March 2008-May 2010: Sénégal (mostly Pellel Kendessa and Kédougou), with brief interludes in Tanzania, Italy, Spain, and Morocco

May 18-20 Lab

A game Booboo and I played on our trip, through which we rewarded ourselves for misfortunes... Here is the score-board:

1. Event

2. Number of Occurrences

3. Points Earned

1. Received actual Dowry Payment

2. Booboo: 1 (money was given to me FOR Booboo)

3. Booboo: 25

1. Awkward *** pimples with heads and blisters

2. Booboo: 5

3. Booboo: 25 (5 points each)

1. Painful pus-oozing body pimples

2. K: 2 (armpit and eye-lid)

3. K: 100 (50 each)

1. Vomiting

2. Booboo: 2, K:2 (alcohol was unfortunately no way involved)

3. Booboo: 40, K:40 (20 each)

1. Weird dinosaur skin bubble blister

2. Booboo:1

3. Booboo: 5

1. Sexual assault by gear shift

2. K:1

3. K:5

1. Mosquito net exploding onto road in the middle of a moto-ride

2. K:1

3. K: 5

1. Bribe standoffs

2. Booboo: 3, K: 3

3. Booboo: 30, K: 30 (10 each)

1. Bags written on according to bogus border rules

2. Booboo: 1, K:1

3. Booboo: 5, K:5

1. Rats held up within inches of face

2. K:1

3. K:5

1. Incorrect stamp in passport

2. Booboo:1, K:1

3. Booboo:5, K:5

1. Replacement of water with car gas, in own personal bottle

2. K:1

3. K:5

1. Blood-spilling thorn incident

2. Booboo:1

3. Booboo:5

1. Car break-downs (at least 10 min sitting)

2. Booboo: 3, K:3

3. Booboo: 15, K:15 (5 each)

1. Fording flooded bridges by foot

2. Booboo: 1, K:1

3. Booboo: 50, K:50

1. Getting taped eating plantain chips in a very gross way

2. Booboo:1

3. Booboo: 5

1. Eating staple

2. Booboo:1

3. Booboo:5

1. Eating rocks:

2. Booboo: 10, K: statistically must have as well but doesn't seem to have noticed

3. Booboo: 10 (1 each)

1. Near robbery

2. K:1

3. K: 5

1. Brink of bladder blast

2. Booboo: 2, K: 1

3. Booboo: 10, K: 5

1. Walking into gaping cockroach den dirt hole instead of shower at "Beverly Hills Hotel"

2. Booboo: 1, K: 1

3. Booboo: 5, K: 5

1. Falling/ flying gracefully off moto

2. K: 1

3. K:5

1. Burn from moto's exhaust pipe

2. Booboo: 1

3. Booboo: 5

1. Fever

2. Booboo: 1

3. Booboo: 20

1. Limping to market to replace broken flip-flop and hearing everyone along the way tell her to stop, her flip-flop is broken!

2. K:1

3. K: 5

1. Listening to Shaggy's "It wasn't me" on the same car trip

2. Booboo: 5, K:5

3. Booboo: 5, K: 5

1. Dealing with drunk guy visit to our hut at night while the other of us pretended to be asleep, thus removing his chance to drunkenly woo us in french

2. Booboo: 1

3. Booboo: 5

1. Leaving Burkina in a rage of near-tears each suddenly with $200 less due to surprise border dues

2. Booboo: 1, K: 1

3. Booboo: 5, K: 5

BONUS! UNQUANTIFIABLE POINTS OF MISERY!

diarrhea: +100 eachpersonal space violations: + 200Guinea trip +150Persistent African-Flirting aka harassment: + 100Al Qaida ruining plans: +50FINAL SCORE:

Booboo: 895

K: 900!

you should've gotten another ass pimple, Booboo!

BOOYAh!

Raindrops on corn husks and whiskers on catrats

Bright striped a** kettles and warm running sh**s

Brown rat-chewed packages three months waiting

These are a few of my favorite things!

Cream-colored cattle and crisp unripe mangos

Door breaks and day breaks and street children gang-os

Wild bats that fly with the moon on their wings

These are a few of my favorite things!

Girls in bright pagnes with mismatched head sashes

Sweat drops that drip from my nose and eyelashes

Silver-white toubabs that melt into drinks

These are a few of my favorite things!

When the mosquito bites! When the killer-bees sting,

When I'm feeling sad

I simply remember my favorite things,

And then I don't feel so bad!

But really:

-how drivers ALWAYS stop to help other broken-down drivers. Even with no tools or spares, they'll figure out some crazy way to tow it with a log (which I have seen) or push it, or something

-bissap juice, especially frozen

-the constant high-fiving congratulating any attempt to joke, even the quite clearly un-funny ones

-how laughter seems to always be on the tips of everyone's tongues, even when their words are sad or angry

-street food stands: meat skewer grillers, bean/omelette/spaghetti/caterpillar sandwich ladies, sweet tea and coffee tables, full meal cheb shacks... besides the excellent food, I love sitting at kids-low teetery tables in the middle of the sidewalk, chatting with nice strangers

-fanice! (Ghana and Burkina): ice cream in a bag, sold from carts wheeled around like wheelbarrows or on bikes. GENIUS!

-buying food through windows of public transport... how the hawkers will always run your change to you even if your car starts taking off

-that old people are respected and waited on and kids made to do it (we have this perversely reversed in the states)

-that no one whines about rough childhoods or neglectful parents. Everyone's had it rough here, so they all just get on with it. Furthermore, this extends into a drastically lower rate of creepy crimes. I know a lot of people have the idea that Africa is scary and dangerous, but the only real risk in the places I've talked about is pick-pocketing. And, isn't that an understandable crime? I'd do it too. In the US, as a girl, I sadly don't even stop for broken-down cars on the side of the road. This is because America has creepy creatively pschotic people who commit unspeakable crimes. I blame it on our self-absorbed whininess, among other things.

-singing, clapping, dancing, drumming

-men wearing pink boubous

-20 cent sandwiches

-mango, banana, papaya, coconut, pineapple, cacao, citrus--- trees

-peace corps house libraries

-peace corps volunteers, the greatest group of people I've ever met

-waterfalls outside of any guidebook

-being led to said off-the-map waterfalls by barefoot 7-year-olds scrambling effortlessly ahead, bush-wacking with homemade fishing poles

-starry, starry nights: shooting stars every 5 minutes

-sling shots, bamboo flutes, wooden hoops, and tied-trash soccer balls. Toys R Us ain't got nothin on creativity.

-washing clothes in sparkling rivers

-roasted corn made by 5 year-old siblings and dropped off lovingly like bouquets of flowers. or, made by street venders who wrap them in the husks as natural wrappers

-orange juice: squeezed straight from the orange to your mouth

-roasted peanuts and raw wet peanuts and picking or shucking peanuts with the family until you can't feel my finger-tips anymore

-mosquito net forts

-lanterns and candles that remind you to look at the world in romantic lighting

-wall-scrambling lizards

-fantastical birds

-hollowed-out baobabs

-tree-dwelling vines: the original jungle gym

-shaking everyone's hand when entering a room

-the circus acts of daily life

-inappropriate shirts with english writing no one but you understands ("Grandmas aren't supposed to be this sexy")

-the friendliness and readiness of everyone to always jump up and help with anything-- not just the white people, but EVERYONE

-that I could get free water, food, and shelter if broke, lost and homeless, in any village with any people. Why are the world's poorest people also the most generous people this Connecticut girl has ever met?

-Indiana Jones bridges

-Obama-gear, Obama shops, Obama music, Obama biscuits!

-hammocks

-rain winds

-postcard landscapes that make you wish you had fly eyes that could see all around you at once, and an even bigger soul to take it all in

-the ability to scatter terrified children with a jump and a "Boo!"

-4-year-old children with 3-year-old children on their backs

-group napping during the hot hours under the shades of trees

-being the most popular person in a 10 mile radius

-dug-out canoes

-simply putting down the phone without hanging up when lecherous guys call: they run out of credit and stop calling! wonderful system

-biere, grande modele

-not needing a towel

-being able to barge into restaurant kitchens to check out the ice cream, or ask for garlic cloves, or just to say hi

-tea

-"how is your family?"-- the fact that it matters yet is still so common

-the new levels of intimacy reached with friends once you know the details of their pus, snot, and especially other bodily secretions...

-NICE people

-gypsy funeral disney singer lady

-Touree's omelette sandwiches once I ride into Dindefello

-calling the Kamaras thieves, and hanging out with neene galle

-how cute Daby and Sadio are... they definitely win Best Couple in the Pellel superlatives!

-the little kids who chant my name and run at me like I'm Santa Claus (Houssey, Aliou, Mariama)

-the SOUARES, the entire reason to stay for two years in Senegal. The greatest family I could be adopted into. I miss them so much!

-people who actually read my blog. Thanks for sticking with it guys! You've made me feel much less alone and much more interesting than I perhaps have the right to feel! Hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have! Thanks so much!

Burkina Faso:

Not so bad once al qaida's kidnapping plots make you get stuck there! It's beautiful and the people have the same warm teranga that they do in Senegal.

Highlights:

-Riding a moto! You obviously don't need a license and it was cheaper to just learn rather than hire a driver. So much fun! Through sugar cane and peanut fields, down shaded tree-lined dirt avenues, past mountains and waterfalls and lilly-ponds and villages.... It was so unbelievably gorgeous, that I couldn't even help exclaiming about it out loud in "oohs" and "ahhhs."

I want one!

-Papa Noel: an eccentric previous-American with amulets and traditional clothes, who goes by Papa Noel... While sitting at an outside street tea table late one night, he sauntered down the street in a little cloud of magic. He came over to greet Ria and gave us anti-mousitque from him front bib pocket as well as a short american history lesson. Booboo and I were instantly infatuated and wanted to know everything about him. What an interesting guy! We saw him a few more times, but it'll never be enough of Papa Noel. The best thing about him is how he dances at the traditional music shows. It's like a robotic dashboard-doll shuffle. Afterwards, he leaves bags of bread in their money bowl. (I left two packages of underwear... long story.) We were sad to leave the place of P. Noel, but I at least am staying close to him in the form of my falling-apart copy of Lord of the Rings, the donation of which he merrily accepted. And so I gave a present to Papa Noel! What does that make me?

-Ria: a British special ed teacher who does things like hitchhike literally to Timbuktu. On that trip, she spent three weeks crossing the dessert with 56 toureg men and their giant guns, one old woman, 16 goats, and she-doesn't-know-how-many chickens. My favorite quote was (imagine in a cute british accent:) "All I brought into the desert with me was a dagger and nine goat skins." Why the goat skins? "Well, they're cheaper there!" Ahhh.

Meeting people like this is inspiring and otherwise enlightening. It's good to meet people more "hard-core" than you are, and it might be even better to realize you have no desire to be that hard-core yourself. I think we all kind of want to be like these exciting people, but the very fact that we want to tell these stories makes us already unlike them. I'm just glad they're around to have nighttime tea with!

-The Carpe Diem Cafe: I convinced the management to give me a free espresso after showing him my tattoo. Free advertising! They were baffled as to how and why the name of their restaurant came to be on my ankle. I was getting the feeling that they really had no idea it was anything but the name of their place, so I asked them to confirm the french translation. "Les plaisurs sur la table!" No, that's your motto, I see on the sign, but I mean the translation of the phrase, "carpe diem..." "Oui, oui, ca signifie 'les plaisurs sur la table!" And they could not be convinced otherwise. Wow.

-Fried caterpillars: surprisingly tasty! They sell them in sandwiches in La Vielle Quartiere in Bobo, and I really don't know why they don't sell them everywhere else too. The caterpillars eat up the shea trees, so I think it would be smart all around to eat them up first!

-The rest of La Vielle Quartiere: quite interesting. It's divided into sections for: Muslims, Animists, Griots, and Forgers. They make everything from millet beer to drums there. The largest "fetish" in the animist section is covered with blood and feathers for sacrifices. The sacred catfish river was a bit of a hoot. Besides being sacred, it also functions as the disgusting town dump. Pigs waded through, and filth and trash were everywhere. A kid was peeing a high golden arc into it as well. Perhaps the no-eating-the-catfish rule is for the best!

-Acrobatic dancers: We saw an amazing performance of stunts that are literally in Cirque du Soleil, non-stop. Holding each other up at ridiculous angles, standing and flipping off each other's heads, flipping in every other way, eating fire, balancing and juggling with spinning bowls... Absolutely hands-down the best show I've ever seen for $1.20!

We had to skip Mali to avoid being kidnapped, but I'll go back there some day. So instead we flew to Dakar (this transition was not exactly painless, but I'll leave it to Booboo to write about that...) Once in Dakar, we saw our favorite people, went to surf camp, and I bought $50 worth of parasite/ amoeba/ schisto medicines.

So concludes our magical journey! Good times!

It was completely hillariously fullfilling for me, all the women involved, and all passersby who stopped mid-stride or peddel to gape. It was less of a positive experience for Booboo. I took about 100 photos because I figured the actual braids wouldn't last long enough for a great enough part of the world to bear witness. It's our duty to spread joy by sharing her rat-head with the masses. She wanted a mohawk in the middle at first (yet was ademently opposed to extensions that would look "ridiculous") but there was no way the woman would let her walk away from their braiding stand looking like a mad woman (unfinished braids are like insanity badges for women. For men, it's the complete lack of clothing). In the end, we all won, really. Less so for Booboo and her sore scalp.

"Terrifying. I am Darth Vader taking the helmet off... with 4 chins."

--Booboo's reaction to a photo of her scary white-girl braids

So I've been of a minority race for two and a half years now. It's an annoying but enlightening experience. Within this time, I must say, I've noticed a few differences between white and black people. I know I'm supposed to say we're all the same, and of course fundamentally or spiritually or whatever, that's true. But still-- we're not. We're all different and it's ok. We don't need to be "color blind" because it's good and necessary to all be different from each other. And there's one difference in particular which maybe I shouldn't say as it might get me in trouble... But I would like to get it off my chest. So here goes, the racist conclusion I've come to: black people.... are better.

I'm sorry! I'm sorry, the majority of my family and friends; I'm sorry world leaders; I'm sorry fellow prep-school kids. It's true and it's time to accept our defeat as gracefully as we can. Which really isn't that graceful, and I think this proves my point.

You know when you are faced with that inconveniently-located caution tape once you've already set out on the straightest path to your parking spot and you really don't want to re-set your course? Or, for the more rurally inclined, when you want to somehow get on the other side of a fence? Hands on your hips, you pause breifly to consider this nuissance of a barrier. Of course you can do it, you just need a minute to figure out the best way... Can you stretch your leg over it? Are your pants too tight for that sort of thing? Maybe under? Can you still bend that way? Could your body scrunch small enough to go through?

Meanwhile, Mariama Diallo (the Sarah Smith of Senegal) has stepped over as daintily as a tight-rope walker-- with 8 gallons of water balanced on her head, a baby on her back, malaria coursing through her veins, a cup of corn in her tiny stomach, and she's probably clapping and singing while she's at it.

In her wake, you suddenly see the possibility in her steps. And there you go!-- with just the smallest grunt and stumble on the other side. Maybe we weren't always like this, but somewhere along the way, the majority of white people seem to have lost their natural grace, the autonomy of their body parts in sync getting somewhere. Maybe we're just out of practice. Not so, here.

Still not convinced with my revelation? So you go to the gym and haven't lost the natural ease of your legs? Fair enough. In that case, let me take you on an imaginary journey to My Life. Please get on the imaginary carpet. A little quicker... Watch how Mariama does it... There we go!

