hawa: ~60, grandma #2. I think Neene Hawa was Baaba’s “real” wife, but this is also unclear. She is a tiny women with traditional Pulaar tattooing around her mouth but is always chipper. She travels a fair amount (doing what I’m not sure) and hasn’t been around too much since I moved in.

Oumar: ~35, host “dad.” Oumar is my official host here in Sare Sara and is an up and comer in the village. Since he’s not really old enough to be my father I often refer to him as my host uncle. He’s also no really Baaba’s son, but his nephew (although these distinctions aren’t really important). I’m not sure which Neene is his real neene.

Khady: ~20, Oumar’s wife. Really sweet and helpful when I need something, but not too outgoing with me. Khady represents a demographic I’m having a bit of trouble getting to know – the women around my age but married with multiple children.

Toolye and Binta: 3 and 3 months. Oumar and Khady’s daughters. Toolye is adorable and bears an uncanny resemblance to Stitch, the Disney character alien. Binta is a very well behaved baby who has just learned to sit up by herself.

Mamadou: ~33, Oumar’s brother/cousin and I think Baaba’s actual son. Mamadou is great and incredibly helpful with my language learning - he’s very patient, speaks slowly and isn’t about pantomiming or drawing in the dirt until I understand. He also has a fabulous selection of Rhianna on his cell phone. I call him my uncle.

Coumba: ~16, Mamadou’s wife and my tokara (namesake). Very nice but a little cold sometimes – I hope once my language gets better we’ll be able to connect more. Also falls into the “younger than me but with significantly more responsibility” demographic. The age difference between her and her husband skeeves me out a little, but they seem alright. I wouldn’t be surprised if a baby joined the family before I leave.

Pate (28), Aliou (25) and Adema (18): Oumar’s brothers/cousins – I was told who is who but can’t remember. I refer to these three as my brothers since they’re closer to my age. They’ve all been really helpful with my language and are great to talk to. They are entirely un-creepy and I feel very safe knowing I have three big brothers watching out for me.

Ablye: ~9. I have no idea whose child he is but everyone seems to look out for him. He’s a typical little boy and spends most of his time running around town but rarely causes trouble.

Guynacko: The family dog and possibly the fattest dog in Senegal. Guynacko means "cowboy" in Pulaar, and he is officially meant to keep an eye on the livestock but really just sleeps all day. Guynacko and I were quite good friends, but since the introduction of Tigi Tigi he's been feeling neglected.

Physics 101: Universal Laws of Senegal

In America I grew up in a world governed by certain universal laws: gravity, thermodynamics, relativity. Due to a ripple in the space-time continuum however, Sare Sara doesn’t follow these same laws of the universe. Had Newton been sitting under a Senegalese mango tree instead of his famed apple tree, my college physics class may have been significantly different. Here’s what I’ve discovered about Senegalese Physics…

Thermodynamics: A watched pot will still not boil, but here in Sare Sara a hot pot will also not burn. As a rule, Pulaar women can touch unbelievably hot objects without injury - teapot that leaves me with blistered welts is of no concern for my female house-mates.

Time: What time do you have by your watch? 10:56? That means it’s still 10. What time is the meeting going to start? 3? I’ll see you there at 4:30. Einstein may have theorized that space and time are relative, but we prove that every day in the village. This flexible notion of time can both work for me – it’s nearly impossible to be “late” – and against me, ask anyone what time an event is going to occur and the answer is either a quizzical stare or a random digit between 2 and Midi.

Aging: While time passes in the same manner in the rest of the world, here it acts differently for each person. This leads to the phenomenon of “age un-determinism.” It is universally impossible to determine how old someone is by looking at them. I could have sworn some women were in their late 20s, only to be told they’re 15. Others I would have said are not a day older than 40 will say they’re 65.

Sound: Senegalese air has a unique, and hitherto unstudied, property of sound amplification. Any noise made, no matter what distance away, can clearly be heard everywhere else. This property applies equally to late-night dance music, crying children and the soft “tsk tsk” clicking used to hail a taxi.

Acceleration: Luckily for Newton, he wasn’t sitting under the aforementioned mango tree. Had Isaac been hit on the noggin with a ripe Kolda mango he would have found himself in the emergency room with a skull fracture instead of the history books. Mango season is an exciting and delicious time here in Kolda, but it is also a dangerous one. Mangoes falling from 50 feet up can actually exceed their terminal velocity and violate previously proven laws of gravitational acceleration.