*****(imaginary journey music)*****

Here we are, in a beautiful but HOT land. The local people welcome you kindly and press roasted cobs of corn in your hand. How sweet! And delicious! But focus, now.

What do you notice about everyone around you? #1. They're beautiful. Like models. Chisled, sculpted, smooth, hairless, glowing... Now I personally have gone through, in my lifetime: several years of braces and teeth cleanings, pimples, tubes put in my ears, my tonsils taken out, high-power contacts, and countless medicines, vitamins, and gym classes just to stand here next to them, quite literally pale in comparison. And you? Well you're sweating even from your eyelids, you feel a heat rash spreading, and your skin is already burning from the sun. In short, you're in my boat, buddy.

But let's not get down on ourselves-- at least our hair is easier to deal with, for the most part. So that's... something...

Anyway, let's just lather on some sunblock and appreciate #2: mad skillz, yo. Everyday life here is filled with amazing cirque du soleil-type acts. I don't just mean the clown cars in Guinea, although they are impressive..

First and foremost, the balancing thing is just ridiculous. We literally cannot even carry our own bodies down this street without stumbling over the rocks, trash, and potholes. And you, I might add, are nearly bent over, staring at the rocky ground just missing Sherlock Holmes' magnifying glass. You look ridiculous. Stand up and get yourself together! OK, now look at all the women walking by us. They glide like phantoms or music box ice-skaters, never looking down or tripping, with any number of strange cargo balancing improbably on their heads.

At the summer youth camp Peace Corps Kédougou puts on (started by Willie Adams and Dan Egan), we had a games day. We planned to do that race in which you balance an egg on a spoon and run as quickly as you can without dropping it. Once we had the contenders all lined up with their eggs, we realized we were missing the spoons and the kitchen hut was locked. Uhhh... carry them on your heads! -one of us joked. But suddenly, they were. Every participant was successfully balancing an egg on his or her head (except the PCV rep...) and the joke was on us. The winner of the race was a bald guy.

Back to our street scene, you are now gaping at a girl biking on this bumpy not-quite-road with a large bucket of bread balancing on her head. Yeah. Hawking women walk by with three foot tall stacks of biscuits on their heads. Since we are greedy Americans, we stop them. With a gleam in you nefarious little eye, you spot the brown ones at the very bottom of the stack. "Les chocolats?" we ask, half apologetically, half challengingly. And her friend helps her extract them like a jenga piece, all while leaving both loads perched perfectly on each of their heads, as if they're glued on. Even little girls around us are performing these impressive feats. "Jeez!" you say, while stuffing biscuits above your double chins (sorry for pointing them out). I myself have started clapping for the women like a slow-moving seal.

I'm not even going to get into dancing as I think it's rather evident. Face it, dude. The Africans win. But it's ok. It's cooler in the shade of their shadows. Let's follow Mariama.

It's been so much fun to travel through Africa during LA COUPE DU MONDE!

Even during everyday life, TVs are almost always tuned into soccer matches. Badji's waiting room pavillion hut and every boutique in Kédougou are constantly host to crowds squinting at tiny players for teams like Manchester United. But now, Manchester United is watching OUR teams. It's time for Africa! (Shakira reference... what a great song!)

This year participating African nations included: Algeria, Cameroon, Ghana, Ivory Coast, Nigeria, and host South Africa. I got to be in Côte D'Ivoire for one of their games and Ghana for three of theirs (their last one in Burkina). It is the Most Exciting Thing Ever. I've never seen such universal support across the country for anything. There is nothing in America that compares. The Superbowl is more for eating and meeting up and even then only a percentage care. Most people seem to be more on the "Oh yeahh.. when is that? Who's playing?" side of things. (Guilty.) I think the presidential elections are more similar because at least everyone's more or less paying attention. But that only divided the country! The World Cup is a beautiful unifying event of the collective heart. (I realize I sound gooey cheesy, but I don't care! I'm swept away by the festive mood! Weeee!)

For the Ghana vs Germany match, we were dismayed to find out that it wasn't an afternoon game like we'd thought. It was scheduled during our bus-ride. Nooo! So we dejectedly boarded the bus in our Ghana hats (and slap bracelet thank you very much!) bummed to be missing out. But at every slow-down of the bus, we stuck our heads out the windows to catch glipses of boutique TVs which are so considerately posted all along the roads. A few other passengers had phones or radios stuck to their ears and gave secondary running commentary. So it ended up being kind of fun and amazing how connected we all still were.

Ghana lost that game as we arrived in Hohoe, but you wouldn't know it by looking at the streets! As we climbed down the stairs we were able to join in right away with the dancing, singing, marching, cheering, and chanting of "BLACK STARS!" Street party! People honked all around and zoomed by doing acrobatic tricks on motorcycles (which made me tut and worry at the time, like the old woman I've become.)

Ghana was still in the tournament and there were absolutely no hard feelings about the loss. Booboo and I marvelled at this because we're used to more critical fandom. She said in New Zealand, they turn on their teams with wrath at every loss. I thought of the most zealous Yankee fan I know who one day angrily thrust his Yankees keychain at me after they lost. Fair-weather fans! I wouldn't want to play for you!

"See the champions

Take the field now

You define us

Make us feel proud!"

(If you don't know this song, you are unforgiveably estranged from the rest of the world!)

The most exciting game was of course the Ghana vs US game. I imagine other citizens of World Cup countries had trouble visiting rivals with some overenthusiastic fans showing actual animosity. But here it was all the friendliest rivalry I've seen! There was only a jovial "IIII'm gonna getchu!" atmosphere. It was actually fun telling everyone I was an American before the match. Although it helped that I was on the right side...

Now I'm not a total traitor. I wanted the US to score... once. Then we could still hold our heads up. But I definitely wanted Ghana to score more!

We were returning late that day from a pottery site village of an aquired friend (who is in love with Booboo, incidentally). The traffic jammed up as we all became frantic to see the game. It's starting! We raced into a cab whose driver then jumped out to fiddle with the engine. Nooo! We thought about jumping out to find a different cab, but then we heard the crackle of static and announcer voices. He was only fixing the radio to hear the game! Hear, and see too, as it turned out. It's no exaggeration that every single TV was tuned into the game. As soon as we passed one set, we came into view of another. As we drove down the streets of boutiques, masses of men, women, and children glowed before the boxes, bouncing with excitement.

Ghana scored the first goal while we were still in the car. "GOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLL!" (the world all nationalities can understand!) The crowds in front of the boutiques starting jumping up and down. People starting running around with airplane arms as if they'd scored it themselves. Cars all over the road blasted their horns and carried pumping fists out their windows. I waved my own yellow, green, and red hat back at the festive world. Party in transit!

We finally stopped at a crowded restaurant when we couldn't stand it anymore. I had the best burger of my life and joined heartily in the merry-making. A lot of Africans are quite theatrical (I blame the soap operas) which makes events like game-watching all the more entertaining. These fans were passionately invested: moved to tears or stomping tantrums at small losses and even stronger reactions to success. And I found myself heppily carried along.

I felt a little bad for the US team, mentally comparing that moment in America to the one here. How many people were watching quietly in brightly lit rooms on large couches over there? Who are not actually immigrants? I hear crickets. Which is why I wanted our goal. But for all the fans on this continent, I really wanted Ghana to win. For all the people on their tiptoes in the back of starlit crowds... for all the little barefoot boys thinking, "That could be me!" for the first time... for all billions of breaths held here... GO BLACK STARS!

When they did win, it was like the ball dropped on New Year's. Or like we'd all just won the lottery. Screams, jumping, overturned chairs, sudden abnormal-to-the-culture embraces between strangers, hands shaking every single other hand in communal congratulations... What deserved joy on a continent of hard lives!

Since then, Ghana has unfortunately lost to Uraguay, thus ending our dreams of African victory-- for now. But the fans are still as proud and loyal as ever. And the party is not over!

It never will be.

So far, we've gone through Guinea, Sierra Leone, Guinea again, Cote D'Ivoire, and now we've reached GHANA, the land of plenty-- of tourists. Despite feeling way less badass, we are loving all that Ghana has to offer. Highlights so far include:

1. Not getting asked for a bribe at the border! First time in the entire trip! They checked EVERYONE"S papers, not just the whites' and it was the most organized crossing we've ever had!

2. Green Turtle Lodge in Dixcove. Backpacker paradise on the ebach, complete with a giant boat-bar, happy hour when it rains, ping pong, pool table, lots of other games, young people, and a fun camp feel. Although, as excited as I was at first to see other white poeple, it got kind of old.

3. Dixcove's crazy riptide. I was trying to converse with a fellow expat while out in the water. He dove neatly under each wave and continued easily wherever he'd left off. I however, was trying to look as cool as possible while recovering from some washing machine tumbles, coming up spluttering and readjusting my ill-fitted bathing suit.

4. Cape Coast-- got in just in time to see the Ghana vs. Aussie match. They DOMINATED, but it still unfortunately ended only in a tie. (We are about to watch the Ghana vs. Germany match in a bus station. I have a sweet patriotic hat and SNAP BRACELET and Booboo has a headband/sash.)

5. Ice cream venders on bicylces. What a wonderful world.

6. English language bookstores! Almost better than food!

7. Street food: red-red, fried chicken, fufu, fish, octopus, popcorn... the best street food yet!

8. Kakum Park: the canopy walkways are quite cool. The views are absolutely gorgeous and it's an incredibly enjoyable experience being up so high but still completely safe. I have to admit I had a bit of a superiority complex come in when the other people on our tour were freaking out a little. I personally felt disappointed by how completely unscary it was-- couldn't even raise my pulse! So I was rolling my eyes at the other peoples' squeals and at the "I survived the Walkway" tee-shirts. Come on! There's a huge sturdy safety net encompassing every bridge, sturdy fenced-in railings, and the walkway is so secure, they say it could take the weight of an elephant! These people should try carrying their bikes over the bridge to Ingli! (Which, it should be noted, I myself was too scared to do-- thanks, Matt and Jordan!) So, very immaturely, I danced across the bridges and boycotted the railings. (Mother, I can hear your gasping protests from here... Sorrrry!)

9. We were going to camp in the "platforms among the trees" but it ended up being kind of a rip-off to camp a foot off the ground in a closed-up park. The flight crew from our tour somehow rejected our charming plea for a ride out, but karma may have had its way with them later. Their and our destination, Accra, was unreachable. The two bridges were washed out completely by the floods. It was crazy. So far, I've heard 35 people died from it all. But when our tro-tro hit the traffic jam at the river, we didn't know any of that. The car emptied out and the other passengers walked about a mile through stopped-up taffic to cross the rushing waters by foot. We hung around for a while, hoping for a refund for the other half of the trip. When it was clear our driver was nowhere around, we hoisted our bags (I HATE MY BAKCPACK) and set out after the others. Most people stayed in their cars and gaped as we passed them. If they were in a high-engine car, some could brave it eventually, but the others had to turn back. As we finally got to the water ourselves, the offers of, "I carry your bags across just two ceedis!" increased exponentially. I pulled up my pant legs and we took off our flip flops to wade through. Booboo was a bit nervous about the dirty water, but I already have schisto. I've also waded through many many many dirty waters in Senegal, sometimes up to my chin with my backpack on my head or my bike on my shoulder, so this didn't really phase me. It was more fun, if anything. With the miles of stuck cars and fellow barefoot waders, there was a great feeling of community. We laughed and waved and shook our heads as we passed each other. Everyone had their arms around each other and helds held to steady one another in the current. I had Billy Joel's "And we will all go down together" song in my head, though of course I was trying to change it from "go down" to "cross over safetly". It was sweet, really.

Booboo was a bit nervous at the second and deeper section. We paused and while a group of guys and I tried to give her a pep-talk, a truck with a long empty flatbed splashed through. We all cheered and clambored on (I was completely ungraceful scrambling from the tire and over the ledge with my huge backpack pulling me like a magnet back towards the ground). It was a great ride with 10 other grinning guys. The wind pipi longstocking-ed my hair, but it was still a great way to see the place.

10. The best part of the ride came from a guy who was creepily filming us with his camera phone. Usually I try to step away from these, but since I couldn't on the truck, he got a film of me boringly sitting there. Booboo, however, was completely oblivious of his camera work and he got a FANTASTIC one of her shoving plantain chips very unattractively into her mouth. I'm laughing just writing it. She was truly and gruesomely Stuffing Her Face, and joke's on him if he wanted some hot video of the white chicks he rode with! He showed us these videos on the tro-tro we shared to get to the same neighborhood in Accra. We cracked up until I had tears streaming down my face. One time Booboo took MB and me to an Angels game and we watched this lady i front of us more than the game. She was sucking all the salt off her unshelled peanuts at a frantic pace with a specific process to it. We and about 6 other people stared fascinated at her as she did this and dropped the whole unshelled peanuts on the ground. This strange behavior in addition to her ridiculously 45 degree angle penciled-in eyebrows inspired all of us to snap photos and videos of her while the less interesting game continued in the background. I share this warm memory with all of you because my theory is that, in Ghana, at least, BOOBOO IS THE PEANUT LADY! This video is the greatest part of my trip so far.

11. Accra: we are staying at "The Beverly Hills Hotel." Except that this Beverly hills has a boatload of cockroaches and replaced the shower in the middle of our stay so we couldn't use it. I'd still recommend it though-- just don't buy the 3 ceedi nescafe!

12. Touristy things: markets, art gallery, Cape Coast Castle (complete with Obama plaque), Sunday church services, lighthouse...

13. Sign advertising "Emergency Ambulence/ Hearse Services!" I'd count on them for the second thing only!

Well with that, we've still got half of Ghana to go! Stay tuned! (By the way is anyone reading this? I feel kind of stupid if I'm writing to next to no one.. Could you comment if you're reading?)

Since we didn't have Liberian visas, Booboo and I decided to go back through the forest region of Guinea, on the Most Gorgeous Roads of our collective lives and enter Cote D'Ivoire on the west, in the region called Man. The more we learned about the rebel strong-hold there, the more nervous we became about having to deal with that when every single border control officer was already demanding bribes. The others weren't so bad: in Sierra Leone, they suggested giving an additional sum, although they didn't recquire it. Ha! The second time back in Guinea, the small soft-spoken Very Pulaar man said, "Wait but you have to pay us!" I got little farther in my speech beyond, "No we don't!" before he settled back with a little giggle and said, "Okaaaay." Bless the pulaars.

On the way out of Guinea, we literally woke up some guards who quickly tried to look as important and professional as they could, while wiping the sleep from their eyes. My favorite part was when the "security officer" said in english that he should really check our bags, otherwise how would he know what's in them? Booboo said, "I just told you!" in a petulent 8 year old voice. Then the best part: she fist pumped to the said, and in the way that you'd hiss, "Yessss!" she said, "Trust!" I bit my lip to keeo from busting out laughing and tried to solemnly nod along instead. They all let us go with their phone numbers.

It wasn't quite so funny in Cote D'Ivoire. Our reservations were not unfounded. The rebel soldiers were all high on power trips and carrying their guns showily everywhere. (Ahh, compensation.) The plan Booboo and I decided on beforehand was that I didn't speak french well-- only pulaar and english. My goal was to channel Reece Witherspoon from Legally Blonde, but less annoyingly. So we smiled and said, "What???" a lot, and giggled. At one point I was having trouble summoning a credible giggle (since I actually understood the lewd things they were saying), so I literally said out loud in english, "Giggle....!" and the ridiculousness of that in turn got a few good ones out of each of us.

At the first post, the men were all over us and it wasn't too hard to be legally blonde until they were tired of asking for money. We accepted banana cookies and nodded a lot and shook everyone's hand and didn't say or "understand" much more beyond answering our destination and saying, "touristes!" The other guys in our car with whom I'd talked to a bit must have been suspicious, but they didn't rat me out.

The next one was the worst. A camo-clad guy on the back of a moto demanded my passport and shouted about it not being stamped. So we had to leave all our bags and our arguments with the massa bus people and trudge over to the gendarmerie.

I said, "Assala Malykum" and the leader rebel soldier answered, "But I'm Christian! How dare you greet me like that!" and his underlings cackled. I tried not to roll my eyes and said, "Well then greetings under the eyes of god..."

Oops! First Legally Blonde slip! I quickly stuttered some unintelligable ameri-french, but his eyes were narrowed. So we began our worst exchange with the rebel soldiers. This guy was ridiculous, not used to ever hearing "no," and a fan of playing with his gun.

The rest of my L.B. performance should win me an Oscar, if I do say so myself. Things went mostly like this:

Rebel Leader: "I don't care that you have your rubbish visa! It doesn't matter here! This is a war-zone and now you need to answer to us. We don't work with that embassy, so now you must pay us too! It's the only way!"

Me: "Yes... visa?... we have... no to-pay..."

The guys were all quite scary and prone to shouting and on the inside my heart was racing and I kept having to swallow. On the outside, I did my best to maintain the same L.B. placid expression. I concentrated on appropriately balancing my three weapons: stupidity, charming feminine wiles, and the side of justice. Mostly the first two.

When things fell too much on the last point, "You... here... to live?... is good?" + smile + small giggle. Woo, back in balance.

When we still weren't paying, he brought in a "translater." Luckily his english was almost as bad as my fake french. I batted my eyelashes at him. (Who knew people could successfully bat eyelashes outside of loony toons? But, YOU CAN.)

After a very long and tiring interrogation; I finally stammered that we didn't even have enough CFA to give them-- just enough for the bus that was waiting for us! This was not far from the truth. I asked them if there were banks and hotels in Man. The mood wasn't at all set for this touristy question, but I wanted to blatently ignore the mood and make them feel in some sort of authority still.

They finally let us go after getting our numbers and giving us theirs. (They wouldn't have rested otherwise-- with all the other soldiers bound to ask them what they got out of us, they needed to be able to show off something.) Of all the preposterous ideas, though. Like I'm really going to call up some power-tripping jerk and try to have another terrifying conversation with him? What are they thinking? I almost can't wait for them to call my American cell phone while I'm in line at Starbucks or something. I'll say to the cashier, "Hold on, it's a corrupt rebel soldier leader in Cote D'Ivoire... just a second... but I'll have a cappucino..."

There were many more soldier checkpoints after this and over and over we took out our passports, refused bribe demands, summoned fake smiles, and took peoples' numbers. If we weren't young women, I honestly don't think we could have ever gotten through all those with any money left. But instead of feeling celebratory about it, our terror kept growing. On the road, every spotted outfit and farming machete slung over regular peoples' shoulders looked like camo-clad soldiers with guns. Over and over, our hearts hammered from the psychological mirage. When we finally got into a hotel room and locked the door, we hugged each other and tried to laugh. But all night our terror still reigned and we both had camo-clad nightmares.

This experience has given me a new respect for people who go through battles and war. If we were so affected by a single day without even any true threat of being killed, I truly can't imagine what it's like for soldiers or the civilians caught among them. At the same time, I feel like I hate the concept of soldiers more than ever. I know so many poeple becomesoldiers, but I really think it's hard to impossible for this to not negatively affect them. The uniforms, the guns, the power, the separation from "regular people", the tangled responsibilities of following any order and dismissing previous independent philosophies of what's right and what's wrong. What else but these philosophies makes us humans?

I hope I'm not offending anyone by this. I know it's a sensative subject to criticize a practice for which so many of our loved ones have died. But I mean to criticize the system that killed or broke them, not the original people who enter into it.

Anyway, being on the side of the somewhat hunted, I began to wonder what exactly the differences were between rebel army occupation of northern Cote D'Ivoire and American army occupation elseware. I know we're more organized, with at least some official systems in place for answering for your actions. And we have fancier equipment and sweeter rides. But in how many people's nightmares do our American soldiers feature?

To end lightly, I'll share a bizarrely coincidental message from the fates: As I wearily settled back into my half-seat on the bus after yet another check-point, I was starting to doubt the way I was dealing with it all. Suddenly, a moto comes by, and in pink letters on the driver's shirt says: LEGALLY BLONDE. If that's not a sign that it'll all be okay, I don't know what is!

1. Play dumb. It's easy. You won't often understand what's going on anyway, even if you are fluent in the language. Stand around with your pathetically confused expression until someone has pity on you and takes your bags and gestures you to the front seat. If no one does (for shame!), point to it yourself and batt your eyelashes. No, it's not fair, but you just think about all the hissing and catcalls and grabbing on the street and then decide whether or not you deserve a few toubab perks after that!

2. Beware of the front middle seat. I took this in a tight skirt (flowered one from you, MB) and it was rather too much excitment for me. As they instructed me to get in, I just stared at the non-seat before the gear-shift and I had no idea how this would work. Then a guy grabbed my thigh to pull it over to the driver's side. I slapped him off my bare skin and said I got it! So I sat with one leg pressed up against the driver's and the other awkwardly straddling to the passenger seat which was pretty full already with Booboo and the bony old man who kept diggin his elbow into her. My skirt became extremely short in this position which ended up mattering because the gear shift was IN MY CROTCH. I put a water bottle against my goods to act as a barrier. The driver was annoyed to keep hitting it when he shifted, so he threw it aside at one point. But I insisted. So the whole trip involved my thighs getting groped and my crotch getting knocked. When I'd try to move my knee aside a little to give him space to shift with less contact, it would get wedged under the wheel and prevent all steering. So, groping it was. The keys also fell out a few times (which doesn't stop the car because it's hotwired anyway) and he had to feel blindly around ly entire bare leg to find them on my toes.

Remarkably, the driver was impressively professional about it all. I guess that's a common occupational situation, but for a very muslim country with more headscarves that I'd seen in Senegal and even some full out hijabs, I felt like a complete 'tute. I waited for him to linger on my thighs or do some less-necessary shifting but he actually remained quite focused. Still, I do not ever want to be in that seat again-- at least not without pants!

3.Get ready to have your style--not to mention body-- cramped. What I thought was a cramped sept-place (taxi-sized peugeot with 7 official spots) ride in Senegal becomes at the Very Least a neuf-place in Guinea and beyond. They don't have seat ratio laws, so they pack it in like I had no idea was possible. The driver shares his seat. Three or four adults can sit next to him (one straddling the middle) with at least as many kids. The three seats in the back and way back may hold double their numbers, plus kids on laps/ floors/ partly standing. I have seen up to eight people sitting on the roof and have no doubt that more is not rare. So one taxi= 8 seats (including driver's) = give or take 20 people. It's INSANE. The same applies for any vehicle. In our Guinea pick-up, over 20 passengers had to spill out of the back over and over to walk up the hills all throughout the night because the truck couldn't bear them. Expect elbows/ shoulders/ hips/ etc to dig into you. Expect to wear the scents of multiple people's sweat by the end. Try to avoid armpits.

4.If you feel nauseus... (which is more than likely due to the off-roading, smells, heat...) it is generally expected that you will vomit neatly into your own handbag or lap. It is a good rule.

5. If someone misses a bit and gets some vomit on you or baby pee/poo, don't freak out. They will feel bad and offer you water or a cloth. C'est la vie, and you're not clean anyway.

6. If there is frozen meat or live animals on the roof, be wary of window seats. On long trips, the meat will unfreeze and rain blood down the windows, horror-movie style. It will splatter through an open window, but closing the window makes it stiffling inside. The animals will pee and poo, but at least this is a limited number of times. People in the middle usually escape unscathed.

7. Otherwise, window seats are KEY. Sometimes the wind is strong, but keep it down as a courtesy to the poor unfortunate souls behind you.

8. Window crankers in their entirity are rare, but don't let that stop your ventillation ambitions! The driver will usually have a wrench or some other way of jerry-rigging it down.

9. Bring a scarf or bandana. If you have long hair like me, it will whip visciously into the face of your more-or-mess innocent neighbor in strong winds, if you don't wrap it up. More often, you might need it to wrap around as a dust mask in every season but rainy season. The dust can be an undefiable force-- it has covered my whole face red when I've worn a scarf ghost-sheet style! Also, scarves are handy for wipes, make-do pillos, and sweat rags.

10. Bring also on your lap instead of stored up on roof: water (for drinking and bush-sh*ts), zippered-up valuables (you could be pick-pocketed in your sleep, even though it's rare), book (even if you get car-sick while in motion, you'll want it when you break down), sunblock for your window-side (but try not to sit on this side! calculate ahead of time!), change for peanuts/ fruit/ biscuits/ eyc sold through windows, and needless to say, your sense of humor! So your driver may be an ***, but he'll be a lot easier to bear if you can successfully convince him (and the entire sept/ neuf-place, thank you very much) that YOU are the girl in the ever popular Madonna (singer) sticker. (My story is that's why I'm in Africa-- to tour and promote my cool sticker!)

11. Bed or bruise. On overnight rides, like our one from Kédougou to Labé (24.5 hours, they will pull over for about a three hour nap. This is why everyone else will have brought matts to sleep on. I had only my thin sleeping bag, but we zonked outn EASILY anyway. It was only in the morning did we process the intense discomfort of sleeping almost directly on a bed of rocks. "Princess and the Pointy Pebbles" I muttered as we groaned, shifting around our bruises as goats sniffed our toes.

12. If you get food, share it with everyone around you, and the driver. If there are 20 people behind you, it's okay to just stick to your own row. It's good to get other passengers on your side because you'll be the main target for cheating/ lying/ taking general advantage of. Be more selfish with your water. I shared mine with a woman and her toddler on the way to Guinea, but should have held on to it when the guys over the popped hood asked for it. they ended up dumping all the rest into the engine and then took my bottle to fill with gasoline! Which I stole back in the end, not realizing it was clear "essance." Payback...?

13. Get ready to ride the rage. The worst representatives of every one of these countries are the ones at airports/ garages/ other transit stations. Here, everyone will try to cheat you because they assume all white people have more money than they know what to do with. My blood has never boiled as it has in garages. Examples from this trip:

Over breakfast at a Guinea garage, a particularly crude oaf graced me with his disgusting presence. First, he asked for his present. Nothing new; I asked for mine. He said it was in his room, and continued down this vein more graphically than I may have ever heard, at least in pulaar! I told him our conversation was over-- several times. I ignored him. I asked him to leave. He was loving it. I threw his sunglasses several yards away, impulsively. He still grinned lesdly. I finally got up and expressionlessly grabbed the huge knife the cooks were using to cut bread. The boys scattered and laughed nervously. I sat down with the knife and he decided to leave for good. I explained to Booboo what was happening and breezily said, "First death threat of the day and I haven't even had breakfast yet!"

My second, third, and forth death threats were granted to a driver. He kept demanding that I pay for empty seats when people got out so he wouldn't have to fill them (as if they aren't really already "filled"). He did not stop, even when I scolded him for his rudeness and incorrect assumption that I'm rolling in it. I told him in english that I'd slit his throat, which is a gratifying method of feeling better without the person understanding the horrible thing you just said. When he still didn't stop, I said it again-- this time with CLEAR hand motions. I also acted out choking him from behind. He got better after that...

14. Obey the law, not the law officers. In Senegal, they're usually OK, except when they want extra cash before the holidays and will invent bogus fines and i.d. card checks. (Ask Jared about his arrests°. In Guinea, they suck a lot more. They held our passports for ransom, basically. When a guy who spoke english tried to coax me to pay up, I unleashed the wrath that I can't quite correctly unleash in pulaar. I berated him for breaking the law when it was his primary job to uphold and defend it. I would not ever pay a bribe to him or his evil cohorts because we already bought the visa. He could make ur whole car wait all day (gesture to woman and two infants), but that's still that. I was inwardly quite impressed with my little speech. I guess once the english started, and I realized exactly and correctly how I wanted to respond, I couldn't hold back. He let us go. And asked for our numbers. I wanted to spit on them as we left, especially one who condescendingly taunted our backs, but I settled, thankfully, for a Very Dirty Look.

This happened way more in Cote D'Ivoire, but see the next post for details of that.

Often, the gendarmes are comically ridiculous and you can see so clearly how they just wanted the job so they could wear the uniform. When we first checked into Guinea, by a guy in a "Xena: Warrior Princess" tee-shirt, another passenger came in to get water. A guard stopped him. "Are you military?" Nooo... "Then where did you get those boots?" Sure enough the mere civilian was sporting the same boots as the grandly powerful border control gendarme. "I bought them in the market..." The gendarme was extremely put out. He and his coworkers sported a variety of official-wear themselves-- one just had the hat. Another had flipflops, but most wore the same black boots. The guy looked betrayed, as if he were thinking he could have skipped all the training and long hours and just bought the beautiful boots, the prize and point of his occupation-- at the market! He made quite a fuss and demanded the guy take them off. I guess eventually it blew over, because Mr. Boots later got back into the car, rolling his eyes, adorned still in his boots.

15. Figure out what everyone else is paying for their bags and argue adamently for the same. In Senegal it's around 500 CFA, sometimes less. Guinea: Nothing. Sierra Leone: sporadic-- nothing to a mille. Cote D'Ivoire: Nothing, but that doesn't mean they won't try. I have yet to see about the others.

16. If you can get your hands on any old cassette tape even partially bearable, you might want to bring it to gift one of your drivers. A lot of drivers have just a single tape which they have no problem replaying 30 times. Even if you started out liking Akon or Youssou or Celine, IT GETS OLD.

17. Motos: don't wear tight skirts-- they rip (yours again, MB! but I sewed it back up). Hold on- best not around driver's waist because he'll be in love with you enough as it is already. Find a bar beneath or behind your seat. Careful with your baggage. I had a mosquito net explode like a party cracker out in the middle of the road, which made driving a bit tricky... Don't be afraid to ask your driver to slow down-- they often try to show off for you until you do. That said, moto rides in West Africa are excellent! You can see so much and pass all the cars getting stuck in ditches, and not dye pedelling yourself on your own bike. It's fantastic. The best and most beautiful rides of my life have been on motos in Guinea.

18. Tips from Booboo: "Focus on the scenery and not on your situation. Become a very creative daydreamer. Take comfort in the knowledge that those giant beads of sweat will cool you when the wind blows by. Acceptingly settle into your uncomfortableness with the knowledge that it will end... eventually."

Bon, donc maintenent: BON VOYAGE!

Some of you might be wondering what I'm doing still on "AfriKate" and out of the States. Wasn't I supposed to be done with Peace Corps by now? Yah... I AM! I am officially an RPCV. But... I'm still here...