The Obvious: Matter can exist in a variety of states – gases, liquids, solids, plasma. Senegalese life could not continue without the constant acknowledgment of one –the state of the obvious. The first law of Senegalese physics reads “an event cannot occur, no matter how insignificant, unless it is commented upon and thus formally acknowledged.” Unless someone comments on the fact that you woke up, ate breakfast, left the house, returned to the house, took a shower, did work or went to sleep then these actions have not actually happened. If a tree falls in the forest and no one comments on it, it most certainly did not make a sound (and may not have fallen at all). All things obvious must be stated. Repeatedly.

No Good, Very Bad Days

I would be lying if I said that these past few months have been 100% rainbows and ice cream. There have in fact been a few days where I think “what the fuck am I doing here?” The joy of PST is that in these moments of doubt, like-minded friends are never more than a sandy road away and facilitators are available to translate the cultural snafus and frustrations. It has become apparent that the real challenge of village living is not the bucket bathing, carbohydrate-only diet or occasional bouts of dysentery but the lack of said emotional support on the really bad days. Cell phones are a godsend, but 900 character texts can only be so comforting. Generally speaking, this hasn’t been an issue but when I hit the three week period in village I also hit my first emotional speed bump. I was felled by the trifecta of sickness, sleeplessness and hormones – an emotional perfect storm.

In America, I turn these anti-social days into highly productive catching-up-on-TV days while sequestering myself in a nest of pillows and duvets. Due to triple digit temperatures and international restrictions on Hulu this is not possible in Sare Sara. On the first day of my emotional shipwreck, I tried to save the day by meandering to town to buy beans for my family. This simple task turned into a 3 hour social call, with no fewer than 5 groups of people insisting that I stop by to chat and drink tea. While a large part of my time these days is spent sitting around awkwardly and drinking tea, it’s by no means my favorite activity.

With a developing head cold and puppy-induced sleep deprivation, my foggy brain struggled to understand Pulaar. Senegalese people usually respond in one of two ways when language proficiency fails me: 1) speak slowly and patiently explain themselves using a variety of phrases until I catch on in either Pulaar or French OR 2) Laugh, speak faster, mumble and say “A waawa Pulaar” which directly translates to “you can’t pulaar” and means, you suck at our language. Well, thanks. I usually have one of two responses to the latter: 1) laugh, say I’m trying and keep at it 2) switch to English and say something less than polite, then passive aggressively agree and walk away while trying not to cry. Yes, having punk 18 year olds who didn’t pass the 3^rd grade or 75 year old grandmas make fun of your language skills is a perfectly valid reason to want to cry. On the no good very bad day this happened continuously as more and more tea-gangs lured me off the road with friendly greetings and proceeded to baffle me with unintelligible conversation. By the time I made it home for lunch – with no beans to boot – I was about to crack. During lunch I pulled the “oh my eyes are watering because I just bit into a hot pepper and now I need to go to my room to get water” move and sequestered myself for the remainder of the afternoon.

The emotional perfect storm occured for me when all three elements lined up to tip the crazy scale. Two out of the three I can generally overcome, but throw in the lack of sleep or PMS and you’re in for a crazy – and often teary – day. Like all storms, I know it will pass, but when you’re up in the tornado like Dorothy it doesn’t seem like the house will ever land. Unfortunately my reclusive first reaction is exactly the opposite of helpful in these times, and I tend to perpetuate the downward spiral.

Luckily, my host dad forced me out of the house for day 3 of the wedding bonanza. Oh, fabulous, I thought. But to be honest, that was probably the best thing I could have done. As much as I didn’t want to sit around drinking tea and eating a third lunch, I actually had a good conversation in which I may or may not have agreed to marry someone. By the time I got home around 5, I felt much less like Dorothy and more like myself.