That is because, among many things, my dear college buddy, BooBoo aka Ryan Lindsay is visiting and we have a grand adventure ahead of us. We spent quite a bit of time living it up in Dakar stalking rumored embassy location to get our Visas. Now we're in home sweet-Kedougou soaking my mini-Herman (remember those pictures of Jordan's neck-crater?) Then we will go back to my village on a bike ride on which I will come as close as possible to regret over N'ice Cream (we have had at least quadruple the number of ice creams as we have visas). I will say goodbye and it will not be pretty. Then we will go back to Kedougou, and embark on out to: Guinea, Sierra Leone, Liberia, Cote D'Ivoire, Ghana, Burkina Faso, Mali, and back here to N'ice Cream. I mean, Dakar. (INCHALLAH). We will be accompanied by Roxy, Mary, and Andy and Annicka to Sierra Leone. THEN Booboo and I get to see my dearest MB in Cambridge and probably embarrass the living daylights out of her with our heathen ways. But she will forgive us.... right? I hope to also meet Kate in England and fly back with her to the great US of A to an airport swaying with adoring fans and readers of AfriKate who will swarm the arrivals gate with plates of nachos and oreo-milkshakes. Right? This will be at the beginning of August. (INCHALLAH. I can't stop saying this; it is like a nervous tick. Just let it happen.) For better documenting and organization and normal perspective of this entire thing, please see BooBoo's blog. It is much better: http://backpacknomadic.net/

As for all that's been happening while I have been neglecting this blog... It's mostly about saying goodbye now. This is predictably wrenching. Except for it being hot season, it really is an awful time to leave. Yeah, two years is a long time, but if your going to a foreign senegal-exy, you kind of need it. My language came slowly and only now do I feel very confident in it. It's like I put in my pulaar-contacts and now I can see the whole scene clearly. Maybe I don't know the name of that bush on the scene but at least I can tell it's a bush and it's the one we get our tooth-sticks from. (does that make sense?)

It's been more fun in the village than ever before because everyone showers me in praises and proclamations of love everywhere I go. (So, if this doesn't happen when I'm in the States, I gotta warn you all, I might just have to come back... It's a good gig.) Their tune as far as females go has completely changed. They first used to say, "You know, I was worried about you being a female, but now I see that females can do just as much men..." Now, they are saying, "Females clearly are way better than males and do so much more. Look at what you've done! You can't leave!" I'm sure my replacement will prove to them that this isn't quite true either though. But it's still LOVELY to hear, even if I keep squirming feeling like I don't deserve to be hearing it all.

We've also been playing a lot more now that my focus is off of work. I've taught a little bit of "karate" to some of the more mature kids. I'd been promising them I would ever since they saw the photo of me breaking a board, and man, are they pumped! They are really so cute about it. We're treating it like a secret club and they're even practicing in secret! I told them not to teach any of the immature bullies anything. I'm also teaching juggling since mango season is perfect for it. I've got about four kids who are pretty good at it now, and we're even trying to add tricks like bouncing them off our knees. One juggle-focused day, I looked around and saw boys balancing long bamboo poles on their hands and feet and a girl sliding mangos down her legs in a rapid pattern, in the exact same ways I did in that Michael Moschen juggling show in high school. How incredible that they all so naturally do what I and a bunch of other prep-schoolers paid hefty chunks of money to learn to do. This is something I'll really miss: natural life. Waking up with the sun, knowing how to run on rocks in the night, discovering tricks and abilities naturally... It all feels so right. In the States, we withstand hurricanes of passive un-discovery and forget how to move naturally and sit quietly and make toys from mangos. With the advertisers choosing how to stimulate us, we forget how to move for ourselves, and can barely balance sticks without someone literally selling the idea to us in an advertised workshop.

Other things I started because I'd been intending or promising to ever since I got here: braiding my hair and learning arabic. The hair was an awful idea, as I promised all the village enthusiasts that it would be. I took pictures for proof of how hideous it was, but unfortunately (or fortunately), my USB broke with the strain of acceptance. It broke, actually while I was writing my 50-or so page COS report (single spaced) and brought me to tears until I remembered a desktop I'd saved it to. It's sad that I lost so many photos, though...

As for the arabic, I don't remember if I shared yet that technically, I'm a muslim.... Hahaha, only technically, though. That is because to technically convert to Islam, you have to repeat the words, " Ashahadu anlaa ilaaha illa Allah wa ashahdu anna Muhammadan rasoolul Allah" (I bear witness that there is no god but Allah; I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah) three times (here, at least... I don't think across the world it has to be three.) So my sweet dad said, "Hey Hadiatou, say this..." And I said, "Okayyy!" and had no idea what was going on except that he was giggling at my prononciation. I realized only several months later that that is what happened. Oops! As for learning arabic, I'm not really. My dad teaches Koranic school and it sounds and looks so cool on the wooden prayer tablets. I'd always meant to learn a bit of it, but it's a bit late now. It's kind of handy to know a bit when I meet, for example, Saudi Arabian imams who can do flips 12 feet up on the Dakar trampoline and who then buy us coconuts.

It was interesting learning the prayers and talking to my dad about his philosophies of the religion while also reading the memoir, Infidel (read it!). I've read many other accounts as well that shadow my perception of Islam's influence. I won't get into that here, but I'll just say I'm very glad to have my amazing family and trampolining imams to remind me that the goodness in people more often prevails. I've met far more militant Christians than militant Muslims, which I think says a lot since this is the first really religious place I've lived. But this is a long conversation, so you can just go ahead and buy me a taco platter in America to continue it in person, hmm?

Other fun village finale things include the Anti-Early Marriage party that the middle school kids planned. They performed skits and songs and organized a huge party. I'm so proud! They asked me to be the guest speaker, which was really sweet and cute. I talked about how women didn't use to work in America either until WWII and then we had an intellectual and economic boom when we had double the work force.... etc. Neene Galle and I then did a village-wide sex-ed talk, which was sort of embarrassing for us all. We showed gross photos of STDs (her choice!) and I did a condom demonstration using water bottles with the orange gatorade one representing disease. Otherwise, we are having fun just playing in the shade. Our new hobbies are trying to do pushups or balancing tricks I learned from martial arts. And of course, Uno.

It is going to be so hard to leave these wonderful people...

Anyway, I plan on continuing updates on this blog during the trip, but I really recommend Ryan Lindsay's blog for better and more frequent news. Thanks for keeping up!

our mouths are red-rimmedwith mango rashes but stillwe claw at the branches for morewe can't help it-- there's candygrowing in our trees, and we can'tstop until we've licked the last sapfrom the webs of our fingersand are picking at the stringsin our teeth with faces likeabandoned lovers'. we poke withlong bamboo up at the speckledsky where golden globes hangout of climbers' reachmaking our necks strain and our dry mouths yearn, oh,let them fall-- in the coolprotective underskirt of thetree, beneath which we massattending the sermon ofwhispering leaves, peekingfrom beneath their indiscreet greenat the dusty hot everything elsethat is nota mango tree

String of life,River, feed us your darkdrops . snake through thevillage so we can flock toyou, hands and hooves out-stretched; have mercyand come when we callyou, digging in your driedup promises, watching for holes to slowly fillwith mud. we will drink it.and when you teem withdarkness, we strip toour ebony bones and throwour clothes on the rocksof your body. over and overwe slam colored cloths,grunting to take out the sweatand filth of our lives.smoky swirls of peanutsoap suds and filth released swimdown river to the nextgroup of black skeleton women, beating their only threads intogrey ghost whirls. this too, we will drink. plastic and gourddishes and babies and each other'sbacks and our own sorearms and legs-- we wash thesetoo, dousing them in you, shiningmajestic towers of our bodiespause to reflect in yourcontesting blackness. it's beenhard days, and you've seenit all. you watch us singand weep and throw ourselveson your shores, between broken moonsyou take it in, reflecting backour bones and furrows amongripples, as ifto say, "I see, is it somethinglike this?" but you have itbackwards, always.you only know the trees andshade as your neighbors, and our sighs as we splash our burningfaces. but when we fill gourds onour heads and wrap up withun-dried pagnes with babieson our backs, yousquint at the dust thatambushes on the pathaway fromyou

Circumcisions:

The boys (around 9) dress in white and that's really all I see of them from the women's area, so don't worry about ghastly descriptions like that. Usually in Senegal, the boys ask for money before it happens, standing on the road in their white outfits. Sometimes it's a scam. But in my village, we like to concentrate on superior begging methods: cross-dressing women.

It's amazing. These women aren't old, but with 4 or 5 kids already, they're far from girls. They're respected and dutiful women. Pretending to be little boys. Wearing men's shoes, caps, baggy shorts, and all, they also paint their faces white, dangle corn cobs around their faces and necks, and scrounge up an odd backpack or thermos. The sing, dance, and bang cans or bottles as drums. They're pretending to be talibe and collect change from people so they can split it later to buy mint candies for everyone.

Neene Galle is the funniest. I think she's usually best at whatever she's doing, and I love that this also applies to being a class-clown. She walked and danced with an over-the-top limp, talked like a boy with a lisp, and changed even her posture and facial expressions. I love this woman.

Besides this, circumcisions are also lots of sitting and eating, just like everything else....

Baptisms:

See previous sentence. One interesting thing, though, is some of the naming traditions.

If a child is born after 3 or more deceased children, there's a jinxing kind of tradition the mother follows by "throwing out" her child. She leaves him or her in the woods and another woman in the family follows to reclaim him or her. Long ago, they used to leave the babies overnight, sometimes in a fishing net in the river. If the baby was meant to live, they'd find him or her the next morning. These days, the baby is reclaimed immediately. Then, they name the baby one of the "throw-out" names: Naari, Bono, Wandu, Hawka, Noge, Kenda... (Cat, Hyena, Monkey, Trash...) My baaba was originally a throw-out baby and was named for the basket thing you use to sift out corn fluff from the kernels. They changed his name to Alphajo because Imams in Kedougou (maybe Senegal?) must be named either Thierno or Alphajo.

If a woman gives birth to twins, there are designated names for them too. (Houssaynatu and Hassanatou, Adama and Hawa...) A child born after twins is Sadio. Names can be repeated in the family.

I was hoping to get a baby tokora (named after me) at some point, but I neglected to focus enough of my friendship attentions on women pregnant with girls. The closest I got was little Aissatou naming the stuffed frog I gave her after me. But as she is an unnaturally shy and suspicious girl who doesn't like people to even catch her smiling, I was touched. When I asked if the frog had a name and if she was going to have a baptism, she shyly said, "A girl named Hadiatou" smiled and looked away quickly. Awww! Also Diardi said she'd name her daughter after me if she ever has one. But as she had about 6 kids who died, it doesn't look like the odds are strong. She said if she has a boy she'll name him Ian or Ben, after my American brothers.

Birthdays:

We don't have them. We have no idea even how old we are. They are baffled when I try to explain the importance we place on them in America. A cake and all that hoo-haa just for a single person not even getting married-- every year? Who's weird now?

Weddings:

The bride did not smile all day until I agreed to get my camera and take her photo. Not once. So much for "the happiest day of your life."It started with all the women squatting next to a fence in the small bit of shade it provided. When the sad girl came, they criss-crossed black fabric over her baggy red shirt and I could see we were off to a painful start. They covered her head with an unflattering bathing-cap-type-thing made of red bin-bin beads. They fussed over this for ages, slightly moving tangles of string or trying to add even more beads. Then they tied kola nuts so that they would dangle around her face like tether balls. They must have hurt, swinging into her face when she moved. They added more criss-crosses of beads on top of the baggy sashes. Then, in a culmination of ridiculous, they ceremoniously handed her sun-glasses, which she very seriously maneuvered around all her dangling head decorations. It really looked like we were weird little kids playing "wedding" who didn't even have cable as a point of reference. Fatou mawdo snapped open a black umbrella to top things off. It was such a strange mixture of traditional and modern objects that stood out weirdly from each other.

The girl's betrothed came and we clapped and sang and paraded up to a less-treacherous part of the path at which she could climb on his shoulders, frown, umbrella, and all. We followed, clapping and singing to his house. There, people gave her 25-CFA-ish (pennies) and she and her family and nosy people counted it immediately. Everyone else danced. Because THIS is when the ladies break it out. Haaaaa ronki!

The VIPs all went through the hut and into the shower and pee spot in the backyard. We all fought over spoons like squawking chickens for the gosi. I did not fight, of course, but offered my ladle to the sullen bride. Hello, it was her day, wasn't it? But they made me take it back and got her another one later. Then, still like chickens, we fought over the gosi, slurping away in the muddy bathroom that smelled like pee. Next, rice. My hands were so filthy from painting and shaking hands so I needed a spoon, which they obliged. Since I got a late start to eating Diardi's and my bowl, the others started a dance party while we were still squatting, squished to the side. Once I realized that urine-soaked dirt was getting kicked into my precious rice, I announced I was full. I did my part in dancing, appreciating that they persuaded me only slightly more than everyone else. Obviously, I was awesome.

Then we all waited until past dark for corn to be measured out to give away. I followed the women who all carried huge bowls on their heads while simultaneously clapping and leasing the songs. I kist had my water bottle and skirt bunched so I wouldn't trip on it and still I had to concentrate much harder than anyone else on not wiping out. The moon was almost full and pretty bright, but still, rocks ha hewi. Behind me-- RIGHT BEHIND me, like blasting speakers with bouncing woofers, all the kids shout-sang at the tops of their lungs all the wedding songs. Ahhh... at least it's better than funeral wails...

I realized I never wrote about cultural events here in Senegal. We have funerals all the time, and just enough happier weddings, baptisms, and circumcision ceremonies to make up for them. Here are snippets from my journal on the four:

Funerals:

rising at 5 to eat and drink before the sun can witness. sleeping again until the somber call of the drum. pound, pound, pound. someone has died. people run around frantically spreading the news, with an urgency that seems out of place in the village, head scarves flying behind like banners from a plane. when we hear, we clap our hands over our mouths and say, "waiii neene!" and recount the last times we saw the person, how sick they were. pound, pound, pound, the drum even sounds like death. a sporadic then racing heartbeat-- and then it stops. people shudder themselves into their best clothes, women hurrying to cover their heads and take off like vengeful ghosts to the house. on the way they start wailing. a cluster of hunched men under the tree, but women file through the stick fence. like bowing or kneeling or crossing oneself in a holy place, the thing to do here is crouch and wail. this wail... it reaches the spine... like dying animals, like haunted houses, like drunken over-actors, like warped amazon war cries, like murder victims, like the deaf being amputated, like if pain could only be represented by sound, captured in a pandora's box... I could not make this sound. whether I was more afraid of offending with audible fakeness or of finding myself unable to stop once I started... I couldn't. but like magnets the tears on the crumpled wet faces that are only ever composed pull out my own tears too. hunching together on rocks or on the ground for hours and hours, stomachs protesting forced thirst, shaking hands with everyone, "Kori a munyiti? Have you mourned?" every shade or shadow found itself host to grief. the men chant, forever, it seems. how do so many know all these words? perhaps it has something to do with the other person who died today, and the 18-year-old new bride three days ago, and the last villager less than a week before. Kori hida munyiti?

pound, pound, pound. the elder women pound corn for the traditional meal for deceased elders-- the same served at infants' naming ceremonies. pound, pound, pound, they crowd around, taking turns, up to five pestels in one mortar at once. it could be an act in a talent show, a section of stomp! yet something so sad about performing this grueling daily labor even in grief. like if women in america gathered at a funeral to scrub the floor-- if scrubbing gave calluses. who are these people I share my life with who fast from the little insignificant food they have and still farm an hour's walk away in the cruel sun? who deprive themselves of water by day whether it's rainy season or drought? who pound corn while weeping for their brother or sister or neighbor? who are they and when are they rewarded?

they never cry but for funerals. I suppose they come often enough. but it's clear from the haunting wails that this is all their pain and fury and plea at once. if women cry in the regular sitting areas, they are ordered repeatedly to to to the allocated grieving spot, outside the person's hut. it sounds insensitive unless I re-translate it to, "get it out; there you go." then again, it still only allows a person to mourn for as long as their can crouch in the dirt under the hot sun.

an old gypsy-like lady with multicolored headscarves starts singing. her voice is clear and beautiful and ancient. she's like an unreal disney character, her face in a tree. she calls out in her clear voice and we answer like pacified children. people keep coming in to add howls to the background, but we keep going and it sounds and feels so comforting. "muusu reedu yoni, ko nela ameng; hadi jentidoden, ko nela ameng... muusu hoore yoni, ko nela ameng; hadi jentidoden, ko nula be ni... nawna maaya yoni, ko nela ameng; hedoden, hedoden, ko nula be ni..." (headaches are okay, it's what's sent to us; listen up, it's what's sent to us... headaches are okay........... sicknesses that kill us are okay, it's what's sent to us; listen up, listen up; it's ours to receive.)

women get bored during the prayers, but some men take machetes and return with bamboo and bark. the latter they bite into strips to tie the body-stretcher with two arches. when the shrouded corpse is carried out over the heads of two men dressed in white, the women leap up, their anguish reawakened in a now-or-never urgency. a beautiful young girl beats the rest of the wails, score to a nightmare. she collapses; the performance draws tears from my eyes, as do other poignant screaming staggers and the supporting hands that catch them. the hair stands on my neck and i cray because it is the only answer to the sound of all that pain. sometimes I can't even recall the face of this corpse over whom I weep. I am a stowaway to horror. today I do, and cry real tears of my own when her husband walks placidly in front, singing a prayer in a quiet but clear voice. the other men go with him down the paths, winding among huts and past my own, to the burial grounds in the woods. the women are left behind. just outside the fence, talk of fields, and breaking fasts.

drop it like it's hot!I know, big scary needle and no qualifications. But this is the post-op steroid shot that they can't feel... and I'm a fast learner!

shot in the head!

getting the patient comfy

the sterile blessedly air-conditioned OR and Dr. Judith and Nurse Christine (I love them!)

planet cataract

cataract removed, hook going into cut above eye

in the eye, dialing in the replacement lens

Unfortunately, since there is only one OR here, we got booted for an emergency c-section on the last day (baby was dead but already half out). The doctors didn't want to just cancel all the last surgeries so they operated in the hot pre-op room.

It was not exactly sterile.

This is what senegalese feet look like and why I will need the first pedicure of my life when I get back. Thankfully mine aren't quite this bad yet.

The hospital also functions as a dump, goat feeding-ground, and all-over outdoor bathroom...

As a companion to all the new latrines in our village, we had an educational causerie. I wanted to explain that we don't just have them to look more patrone (adj: wealthy, rich, ritzy, balla). In the US, the word "diarrhea" sends kids into peals of laughter. Here, kids die from it. So my poo party, or fete fecale, if you will, intended to explain how we get it, how kids are more susceptible, why latrines cut down on it (beforehand, everyone just went in the bush), and what to do if you/ your kids have it.I certainly understand better than ever how important it is to relay all this information. But the American in me still felt ridiculous presenting this in front of all the important and respected village elders who come to all my meetings (bless them). I insisted some women and kids come since some of the lesson was specific to them. It became further awkward, however, when I realized none of the women or children could enter the meeting space. It was a holy spot just for devout men. When men need to pray but can't make it all the way to the mosque, they enter this fenced in rectangle of gravel. They take a huge liberty in allowing me to enter, but seeing all the women outside, I did not exactly feel flattered. So I stood awkwardly on some stumps of the fence, literally and metaphorically straddling the barrier. We played some games with sequence pictures, that amused me because I painted them in watercolor. They depicted things like people pooing in the woods, so it was pretty funny when people asked if they could keep them and hang them in their huts. In the end I quizzed everyone and gave out prizes to the people who knew the answers. These prizes consisted of all the knick-knacks you all have generously sent throughout my time here, that I didn't want to give away as random cadeaux. So the very end became a lesson about yo-yo's, paint-by-numbers, pot-holder making, and best of all, BUBBLES. Most of you should already know how I feel about bubbles, but here, they hover at the very peak of excitement. Blowing bubbles for a group of kids who have never seen them before is in all honesty the Very Best Thing in the world.So fete fecale seemed a success.... Then again, the very next day I helped build a mud hut. To do this, you need water, dirt, and... POO! (Animal manure; fret not.) It was quite gross. We mix it all up with our hands and then slather it all over the walls (previously made the same way) with our hands. I tried not to think about how people are committed in my country for this sort of thing. The smell was quite bad, but I especially disliked all the maggots, worms, and other bugs in the poo now crawling on my hand until I spread them on the wall. I had a sour expression on my face for the first ten minutes that made everyone laugh. Three hours later, I was a pro. One lady accidentally smeared her entire full hand of poo mixture all over my butt, but I just calmly let someone else rinse it off like I was a baby and continued working.A real baby came in a pooed herself (no pampers here!) quite appropriately in the giant mound of animal excrement. They sort of cleaned it and soon after brought in a bowl of food which they set just on the edge of this mound. Some people squatted in it. "See, this is what I was talking about! Fecal matter getting in your food makes you sick!" I said, exasperated. I'd spent a chunk of my lesson plan illustrating how it could get into food from things like flies and chickens without us knowing. But I forgot to take into account that people don't even mind eating literally in a pile of feces...."Haha, yeah, yeah, you're right! Come eat!" At least it was the porridge eaten with ladles since everything else is eaten with hands. Remember, ours are covered in poo. I still said I wasn't hungry, thanks.Just pooped out.

We have a voluntary home-stay program in Dakar for the week of the All-Volunteer conference and WAIST. This is when our PC superiors plead and cajole with their expat circle to let us dirty crazy PCVs stay in their huge houses. They promise we won't be too belligerent, but remind the hosts that we've been living in villages... In short, the hosts are brave saviors for agreeing to put us up. For the most part, they are amused by our enthusiasm for their washing machines and it makes them happy to feel like they're pampering us with what is a regular meal to them. Homestays are the greatest thing ever.

The only slight discord comes from our two worlds colliding. Expats form a strange air-tight community based around the swimming pool, imported peanut butter, and hired help. I don't want to sound too judgmental about this because I do think it must be incredibly hard to eschew this bubble once you've been automatically placed into it as soon as you landed in the country. It's not like they get all the language and culture trainings that we do. When they break through the barriers of worlds apart, it shows truly impressive resolve.

PCVs make up just as much of a microcosm. We strut around in our african prints, greeting people we recognize loudly, and complaining to each other about being called "toubab." "Can you believe they still call me 'white person?' Don't they know I LIVE here?" Haha, what do we expect? We also severely look down on tourists-- I'm certainly at fault for this. I suppose it's because of what we had to go through to delegate the bright-eyed pale-faced versions of ourselves to our pasts. Tourists remind us that we're not really as local as we feel; we're just crashing the party.

So anyway, when these two walks of toubab life meet in Dakar, we expect it to be like a meeting of members of the same tribe. But I at least am always surprised at how different we are.

The Cartiers were wonderful even beyond their washing machine, hot water, the best steak I can remember having, and a stock of french wine. They were a whole new class of worldly. From different continents, with their kids and kids-in-laws from different continents, they spoke more languages than I would remember to list right now. One of my favorite awe-inspiring moments was when I showed them a list from an article my mother sent. It was an annual Economist survey to find the "World's Most Liveable City." Based on things like health care, education, safety, and infrastructure, they rated 100-something cities. The top city was Vancouver and most of the other top 10's here also in Canada, or in Australia. The list I showed the Cartiers, however, was the "bottom ten." Dakar was #10. We were all slightly insulted. They scanned up the other bottoms, and kept saying, "Hey, we've lived there! And there! And there!" They had lived in or visited almost all of the bottom 10. And the top ten? "No, I don't think we've even visited any of these... Oh, I suppose we had a few days in Toronto.."

This of course made me love them. They have so many stories about lions outside their tents and fighting malaria. Except for the malaria bit, I kept thinking, "Can I BE you?" But then they'd make a comment about how bad the potato au gratin was or how all the chocolate at the huge real ridiculous grocery store is crap and it kept jolting my idea of them. I have to remember that expats living for years and years in Africa just don't live like PCVs forever. It's not a bad thing-- I don't want to either! It's just weird to take such ownership of a place but live completely differently and even removed from its people. There's no real answer to that though. They can either dish out their brie and imported duck to everyone around them, do without it at all, or go home? That doesn't seem right either. I guess it's just people like me that need to get over it. People will always have different lifestyles. It may not be fair, but as long as expats don't flaunt it in begger-kids' faces, I guess c'est la vie. We all have different personal criteria for how much we need to reach out, and that's OK too.

OK, enough of this verbosity. I meant to just describe my own ridiculousness on one (of many) occassion(s). The Cartier's dinner party.

The party consisted of expats of course. I think I've already introduced this group as fascinating people with habits that seem extravagant in context. Within their bubble, they have a whole order of social rules which I haven't even figured out yet. I know there are at least standard questions whenever you meet them: Are you on vacation/ how long have you been here (to establish seniority), what do you do (to establish superiority)... and on to check status and familiarity. I have a feeling it cuts out early for PCVs. I think we set off some alarm that shouts, "Oops! Not one of us! Looked it from the outside, but nope! Abort!"

I'm being over-analytical, but only because I'm trying to figure out how I can feel so much more comfortable squatting in the dirt around a bowl of mush and leaf sauce with 15 villagers than at a dinner party with a carpet and a table and napkins and delicious food.

It started with the impeccable french tossed back and forth, high over my head. None of the senegalese lazy, "Et les affaires quoi?" here! I felt like a Texan in the Queen's tea-room. Then I became extremely aware of my flipflops which I had not known were completely gross until then. Then I couldn't think of anything to talk about besides food. What do I do here? Uhhh... do you know what a latrine is? Well, uh, you know toilets?.. Oh did you want to talk about something else before dinner?

The food was good enough that I didn't really care about how out of place I felt. Why yes, I WILL have some more! Mr. Cartier takes it upon himself to ensure that no wine glass is ever empty, so this also helped. I found myself staring, though, at the multiple plates and utensils spread like an army before me, and I wanted to giggle. The kicker though, was the committee of beverages before me: water, the jug the water came from, wine, AND coffee (on its own plate). I really wanted to crack up. I tried to catch M's eye from across the table, but he was too busy contributing in perfect french to the conversation on genetic engineering (I'm not joking).Why do we drink wine and coffee at dinner? The wine depresses your energy and the coffee brings it back to equilibrium to bring us back to the desired state that is as if we'd never had either. Then why do we? Not that I would turn either down; I'm just saying. When I drank the coffee out of the espresso shot glass, I slurped it loudly. Oops! This is polite to so with ataaya, but as you know, not with coffee. I couldn't stop, though. Even as I was putting it up to my lips, thinking, "Don't slurp, don't slurp," my mouth was preprogrammed to do so anyway. It was sort of fascinating and did not help my laughter suppression.

I think my favorite part was when Mr. Cartier had just topped off my wine and was stepping around me. Shifting my foot kind of opened this crack in it, so I looked down from the side of my chair. He came back and said, "Oh, I'm sorry, did I spill some wine on you?" And I started to answer, "No, you know when your foot cracks and splits open and dirt gets inside and it gets kind of sore and could get infected..." DON'T WORRY, I stopped myself early on after, "Non." But I couldn't help chuckling a bit to myself wondering how they'd react.

In conclusion, bless the homestays for all they put up with, and get this girl back in the village!

from journal:

1/13, Sold soul to devil.

When I first started working on the mosquito net distributions here, I felt like we were killing our bodies, all getting dengue, skipping meals, and biking hundreds of nets over the toughest terrain... to give nets. I remember thinking that if anyone in America had any inkling of what we were doing, we'd have no trouble raising money for nets and transportation in 30 seconds flat.

Today looked very different. We had a camera crew, a twitter team, and phrases like "starbucks sponsership" floating around. Good, right?

I just went to give nets. It can be hard all-day work to do thoroughly, but we know how to do it, and do it pretty well. Enter internationally renowned camerawoman, who I'm hoping is too busy being successful to ever see this... She is INSANE! Within two minutes in her presence (LITERALLY less that 120 seconds, honestly), everyone starts to back away with wide terrified eyes.

We had to get up at 4 so we could get to the village in good camera light. Since they brought starbucks, I let that go, although I must say, no one should have to get up before the morning call to prayer. As soon as we got there, she started right in with her insanity, wiping off bewildered kids' faces with wipes (one ran off crying). Since she couldn't speak any language and was used to having a team of assistants and translators, she just didn't worry about explaining anything. She did anything to make them smile as quickly as possible.

"Tell that man he needs to move; his shadow's getting in the shot!"

"Um, hello, sir," I said. "We're all very happy to be here and thank you for coming to greet us. Thank you for helping the cause to photograph advertisements so we can raise the money to bring more nets to Senegal. We're all happy to meet you today. Also, could you just step a little over here?"

She was tapping her foot and glaring at me impatiently. Then gave me a great fake smile.

The whole thing felt so WRONG. The opposite of Peace Corps. We barely knew any names, didn't make connections, didn't joke or share our stories. We just zoomed in and stole shots of them that only made it look like a sweet and fair exchange. "Dance! I want them to dance!" Oh. My. God.

I must say, she didn't actually steal shots; she made sure her temporary assistant got everyone's official consent on paper (after the shots were taken). And the kids did seem to be having fun even if they had no idea what was going on. We did our best to convey politeness in every interaction. And it IS a good cause... OUR cause...

Maybe she sensed our discomfort, or maybe she's just used to trying to make up for her abrasive working style. Either way, she bought us dinner! I sat next to her at the end of the table because I'm very brave. She asked almost immediately if I wanted to use the shower in her room. Well... YES, actually-- I'd been hoping to do so ever since I learned where they were staying. [This was in cold season, and as we finished working well after dark, our heatless outdoor shower got kind of painful. Heating up water for a bucket bath was equally as painful... It is no longer cold season or cold at any time.] ..But I wanted to EAT first! During dinner, though, she said it three more times! "Don't you want to shower now? I think you should..." pushing her room key towards me. "Um, yeah, thanks! I think I'd prefer to wait until after dinner, if that's OK. I mean, unless I smell too bad! Haha!... I don't, do I?"

"Umm... no...." I asked this a few times, once with, "Do I have any dirt on me or something?" And she responded with, "Yeah, actually, right here"-- my neck.

This had been a weird rapport with her all along. She would look at me and laugh in an aww-you-poor-thing way and once even said, "Haha! I like what you're doing with the dirt all over your face! That's great!" "Um, what? Do I really h-" "No, no, I'm just teasin'! Haha!" And she walked away.

I'd been assuming I'm only as dirty as everyone else. I wash my clothes, bathe daily, brush my hair, keep the dust-wrestling to a minimum. But now I'm doubting that assumption. Was she making a weird but effective joke or am I really that dirty?

HOW DIRTY AM I?

Making 50 latrines happen in the village didn't sound like a hard thing. It's a pretty common project. I didn't know that it would take FOREVER and literally make me a stalker. (It's hard to explain to anyone who's not here, but basically if you want to get anyone to do their job here, you have to call them non-stop and stop by every single day. Nothing will ever happen otherwise. It was hard for me to do at first because I really would have a restraining order against me if I acted like this in the states. But we got our materials and transportation in the end! Yay for stalking!)