Wedding Bells

The bride wore sequins, her hair pulled into a high bun of fake locks with a glittering crown of Greek-goddess inspired gold and silver leaves. The groom wore a striped polo shirt. Following local custom, neither the couple nor their guests smiled for pictures. Although the fires were lit at mid-afternoon and by early evening onion skins littered the courtyard it was well past 9 before the meal was served and – to one guest’s dismay – so poorly announced that only basic rice and fish were left to be had. The lack of electricity within 10 miles didn’t stop the party, which roared through the night with the help of a generator, a single light bulb and a showroom-worthy display of amplifiers. With the smell of gas fumes lingering in the air, the main event began at 10:30 as a “wedding party” of sorts was called to the middle of a large semi-circle of guests. To the casual on-looker it appeared like a dance-off was about to begin until the happy – yet unsmiling – couple entered the middle of this smaller circle of friends to do a hora-esq routine. Pictures followed dancing, with the couple still standing in the semi-circle crowd and guests coming up in small groups to hand deliver wedding gifts and have their photo snapped. Despite the temptation to stay up all night dancing, this was the last I saw of the evening.

A second day of festivities included more picture taking with the bride, cooking in mass quantities and a village-wide moratorium on all non-tea related activities. Apparently this is also the day when something ceremonial happens with the bride moving to the groom’s house. A n additional ceremony consists of the sound system being moved from the bride’s house to the groom’s house so that the party can continue for a second full night.

Still not had enough socializing? Not a problem! On day 3, there is even more eating of oil-soaked rice, tea drinking and general lazing around at the groom’s house. And yes, the sound system is still there and pumping out greatest hits until the wee hours of the morning. Luckily, the groom lives just a few houses down so even when you don’t have the strength to socialize there’s no need to miss out on the fat beats blaring from the 12 foot subwoofer.

Meet Tigi!

I have finally fulfilled my years long dream (college roommates, you can attest to this) of getting my very own puppy. When I first applied for this Peace Corps gig I was very much on the fence about whether or not I wanted to give up my friends, family and first world comforts for two years. I am almost embarrassed to say that my feelings changed dramatically after my PC recruiter told me he’d had two dogs during his service in Panama and had even brought one back with him to DC. If I could get a dog, then how hard could this really be? Well, I’ve gotten the dog and the jury is still out how hard these adventures – single (dog) mother hood and village living – are going to be.

I thought it would take some time to find the right pup, but as it turned out the maxim of “ask and you shall receive” turned out to be 100% true this time. On my first day in village I told everyone I met that I a) did not have a husband b) did not want a husband c) wanted a dog. By the end of the morning a nice guy had already found me a litter of puppies and I’d made myself known throughout town as the crazy dog girl. Now it’s five weeks later, and while I’m sure I jumped the gun on the weaning process I couldn’t wait a day longer – Senegalese puppies are not treated with the same care as their pampered American cousins. So here she is:

Full Name: Tigi Tigi Diamanka aka “Tigi”

Nicknames: T, Tigadegy (peanut butter in Pulaar), Tito, Munchkin

Breed: Purebred Senegalese Village Mutt

Birthday: 1^st week of May, 2011

Favorite Food: Canned spam and chicken liver

Likes: napping, chewing on toes, powdered milk, rice in powdered milk, peeing on the bed, peeing on the floor, peeing on laps, pooping right in front of the door, whining, American dog treats sent from Grandma (more please!), fighting chickens, fighting herself in the mirror

Dislikes: being alone, big trucks, Senegalese children, sleeping through the night, mosquito nets, wearing a collar, walking on a leash, baths

Let's Hear It For The Boys

In honor of the upcoming Hallmark holiday of Father’s Day, I thought I’d post some observations I’ve made about Senegalese Dads. Yes, there will be an obligatory post concerning gender roles and the inherent unfairness of both cooking and doing the dishes, but that’s for another time.

One of the most striking things I remember from being in South Africa was the lack of men. Both in the city and rural homes I lived in, there were very few men around and even fewer who showed any interest in the children. Due to the migrant labor system prevalent in much of Southern Africa, nearly all of the husbands/brothers/uncles we heard of were off working in mines or the big cities. While migrant labor certainly exists here in Senegal, it is not nearly as ubiquitous and has not drained rural areas of men as in other regions of Africa. So that’s observation #1: men are everywhere.

The second surprising thing for me has been how involved these guys seem to be with the children. I know, it’s sort of horrible for me to be surprised by this but I was. I thought that Senegalese mothers would be exclusively responsible for tending to small children, but I’ve seen a number of doting dads (and uncles and friends of dads) recently. For example, there was a guy in my PST village who I would see every few days – either he’d stop by our house or be hanging around with my friend’s host dad – and he always had his 2-year old daughter with him. I literally never saw him without her.