My counterpart, Daby, digging his douche-hole. I don't think I would have been able to do this project if he and my dad weren't so great at yelling at people to dig their holes and pay already! And they kept great records (I think... I don't read arabic...)Probably my favorite part about the project was that I named a "Commite de Douche" complete with a President Douche and all. It was fun to write meetings on the calendar.

Now we can stop pooing right outside the kitchen hut!

Aren't they beautiful?

Pictures of my diarrhea/ latrine use causerie to come (aka Poo Party/ Fete Fecale)...

So my lovely childhood friend Heather is a 4th grade teacher. We've been doing a pen-pal program throughout my service. It's been sort of frustrating trying to do it from this end with school NEVER being in session (we were three months late in starting and then the teachers decided to extend their vacation on top of that...) Heather's been fabulous though, and the bulletin board of ME is the greatest ego-boost I'll ever come across. She's got her kids thrilled about the program, (one girl wrote to me that "this is the best thing I ever done") and even raised $600 for books and school supplies for my little village school! Unfortunately I was only just able to coordinate the giving-ceremony, due to afore-mentioned lateness. It's really exciting because they had no books and the kids don't even really get the concept of books. They see me reading all the time and are baffled by how much I "study." It's a completely unknown concept for someone to read because they enjoy it and in order to wind down. Hopefully we'll be able to make these books come alive; I've started planning a play of one of them to show them that it's fun.Of course, once the kids saw the books filled with pictures, they were anything BUT turned-off. They were thrilled-- it was like I had boxes of money or cookies or something. They were fighting over them and shouting at each other to come look at this! Amazing... taking the supplies to schoolThe penpal class all got their own pouches of American-quality supplies. If you think back-to-school shopping was exciting for us, this was a whole new level! They've never owned anything like this before... I think it puts great exciting emphasis on school-work!Some of them had never seen a book; none of them have one of their own.They kept holding them backwards and upside-down at first...A book on Senegal! Heather picked out some really great ones.What's a dinosaur? They also didn't know about other animals, planets, and the human body. They kept asking if the body system pictures were of dead people. They said the Skeletal system profile picture looked like my favorite brother, Balla. Sadly, it's quite true...This is what a teaching tool is like!MY BEAUTIFUL WORLD MAP, THANK YOU VERY MUCHWhere do our penpals at Woodrow Wilson school live?Drawing pictures to send back to Heather's class.

Note the Obama buttons I also gave them (courtesy of my [real] father)My counterpart celebrating with our cross-culturally shared pastime. (This is one of my favorite guys; I don't think I could have gotten through my peace corps service without him. I DEFINITELY wouldn't have gotten as much done!)One of the teachers. They are all in love with Heather.I forgot to get a photo of myself with the kids before they went home...Giving sincere thanks. It's an amazing thing that Heather's done, getting all her kids excited about fundraising for kids in Africa. They aren't the rich Americans my village kids might imagine they are, but brought in their pennies and pulled so much together only because of the enthusiasm she inspired in them. This was definitely one of my favorite projects from my entire service. Thanks to my best friend for doing so much across the ocean!

Day 1Sept-place ride to Dakar...

Day 2It makes me dizzy to attempt to empathize with the girls. I'd have to take my (relatively) limited village experience and erase everything else. All cars and food and buildings and roads... it's too much; it's really impossible. I'm generally a pretty awesome empathizer too, if I do say so myself.It's interesting taking guests in reverse trip to all the friend/family visits. For those, my visiters landed in AFRICA, found Dakar dirty, and bravely crammed into sept-places thinking but not saying, "You want me to get into this?" They enjoyed sleeping in Kedougou the way you enjoy camping, and the village and food was a whole other thing, like going back in time and having strange bad food. When they went back through the steps, Kedougou was much more impressive, the sept-place made sense, and Dakar seemed truly developed. This chain of reactions is one I understand, after all, it was mine too.But for Fatou and Hawa, put this film strip backwards and in negative film. They knew ONLY the village. Corn mush, roosters, sweeping dirt, wiping their little sisters' bottoms. They'd seen things like cookies and fanta in Dindefello, but never gotten to try them themselves. The cramped sept-place spread out like a Cinderella carriage for them-- their first car, and they had their own seats (we were all in the way back). When they stayed at the Kedougou Relais, which I believe my mum and Cindy innocuously referred to as a "camp" or something, it was like a PALACE. They kept asking me to turn on the shower and faucet, nearly applauding each time. They found the toilets BAFFLING ("Where does it go?!" "It goes outside?" and lots of giggling). The light switches were also a cause for celebration and needed to be played with for a bit. They also loved the crocodiles, birds, and elon that the Relais keeps as pets.What I did not anticipate was their hesitation towards new foods. In fact I essentially planned the entire trip around all the foods we'd eat. I imagined yelps of joy and grinning over ice cream cones-- maybe because that's how I react these days! But, after thinking more about where they're coming from, it makes sense that they'd be a bit wary. After thirteen years of only eating: corn mush, sour milk, peanut sauce, leaf sauce, once in a while a seasonal vegetable, rice on special occasions, and meat even less. In addition to the fruit that grows around us, rare bread and candy, I literally think these are the only things they've ever eaten. After entire lifetimes of the same foods, in wouldn't make sense to immediately take to any other. It's evolution, psychology, sociology, physiology! Even kids in America who are introduced to thousands of ingredients are still hesitant about new foods- vegetables, pistachio ice cream, seafood... So... I have to keep reminding myself that this makes sense...even if it concerns ICE CREAM or FRENCH FRIES. My, what different worlds we come from!On the first day, I was delighted to meet my good friend Jared on the street. He joined our Princess Breakfast: coffee (not nescafe!), fruit salad in yogurt, a cheese omelette, cheese/tomato/lettuce, and bread and butter. They each added about 8 sugars to their coffees, which is the senegalese way, but still couldn't handle more than half each. The cheese omelette was familiar enough to accept (we had street omelette sandwiches the day before). The mayonaise and everything else on the sandwich except the bread, however, weirded them out. Hawa ate some bread but was suspicious of the butter. Fatou ate some of the fruit, but Hawa took one bite and pushed it back. "It's not sour!" In the ville, the only way anyone uses milk is to let it sit for several days and it it only once it's sour and curdled. Before this, it is considered bad and unfinished. I used the word for sour milk when offering her the yogurt, figuring it was close enough, but it did not meet her expectations! I should have suggested we take it back to sit on our balcony and she could eat it at the end of the week!Well, I asked for princesses, didn't I? So... Jared and I finished all the food ourselves.(Which how I ended up eating roughly 9 meals a day... You might all be relieved to hear that this trip will decrease the prevalence with which I might have said "there are starving africans" comments at every future meal. I still am against wasting food, as always. I'd rather stick bread in my purse, eat the stale chips you're about to toss, and lick the bowl clean-- this is nothing new. And there ARE starving people who haven't eaten in days who might trade an appendage for that sandwich you're not that into. But as for MY starving Africans, we don't have to bring them up at every meal. They might not even want your sandwich. They've got their corn mush, which is what food IS to them. Even though I hate it, it's not bad for them. It's home.)I didn't anticipate many things. I guess I expected them to be more like American kids, bored and whining for entertainment all the time. For the sept-place ride, I got them necklace-making stuff, blank books, markers, and crayons. This is because I come from a country that puts TVs in its cars. But, HELLO, K, they've never been in a car before! They loved the necklace idea, but said they'd have to wait for the end of the (14ish hour) ride. They had so many other things to pay attention to! The baboons, and horses on the road, all the actions the driver performed, the interracial couple in the seat in front of us, the speed with which their whole country passed before their eyes...Another note of interest: they are so neat! Well, they blow snot rockets and sometimes throw the rest of their cups of water over their shoulders (even in restaurants), but that's what they know. It's just so cute how every time we leave a table or the room, they stack the dishes, wipe the table, make the beds, and smooth each crease.Yes, mom, I know I was taught to do the same, but I did so much more consciously. These girls have been the family maids since they can remember. They know exactly what makes a mess and what it takes to clean it up. It is fruitless for me to tell them the waiter will do that... It's quite endearing though, and reminds me what good and deserving guests they are. Even as I'm still reeling from their refusal for CHEESE.We also went to the top of the Hotel d'Independence and saw their highest city-est view ever. Including the ocean! It was hard for them to understand it, I think. The stairs exhausted all three of us, since I'm a little out of stair-practice myself. Hawa's leg shook for almost an hour afterwards! It was kind of hilarious.After all that, and a coloring/ necklace-making hotel break, we descended upon IFAN-- late. Once the guy heard the girls' story, though, he let us in even though they were supposed to be closed! The girls, however, were not all that impressed with the museum. I didn't take offence, since there were so many reasons: they were exhausted, body and mind; they were terrified by the statues that looked like people doing strange ceremonies that even kind of creeped me out; they can't read; the stuff they did get was stuff they see every day outside of glass cases; their feet hurt from walking and especially from those stairs!; they were tired of watching guys flirt with me (although personally, I think it provided a great learning experience: how to deal with senegalese men politely, charmingly (if you ask ME, at least), but effectively. Take note, sisters!); why would they be interested in a nearly empty museum when there's the most comfortable hotel room ever with a MIRROR (literally their favorite toy) and MARKERS! Why do we even bother leaving it?

Day 3They refused to leave the hotel room last night, so I went out to hunt and gather. I brought back the First Hamburgers which, alhumdulilai, they liked. Actually, Hawa didn't like the fries in it (we put fries in our sandwiches in Senegal: a sign that I belong here). But that just proves how impossible she is!This morning, I brought them to La Galette where they were even more difficult! I got sugar doughnuts, pains aux chocolats, and croissants. Fatou timidly nibbled and at least ate a doughnut, but Hawa refused! She took some sugar cubes instead and said, "I'll just eat this." What?! A sugar doughnut is the same thing, but extended! I thought about giving a "There are starving kids in Africa" speech, or maybe, "You ARE starving kids.." or something about how only about .5% of their country's population would ever be offered these particular foods that are pretty much universally accepted as delicious...Once I got over my wounded pastry ego, we went to meet a friend from the village who attends the university. It was cool to see SO many students, including many women. The library was FILLED with students actually studying at every single table. The lecture halls were so huge they seemed ready to host Hannah Montana concerts. I watched the girls watch other girls with fancy clothes and books in their hands.Afterwards, we went next door to the FANN hospital to meet with a woman for Operation Inspiration. Fatima is stylish and impressive: she speaks pulaar, wolof, french, and english, all perfectly. She gave an awesome stay-in-school speech to Fatou, but I felt bad for Hawa when she got a pity party in honor of her upcoming marriage. I should have prepared Fatima ahead of time on this situation. It didn't occur to me that she'd never have seen this sort of thing. She said that she'd heard it still happened around Kedougou, but she didn't fully believe it. It always surprises me how little so many senegalese know about their own country. She did not hide her pity or outrage very well, and I felt bad to subject Hawa to it, knowing she has no choice here. She kept saying we NEEDED to talk to her parents. Her worldly demeanor mismatched her local naïveté. I tried to non-condescendingly explain that girls almost always were married before 20, and often below 17. And that, while I don't support Hawa's marriage and being pulled out of school three years agi, I didn't have much power to protest. Hawa herself says she wants a husband. She's not going to run away from the only family she knows and loves to struggle and starve in Dakar. She asked Hawa if she wanted to be in school and was horrified that Hawa shook her head no.But it does make sense. If you have no choice in something, it's an adaption technique to go along with it. At dinner, a TV was playing over a low wall. I could see it from my seat, and Fatou stood to see it. Hawa exerted some effort for a couple of minutes, standing and craning her neck, but still couldn't see it. Finally she sat down with her chin in the air and said she actually didn't want to watch. I think this is how she deals with everything: her removal from school, her upcoming marriage, and every other decision made for her.Anyway, Operation Inspiration went well despite this. I think both girls got the message that they can make something of themselves. For Hawa, I tried to resteer the conversation back into things she could do: ask her husband about returning to school, starting a business, selling things, making necklaces, braiding hair...It seems Fatou is already embracing her education with renewed zeal. I picked up more copies of school books (still from Heather's school's donation), today, 9 copies of, "Bravo, Tortue." She spent two days copying every single word into the notebook I gave her.After this, we lunched on thiebu-dien. Finally, a plate they could clean themselves! I figured their gravitation towards this could be compared to taking an Amish kid to NYC, suggesting caviar and sushi, and getting the response, "What about these hot dog things I've heard of?"Then: Ile de Goree! Hawa was kind of petrified to go anywhere near that giant body of water she eyed warily from the ferry waiting room. I don't think I would have been able to convince her if my brother and the university guy hadn't come along. She pointed out every single dingy and said she could absolutely NOT touch the water. She was pretty much shaking for the hour wait. Once we left and sat on the upper deck, she relaxed and even smiled. How she must have felt with all that water surrounding her!I'm not sure if the girls understood the slavery aspect of the island completely, but it's a pretty awkward thing to press. It was kind of funny watching them giggle and be kids in this place of nightmares. I realized toubabs-- myself included-- feel like we have to compensate for our whiteness by acting extra somber. We frown extra ferociously to tell the world how different we are from our ancestors. We force ourselves to imagine the gruesome details, slightly horrified when our companions cause us to accidentally smile in this place. Little pulaar girls don't have to do this. They can appreciate the beautiful stairs, giggle, and if they understand any of what we're saying about the history of slavery, they can at least be glad it's not here and now (never mind ongoing slavery in other places...). As they should.In the evening we had ataaya at Amadou's barbershop. (This is the Dakarois older brother my family really wants me to marry.) It was nice to get out of toubab-land and into the real Dakar.At the same time... I feel like this trip is giving me a taste of what interracial couples must have gone through. People never think the girls are with me and vice versa. When I went to Amadou's neighborhood, I met with some (only some!) less friendly reactions from people wondering why the heck I was there. And everywhere I bring the girls, they are not exactly treated the same as I am! At the french cultural institute, they were trailing behind a bit and I didn't realize it. I kept walking, chatting over my shoulder, not knowing they'd been stopped and interrogated in loud french and wolof, which neither of them understand. The guard was rudely trying to assess what exactly they thought they were doing there when I came up. He smiled all sugary at me and said, "Un moment, madame," and turned back to scowl at them. He was visibly flabbergasted when I said they were with me, and stammered apologies; he thought they wanted to come in a play around with stuff, you see... It's reactions like these that are intimidating the girls from leaving the hotel room and that decrease desire for things like croissants.The funny thing is, once people do get what our deal is, they LOVE it. We get discounts, free juices, and friendly interviews-- from both sides. The two opposite walks of life converging: the toubab of fantastical wealth (so they assume) and they Kedougou kids of a poverty they know just as little about-- this is what they want to see! It's just not what they'd ever expect to see. But it's worth the initial wariness because I think we've really made a lot of peoples' days in the end.

Day 4I've learned my lesson and went to get and bring back bean sandwiches for breakfast. The girls feel much more comfortable squatting on the hotel room floor than eating anywhere out in the scary city. I brought little orange juice boxes and chips as an experiment. The juice was accepted and it warmed my heart to see them sipping from straws like my conventional idea of a kid. The chips however, were returned to me and I promptly ate all three bags. I think I'm growing another chin.Next up, zoo! Too bad I didn't know much more than 5 animal names in pulaar. Hopefully it was still interesting. The fences mostly had huge gaping holes in them and it was extremely depressing to see a tiger in a space the size of my hut, pacing madly. All those cats and primates displayed clear signs of environment-induced mental illness. Where's PETA when you need them? The cages were also about 2 feet away, the perfect distance to injure the curious. This would never work in America, where kids grow up expecting their boundaries to be marked in baby-gates/ rubber/ plexiglass. I think kids here have a much better understanding of consequences, which is why my toddler little sister is perfectly capable of stoking the fire.

Anyway, while talking about the horrible circumstances of the animals, Jen (who I was thrilled tagged along for the day) told me about Ota Benga, the man kept in a zoo. I can't believe this isn't a more infamous story. We can't brush these things under the rug or we (as a society) will never learn from our mistakes of subjection. But I digress!Next... MAGIC LAND! It's probably obvious that Jen and I were way more excited than the girls for this. And it defied even our expectations. Here, the girls had their first: chicken nuggets, roller coaster (an extremely tame one but being next to them made it more exciting for me too), bumper cars (LOTS of fun), teacups (lots of giggling and too dizzy to stand in the end), and lastly, the spinny saucer thing. It's a good thing we did that one last as it would have finished us off anyway. Hawa was pretty close to vomiting. I'm proud that she held it in, but once we got off, she was immobile for the next several hours. Poor thing! I had planned to follow Magic Land with the trampoline, but this was not our destiny. (I still want to go to it though!)Ice cream, anyone? Jen and I waited as long as we could as Hawa moaned face-down in her bed and Fatou giggled at her. The girls were of course not keen to leave the room again, so I went for another delivery run. They broke my heart a little bit by not being that into it, but at least they had some and smiled at the taste. Maybe they were still full with their TINY STOMACHS and Magic Land-ill.Don't worry, though. Every drop was licked up... somehow...

Day 5Shopping spree day! Since the girls had saved us so much money by not eating like chubby american kids, I gave them each 10,000 CFA to go wild with. The greatest fortune they'd ever held! I was excited for them to feel like heiresses, imagining Julia Roberts on Hollywood Boulevard. Someone would stop them assuming they were poor pulaar girls and they'd fan themselves with their purple bills and swish away after saying, "You work on commission, right? Big mistake, big, Huge! I have to go shopping now!"Of course it didn't really pan out that way. Sandaga n'est pas Hollywood. Pushy hawkers and sellers got in our faces immediately. I was hoping that like everyone else, they'd have a little sympathy when they figured out the girls' deal, but, nope! They shamelessly bullied them to buy their stuff in abrasive wolof. We, however, don't do wolof, thank you very much! After walking a bit through the market, stopping every once in a while to see if they liked the shoes, bracelets, or lotions, and swatting off wolofs like flies, I perked up at an old man meekly advertising his clothing shop. What the heck. I thought it might do us good to step off of Main St, Chaosville and into a quieter avenue. Bingo! They were relieved to understand someone finally and loved the fancy blue teen-complets he carried. Very un-Julia like, I argued over the price for a while, even playing the "they're poor kids from Kedougou" card, which in retrospect I realize was not very classy of me. But it worked in the end and they had enough left over to buy the fanciest shoes they've ever seen. And boy are they STOKED! Highlight of the trip, for them, I believe. After this, the second best part of their week- getting their hair done! I can't wait for them to stroll back into the ville feeling like big-shots for once.After this, we went to greet every random family relation ever. The last new person we met up with? HAWA'S FIANCEE. I didn't know he was coming but everyone was acting kind of weird and not-exactly-excited about it. When he came into Amadou's barbershop and Hawa turned to me and dug her fingers in my arm with a wild/scared expression, I realized. Perhaps my impression isn't shocking, but I DO NOT APPROVE! He is a hoodlum! He didn't even greet me right! He just kind of mumbled from underneath his sweatshirt hood, which was already weird. Was that his impressive costume? Because no one else dresses like that except american rappers. He seems about 5 feet tall and his teeth go in any and every direction. He sat there under his hood like a dementor while Hawa giggled into the mirror and covered her face in panic. It would have been kind of cute how 13-year-old nervous she was, if this wasn't her arranged HUSBAND whom she was meeting for the SECOND TIME. It was even more trippy when Fatou burst out laughing at how nervous Hawa was acting. She teased, "Speak up! Hahaha, she's embarrassed!" and even I started hitting her to be quiet. It was so weird that on the one hand, thirteen-year olds SHOULD be able to immaturely tease their friends like that... but that this wasn't an innocent summer fist-base-only boyfriend... ahhhh! My head was reeling. He slipped her three dollars and a bag of soaps and we left about 5 minutes after he got there. Hawa ran ahead to the taxi and didn't even say goodbye. She wasn't showing any signs of fear or disgust-- in fact, she was giddy. But it was just so wrong.I tried to shake off all my unsettled thoughts and enjoy the concert with the girls-- the grand finale. Steelbe and the Wranglers was the group, a cool Burkinan reggae sound. They were fascinated with the stage, lights, audience, and female performers. We danced home on the streets afterwards and Hawa declared she too be be a singer. As long as Mr. Bucktooth Hoodlum doesn't stop all her dreams, it's a success of sorts. Her life won't be over, let's remember. That night I taught her about birth control.

Day 6Sept-place to Kédougou

So when I went to the french cultural institute to buy our concert tickets, I had to wait in the middle of some line/consultation process for something I didn't understand. One of the guys called over in his fancy pressed suit was a Camara! I grinned to myself and waited for him to settle on the seat next to me. He greeted everyone classily. I, on the other hand, smugly said, "Your last name is bad!" The appropriate response here is for him to slap his knee, yell, "Ohhhh!" and laugh at this. Instead, he looked at me blankly and said in perfect french, "Pardon, I don't speak that." (pulaar) I was still grinning dumbly and hastily explained that I was a Souaré, i.e. his joking cousin, i.e. we can laugh now! He looked at me like I was in a hotdog costume advertising my cart of weiners, nodded, and turned away.This is what made me miss Kédougou. What kind of snobby senegalese man doesn't play the bad-name-game?! I felt like I was in overalls at the Metropolitan Opera House, telling redneck jokes.Today, however, in the Tamba garage, I met a Camara on my level. I went for a few more, "Your name is BAD! You steal!"'s than normal, just for good measure. He gave them right back and we were howling with laughter by the end. It's good to be almost home!

Day 7Luumo car to Dindefello, walk to village.

What was my favorite part of the trip? Seeing the girls laughing hysterically while driving themselves in circles in the bumper car. Watching them shyly watching stylish school girls walking by, imaging little thought bubbles above their heads, "That's gonna be me!" Seeing Fatou stand a little straighter instead of her usual "don't-look-at-me" posture, under the Mariama Ba Lycee sign on the education-themed day. Seeing Hawa relax and seem unable to blink, scanning the horizon of ocean on the Goree Ferry. On the last day, walking behind them, seeing them look for cars before crossing the street with some confidence, clutching their shopping bags and talking about when they'd come back to Dakar...

Thank you so much to everyone who helped make this happen.

To see all photos, go here: http://picasaweb.google.com/KAStones/FatouAndHawaSIntergalacticAdventure#

Noel: Marek "Obama's" adorable shoes honor his nicknameHere he is with his jajaa and mum Marie-Christine, our maid who is possibly my favorite person in Senegal. Her family is christian and kept the pigs we bought for Christmas. When we found our butchering skills lacking, her husband came and saved us with his sharp knife.

New Year's at the Kafori waterfall. We meant to travel around the area, but once we got to this scenic spot, we couldn't leave. The waterfall rages in rainy season, but the trickle did the trick for this trip.

We brought a lot of food but still wanted to catch fish... we sort of did, but then it came back to life after baking in the sun several hours. I'm not kidding and I DON'T GET IT! Does this make sense to anyone?

To make ourselves feel better, we made a bonfire on water.

A beautiful waterfall fell into a cavern whose stretching stone walls were lit and glowing. The fire sighed out sparks that floated up like fireflies to to inky blue sky to keep the full moon company. Happy 2010...

And back to the beautiful bump and grind...

Who doesn’t love a dance party? Especially if the other participants agree that YOU are the best dancer? But wait… aren’t I in Africa, land of people who dance in their wombs and who couldn’t do anything out of rhythm if they tried? And isn’t this ME, we’re talking about, not someone who, in fact, CAN dance?In my Thies home stay, I observed many toddlers with better rhythm than most adults I know. Of course, these city households boogied against a background of African and American R&B from radios, TVs, and cell phones. The toddlers got plenty of practice time and were encouraged by all the family members around them who also had nothing else to do.Sadly, life is very different in the village. We’re still a part of Senegal and West Africa, of course, where dance is deeply ingrained in the culture. But my villagers don’t live the same kind of life as my Thies family. They work and farm all day, exhausted by the end, only able to sit in the dark and talk quietly to each other and the stars, before getting up at dawn to do it again. There are few phones and radios, no TVs, and not even many drums. We dance at weddings and baptisms—briefly.The day after Tabaski, my women’s club organized time to meet, a radio to borrow, money for batteries, and time to cook the vegetables I brought. We all wore our matching complets. I.e. we had a party.The complets were actually the reason for the group’s existence. Tired of wishing wistfully every Tabaski that they had a new outfit, the women formed a club that met weekly. Dues were about 10 cents and over the course of the year, amounted to enough for a complet for each member, cut from the same fabric. My sister-mom is president and Mariama is the treasurer who kept the money (since she’s literate). The women bubbled over with excitement for their NEW clothes. I surprised myself with how happy I was to match everyone. Of course I still stood out, but at least I was the same in One respect! I was less happy when my pagne fell down in the middle of the village, but luckily my village is not exactly hopping and Diardi tied it back up in a flash. (Haha! Flash…)On actual Tabaski, the women were too busy cooking and running around working to put on their prized clothes until just before dusk. I was mostly busy painting henna on 20 peoples’ hands. When we finally had them on, the only place to go was to a soccer game, a 20 minute hike away. The walk was slightly treacherous and lit only by moonlight. As I picked my way on stepping stones in the river, I found it sadly humorous that this was the party.The night was just as uneventful. Whereas the national tradition is to get down with yo bad self until the roosters crow (the cows are already home), my people were just tired, cold (COLD SEASON!), and ready for bed. They had the requisite primary school building party, but barely any kids could afford the admission fee of pennies. It was like going to bed at 8:30 on New Year’s Eve.Back to the day after. This group of women is comprised of women around my age (18-30). All of them are married with multiple children. I’m not going to succumb to the pressure of the Peace Corps experience and gush about the connections of our sister souls, blah, blah. But it is true that these are some excellent women who make me genuinely happy every time I see them. They are sweet, and proud to have me in the group without turning me into some kind of mascot (“look, we’ve got the toubab!”) They are important to me, but I can’t pretend to understand their worlds to the deepest levels of intimacy. If I had been born and raised here, these women would be my very best friends. But for now, just recognizing that is enough.So we’re all dressed up literally in our best. This already depresses me, in a childish way. I’ve always dreaded that dejection you get from removing your 8th grade dance dress (etc.) at the end of the day. That was it? It’s over? Where’d it go?To make matters worse, they are all passing around a tiny broken shard of mirror, one tube of lip gloss, and one eyebrow pencil—which doubles as ill-advised lip-liner. They look like they’re playing dress-up. To go where? Under the other mango tree, 15 feet away, to look into the same faces that surround them now. I wanted to run away and cry.

Instead, I cringe at the dance party portion. It would definitely fit the LAME label in the states.I imagined trying to convince my friends at home to do this. They might play along for a minute, straining laughs, and rolling their eyes, but finally suggest we do something ACTUALLY fun. For these women who are my best friends in another life, this is the best part of the Best Day of the Year. THIS. IS. IT.I fought the urge to run. I didn’t want to dance at first because a bunch of villagers including teenage boys had collected, ready for a break in my RA-like image. But as I felt bad for the sad little spectacle, I knew I had to do my part. Sure, I could ignore it and look forward instead to the comparatively glamorous gatherings in the bars and clubs of my future—that don’t make me want to weep… But I had to do my part here. Despite the usual indifference to my toubab-ness that I usually enjoy from the women, I knew Toubab Dancing would attract everyone’s undivided attention. But I considered my dignity and comfort sacrifices for these lovely women who deserve so so so much more.The women had been shuffle-dancing, without heart, in a sore, overworked-body way. That is not how a 20-something year old body should be! That was the first difference between my dancing and theirs.I am not a skilled dancer. My strengths are that I’m not afraid to be a little “out there,” and that I get bored quickly of doing the same small movements most people do. Still, make no mistake, I’m far from talented. On this occasion, I felt a knew sense of abandon in knowing I had no choice but to be the ridiculous center of attention. Encouraged by shouts and claps, I lost myself in thought. I imagined my movements were like the henna I’d been drawing non-stop: repeated circles, stripes, curlicues, embellishments… Once I realized I didn’t even know how long I’d been in the middle of a clapping circle, I couldn’t even attempt to blend in. I kept forgetting myself, because I never realized how inherently sexual mindless American dance moves are. Very different from the tired village woman shuffle! I kept thinking, “Oops!” when I’d lapse and elicit another shout.Embarrassed at this point, I decided to play it safe by copying exactly what the other women were doing so I wouldn’t be inappropriate anymore. It didn’t seem that hard until a new girl joined and was encouraged to do the very same move I’d been trying to copy: “Dance like Hadiatou!” Haha! Ooops…While obviously flattering, this attention only broke my heart more. These women are African! Why are they copying me? What’s wrong with this picture? But it makes sense if you compare our lives rather than our genes. Compared to the few occasions I’ve had to dance in the village, I’ve had numerous chances in America. This is the same reason I’m the henna artist here—no one else around had the liberty to waste entire forests of drawing paper in their childhoods.Once I felt I’d made my support of the party known enough so that I could leave, I thanked everyone and said goodbye. But I wasn’t leaving, I said, until every woman and onlooker got up and danced together. A couple groaned protests, “But I can’t dance! You can, but I can’t!” Once they were up and I danced more ridiculously, they were grinning. They shuffled, clapped, danced the Hadiatou, and smiled smiles worthy of the Best Day of the Year.When I left them like that, I was smiling too.

My mother’s and aunt’s polite but unfavorable reactions to some high-end food on our part, inspire me to further explain the food situation here. It’s BAD. I’m not kidding. After a while in the village you start thinking it’s better, like, “Hmm, is this cream of spinach tonight?” but no. It’s not. That’s called lying-to-yourself adaptation. The good thing is that the food is mostly just bland, and not actually offensive. The menu consists of: mashed up corn of sand consistency, water, and either peanut or leaf sauce. Finis! Squash, beans, and okra make their brief appearances once grown. Small bits of onion also count as vegetables, but I suspect those are all from onions I’ve brought in. When I brought carrots with my mom and Cindy, they didn’t even know what they were. Let’s got back to the okra, though. Dumi. Alexa called it, “Dumi-a-favor-and-get-it-out-of-my-face.” It is okra slime sauce over… what? Oh yes, corn mush. It is so very reminiscent of mucus in texture and color, that it’s hard to tell if it actually also tastes like it, or if that’s another mind-trick. So we eat dumi like everything else, 10ish people crowded around a bowl. After you’ve witnessed everyone’s unsatisfactory hand-washing show (without soap (I give up.)), they dig in. The kids almost all have large globules of snot adorning their faces. You try to keep track of these so they don’t jump ship onto the hand and into the bowl. But it’s dark and there’s some pushing and lots of little hands scooping at booger sauce, right in front of you, even, since there’s no space for your personal clean spot. And of course many globules go missing, but you tell yourself you must have missed the wipe. And you swallow. Bon apetite! (Anyone care to review the wish list on the left?)