Here in Saare Sara, the dads seem to be just as involved. My host dad Oumar has 2 daughters. One is Toolye, the 3 year old, and the other is Binta, the newborn. It’s readily apparent how much not only Oumar loves his daughters, but how much his 4 brothers love them too. The uncles – Mamadou, Adama, Pate and Aliou – are all equally cute and affectionate with Toolye and the baby as their own father. Even random friends who drop in to say hello are affectionate toward the little kids – something I’ve never seen with mid-20s American men.

I should note, most of the cuteness I’ve seen has been restricted to daddy-daughter interactions. Maybe this is because most of the little kids I’ve seen have been little girls, or maybe it’s because girls are shown more outward affection. My host dad during PST definitely had a sweet spot for the little girl in our house, and while he wasn’t mean to the little boy, their interactions were noticeably different. As a proud member of the daddy-daughter club, I’d like to think there’s something special about the relationship between little girls and their dads in all cultures…but maybe I’m just projecting.

Anyway, here’s a shout out to all the cute Senegalese dads I’ve seen in the past few months and one for my own dad – happy father’s day! I love you!

Bike Trip: Round 1

Last week I had the chance to get out of village for a few days to attend a Gender and Development (GAD) activity and visit my good friend Sharon in her (very remote) village. Here’s how it went down:

Tuesday: My friend Alana biked out from her village to have lunch and pass the hottest hours of the day in Sare Sara. After filling up on white rice and mangos, we biked the ~35km East to Dabo where Dave, a 2^nd year Environmental Education volunteer, lives. My friend Sharon was already there when we arrived, so it was a nice little reunion. After a delicious meal of meat (!!) and potatoes (!) we watched as the first of the heavy rain storms moved toward Dabo. The light show that preceded the rains was truly magnificent – it looked like a naval battle in the sky with bursts of light behind dense storm clouds. We momentarily speculated that war had broken out between the two Guineas. The rain that followed was less magical, as Dave’s roof quickly began to leak and a rogue lightning bolt may or may not have hit it – there was a loud pop, a red spark in the middle of the room, and no power for the rest of the night. Exciting!

Wednesday: As part of a girls scholarship program through SeneGAD – the PC gender and development program – Dave organized for Awa (leader of all things cross cultural) to come a give a talk to some girls from his school. The girls ranged in age from 13-18 and were finalists for a PC sponsored scholarship for middle school girls. Awa does a number of these talks around the country, where she promotes education, delaying marriage and pregnancy, and general girl’s empowerment. She’s really wonderful, and the girls seemed to enjoy it.

After another delicious meal, Sharon and I hit the road to bike to her village – Fass Kahone. After about an hour and a half of riding on a hard packed dirt road – where Sharon left me in her dust – and 15 more minutes on a bush path we arrived. Fass Kahone in a charming village of about 150 people. I am thrilled I don’t live there. Fass Kahone is in the middle of nowhere.

Thursday: A typical village day of greeting, eating mangos, wandering the fields and helping Sharon with her garden. Sharon’s family is great and the village is incredibly excited to have her. Peace Corps couldn’t have picked a better volunteer to put in tiny Fass Kahone – Cynical Katie would not be doing as well as Positive Sharon is without cell phone reception or an easy bike ride to the regional capital. I thought I was living the hard life in Sare Sara, but now I feel spoiled with my paved road, four boutiques and white rice (Sharon eats mostly millet – a cheaper and in my opinion less palatable carbohydrate).

Friday: Early morning bike ride back to Sare Sara. This included almost an hour and a half on 20km of bush path to get from Fass Kahone to the main road. With two nights of rain it was a fun ride of dodging puddles and sand traps but will soon be impassable. Another 15 km on the main road got me back home in time to plant my garden.

Total distance biked: ~90km

Reading List

I’m going to have a lot of free time in these next few months, so I plan on doing a fair amount of reading (there’s really only so long I can socialize when it’s 110 degrees). If you’d like to start a long distance book club, I’m all for it! Here’s what I’ve read so far:

1. Cutting for Stone, Abraham Vergese

2. Jane Eyre, A Bronte Sister

3. What is the What, Dave Eggers

4. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn,

5. When You Are Engulfed in Flames, David Sedaris

6. Segu

7. The Belly of the Atlantic, Fatou Diome

8. Stones from the River, Ursula Hegi

We’ve got a well-stocked house library in Kolda but any new additions are always welcome...