More-Rockin’ NotesCasablanca: -Convinced mom to eat brains, but I’m not that nefarious because they were legitimately delicious-Awesome hotel! Bed like a cloud, bathrobes, rose petals, English movie channel… ahhhh!-Cindy asked when the pool would be functioning again as it was CLEARLY empty. She kept being told it was fine and she could go swim in it!-Hassan II Mosque: roof opens like a car’s, heated tile floor, washing fountains are multiplied as if between facing mirrors. Kept thinking about bringing baaba and how he’d just implode if he saw it. But perhaps it’s easier to take the stick mosque seriously without seeing this amazing one-Very much like Europe. Again am only one in flip-flops, and worst-dressedMarrakesh:-My mom and Cindy rode camels in the park of Jardin Menara. The trick was to not give my mom time to think about protesting. Camel-ride?-Yes,-she’s-interested-go-mom-get-on! SO FUNNY! My mom wrapped her legs oddly around the saddle because she was convinced Cindy’s camel wanted to bite her. And when I took her camel’s reigns and said things like, “Mush!” and “Canter!” she did Not find it amusing. I want to make a calendar out of these hysterical photos.-Epicerie/pharmacy: Mum, Cindy, and Matt all got massages. Once I saw them all take off their shirts in the same public space, I declined and just laughed at them. Awkward and hilarious.-In a car from Marrakesh to Casablanca with my mom and Cindy, M and I discovered we both had giardia. For those of you unfamiliar, the characteristics of this parasite are for the most part audible and smell-able. So we exhibited those disgusting signs, sulfer burping along the road, and shrugged sheepishly at each other. “Dating is very different these days!” was a line we heard a few times throughout the trip.-SHINY THINGS! I found myself consumed with the desire for all of them. They sparkled and hypnotized the sense out of me. Personally, I think it’s caused by some unfortunate biological imbalance because I swear I’m usually a rational being. Getting out with just four things I think shows my stoic resolve.-People dress well. I had a tear at my knee on some Senegalese-print capris and it caused quite the scandel. As we walked around, people everywhere were literally pointing and laughing at me. School girls retraced their steps just to get another peak. Haha!-Delicious street food, rows of dates and fresh squeezed orange juice stalls, carnies charming snakes and strumming strange instruments… awesome!Fes:-Mesmerizing maze of souk streets. The food lanes made me want to immediately move there.-Got henna from Fatima after arguing forever over the price. She whipped out the, “But I’m so poor!” bit too early by Senegalese bargaining standards, so I was sort of annoyed to get to her nice house and see her DVD player and fat daughter. But the henna was pretty!-Dar Batha Museum: pretty, but I felt like all its ancient contents could be viewed just as easily out on the streets. The jewelry was the same that I haggled over; the tools were being used still right next door…-Merenid Tombs: we just wanted to climb up this random hill and get a view and we fell on these cool ruins. Great view that seemed through a time-portal window. Creepy caves (with torn dresses, a doll’s head, and a large bone). We went down the Wrong Way and I was glad my mom and Cindy were not still with us for this part of the trip.Merzouga:-Secured room through sketchiest dealings ever. A guy at the bus station with a wrinkled brochure and texts from alleged tourists who “loved it!” spent an hour arguing about the price and camel-riding itinerary. He finally scribbled a “reservation” on a paper and asked for money upfront. We decided it was a scam and didn’t give him anything. But when we got there, shock of all shocks, the ride we agreed on was waiting for us! Humanity beats cynicism for the day! Hoorah!-DUNES! The Mummy was shot here…-Camel trek! I headed up the convoy, followed by M and 6 Italian potheads (I’ve never seen anyone smoke up this much. In the dunes under the stars, I get it, but at every public bus stop in a devout Muslim country?). The gypsyish tents were cool, and COLD. I wrapped myself in all the garments I had. Dunes + full moon= quite romantic. Running up the snow-like sand to touch the stars, and it felt like we had our own planet. In the daylight too, the sands glow red like Martian terrain in windswept shapes under the setting sun. When the moon rose HUGE over a dune, it was just begging for a biker silhouette ET-reenactment photo. Next time!-We ate a kingly pile of meat and vegetable tajine, which was far too much for us to tackle, followed by apples and pomegranates. Among gypsy tents, moonlit dunes, and desert stars, it was beautiful, delicious, but with tinges of absurd unfairness and arrogant extravagance. We were in the DESERT, for god’s sake! Eating better than my village family in the entire past year. I just hoped the camels got spoiled too as they did all the work.-There were several things in the desert that lead me to conclude that it is both a more hospitable and more industrious environment than Pellel. Such as:-House cats. Even among dunes in the middle of nowhere. NOT starving, and in fact doing magnitudes better than the one my family tried to raise on lachiri and hut mice (who I believe is now deceased)-Working wells and forages. *$@*%#*&@@%#$!-Coldness. The sand dunes felt like snow-No malaria or snakes. Humph.Bus ride to Ouarzazate:-Had to pee unbelievably badly. I held it for as long as possible and M asked the driver to stop. When they did briefly to let someone off, I leapt off too, yelling, “Btlma?!!” When people pointed to a second story while the bus guys shouted at me to get back on, I said, “I’ll just go here!” I thought a slightly shadowy corner of a building would suffice and began to unzip. But I looked up to meet the stares of at least five guys. “Uhh… don’t look? Stop looking! Can you just… I’m just gonna… No, but stop looking!” They did not stop looking, and a few even stepped closer thinking I was asking something. I was going to explode. The bus driver was about to bust his honking apparatus. I looked around wildly, praying I wouldn’t wet myself. I spotted a bush over a wall, jumped it, and peed for a good 100 seconds. I heard kids giggling and suspected the dumbstruck men could still make me out pretty well, but cultural sensitivity and exploding bladders don’t exactly correspond. I ran back to the franticly honking bus amidst laughter and some applause. I embraced it, and jogged through victoriously, waving even, like an Olympic runner. The bus lurched off before I was completely in, only to stop one minute later for an official 10-minute pee-break. Oops! It ended up even being double that when the engine wouldn’t catch… Oh well!Bus to Marrakesh through High Atlas Mountains:-Ribbony roads wrapped all around the mountains, sometimes corkscrewing, always with breathtaking views on the open side. Sometimes the views showed terrifying plummets that the bus careened carelessly past… but quite picturesque! Canal systems, beautiful gardens, olive trees everywhere, geod sellers at the most random and uninhabited turns, school girls skipping in headscarves, the very picture of purity, farmers, sheep… I just wanted to hop off and talk to/help/ photograph everyone and maybe live there for a year. Or, indefinitely. The soft boxy towns seemed to be carved out of the mointains themselves. With such fertile gardens and freakin’ unbelievable views in their doorways, I fantasized about a Peace Corps service in one of these pastorally perfect, simple mountain villages. Then I noticed that every single house had a satellite dish on top. Whaaaaat?! Now I’m even more envious—what do they Not have? (Along this vein, the boutiques also have waaaaay better selections, often including things like snickers or Limited-Edition-Dark-Chocolate-TWIX (WHY WOULD THIS BE LIMITED?! OH WHAT A CRUELLY BRIEF GODLY GIFT!), lots of chocolate and chip things… HUMPH, again!)When I got off the plane in Morocco and faced more hijabs and veiled women than I’d ever seen, I was a little suspect about how I’d feel about the place. The impersonal bustle of Casablanca, and the Disney-like theatrics of Marrakesh (we kept deciding certain scenes had to be staged. See previous poem), also didn’t move me. But the frequent cafes and sidewalks and all the girls with school bags impressed me. Ahh, development! That, and the tastes and beauty, the pride in agriculture and mosaic architecture, the culture of art and literature and haunting arabic melodies—this is what I was looking for. Rockin.

an old lady stoops, halves her bread, shaking arm out like a gnarled branch, offering it to the gnarled man who wears rags awash in matching dusts. end scene one, act infinity. the young girl with hair brushed smooth clears coke bottles from the roof top table, grinning over her shoulder at the boy working on the roof across the street when she comes back, they lean over railings, smiling, silent laughing, mouthing the words no one else speaks. in lulls they watch the people below, amber-lit, warbling music cinnamon winds the girl tosses her hair as the birds sing endlessly the shoemakers work in the shoe-shops and the shoe-shiners stand by woodworkers, tailors, leather tanners and craftsmen earthenware potters, weave to work squinting among shimmering beads on sale, interchangeable to the ancient ones in the local museums. cell phone shops fringe snakes, charmed among hanging baubles, genie lairs, gypsy queen wares the old city beguiles the visiter who turns up, down and around twisting shifting sneaking snake paths, breathing the saffron cinnamon drugging maze air the gem-like fruits turn to body parts, a man holds a chicken head in a kleenex, you bump into a camel’s head while turning from the milky marble eyes of a lunatic you choke on the putrid stench of drying skins, dying leathers, the crowd pulses closer, the walls triangle up to just a sliver of sky, like the eyes of a veiled woman the doors are shaped like locked keyholes and then the voices from the sky cover their shivering people, they wash hands, arms, face, neck, feet, making perfect lines of persian carpets or strips of cardboard, falling to their knees at once, face down buried, eyes in the woven dowries woolen shapes and colors that chronicle the stories of the illiterate, smooth- haired girls growing up among other peoples’ candle-lit dinners until the eyes of a boy shine like stars across the street scenes and unreal night

"But if we go rock-climbing, we gotta go at sunset.""Oh yeah, it's beautiful there?""Naw, just the way my muscles look when the light hits 'em." Working with the army is interesting. As you might imagine, these guys are a bit different from Peace Corps guys. I’m a bit biased of course, and happen to think there’s no better type of guy than a Peace Corps guy. But the change was still refreshing and rather hilarious. Most amusing was the blatant machoism. I’m still not sure if they were kidding. For example, we had to pull a cable to tow a ferry platform over the river. Usually this is a lazy endeaver for the Kedougou folk, because who really cares? These guys. They pulled their little hearts out until they were doubled over, panting, with blisters despite the gloves they donned (someone doesn’t farm/ pound corn!). I just sipped at my coffee-in-a-nalgene (we biked over at sunrise everyday to meet them as they rolled from their beds to their SUVs…) and wondered what kind of strange society I’d signed into. They even insisted we have a boys vs. girls contest. I thought this was an odd proposition. The men were all beafy combat guys; the girls were nurses, doctors, and three Peace Corps volunteers who’d probably had about a pound of protein between them in the last year. If I were in normal shape, I might be all over this, but as it was, I just kept saying, “Are you kidding me?” It seems I’ve gotten rather used to saying any number of not-so-polite things in english with the expectation that no one will understand them. The G.I. Joes were literally bouncing up and down before the contest. They synchronized watches, got two timers, repeated rules, and announced the ladies would be granted a 30 second head-start. Once we were off, I of course pulled my corn-mush-fed heart out (while my public position remained Disinterested). With the 30 seconds, we ended up winning. The manly man promptly declared they were just kidding about the 30 seconds, and leave it to us to enforce double standards whenever it suits us. Wow. At the clinic, things ran smoothly enough. When they didn’t, some sort of army PANIC MODE switch was flipped. This was incredibly funny. Winds came and the tents billowed up. We PCVs watched serenely with the villagers, in a dozy, “Hoh, will you look at that…” way. The G. I. Joes, however, SPRINTED around, pumping their arms, eyes flashing, bellowing orders, “MOVE it, MOVE it, MOVE IT! Secure the tent cords! GO, Get that side, GO!” When this all started, I was on lunch break in the VEHICLE (it is never referred to as a mere “car”) savoring delicious army food (pita chips! Apple jacks! Cheese tortellini!) when I saw the absurd commotion outside. The guys looked like they were overacting for a war movie, with dumbstruck spectators accidentally walking onto the scene. I was confused—was the Vehicle that sturdy that I couldn’t feel what looked like (reactions to) a hurricane on the weather channel? I leapt out to help with whatever catastrophe was causing the panic. Once I confirmed nothing was actually wrong, I returned to my beautiful snack pack and giggled at the ridiculousness. I’m not going to say these guys are not tough; we all know they are. But on this particular occasion… complaining about standing/ sitting all day, about it being hot, about a 2 hour plane ride (instead of a DAY-long sept-place ride), about food, about missing hot showers… Seriously? One person asked, “So do you not have air-conditioning then?” “What, like in my hut?!” I choked a bit. “Um, yeah, wherever you live?” Oh my. I don’t mean to just poke fun (even though they were quite funny to me). I can’t even imagine what some of these guys have been through. Also I must say that despite their vast difference from the PCV-prototype, these were some more of the nicest guys I’ve met. They were thrilled to do humanitarian aid work and helpful in every way. I was happy to work with them (I did translations and causeries on first aid, dehydration/ORS, and malaria/neem lotion). It just startled me how different they were, and surprised me to find I could understand the villagers much better. It’s lucky, really, to be in my position. I knew with all confidence that the lady coming in the back door with the rushed look about her was looking for her child. As obvious as it seemed to me, these guys seemed to think she was breaking in to attack us. Seeing that didn’t make me laugh; it made me sad. We’re all trying to serve our country. And now I realize how lucky I am that my method has brought me ease with others, a quickness in determining “it’s not so bad” (vs. Panic Mode), and a true and pure appreciation of pita chips. Alhumdulilai.

Jan wrote a comprehensive blog entry - I'm not sure how much I can add to it, other than to express my fascination with Senegal, the Peace Corps, and the lives you are all living there. I am so glad that Kate managed to get us over there, and all the way to her village (NOT an easy trip!), and could share her Senegalese family with us. Wow. I'm trying to remember my most/least favorite parts, and already, only two weeks later, so much of it seems like a dream. I have a feeling that, if I live to 100, I'll be sitting in an old folks home (OFH) talking about the mud huts and African imams and primitive conditions I so briefly experienced, and the aides at the OFH will be winking at each other and telling each other to humor me, that I've just watched too many old movies. I can't begin to imagine the incredible adjustment that all the PCVs have when they return to the States.

So....least favorite parts (with the obvious exception of seeing K get so sick, which was in its own class of terrible): the heat and dust, and feeling like I would never again be anything close to clean. The bouncy/jouncy, knock-your-teeth-out, 8-Advil-A-Day-won't-cut-it, sept-place rides.Most favorite: the amazing graciousness of the "village people", and seeing their daily lives. Oh - and most bizarre part: Again, the "village people". We were enough of a novelty to them that they were entertained by our mere existence. I never realized that I could amuse a whole village just by sitting, and that my eating dinner could mesmerize hundreds (well...dozens?). And I wasn't even the important one - Jan, as Kate's real mother and not just the "little-mother" (their interpretation of "aunt"), was truly a crowd pleaser!

So, in summary: There is SO much to learn and see in Senegal, and I didn't have time to even scratch the surface. The adjustment of the PCVs is amazing. I am incredibly proud of Kate - she has done so much, in a country that doesn't speak her language, in a village that is as remote as you can get. In a place where women are considered second-class, she cowed all the men I saw her with. Strong, independent, caring. AND - she managed to find Matt out there in the back-of-the-beyond: amazing! These are good people, folks, though if you're reading this, you already know that!

GUEST Blog; Senegal, October 2009

By Kate/Kay/Katie/Hadiatou’s mom..

On Oct. 16, (aunt) Cindy & I arrived in Dakar at 4:15 AM, and thank goodness Kate & Matt were there to meet us. I started by shaking hands with all the taxi drivers who were hustling us for business......well, K DID say she had a lot of brothers, & they were so friendly! Welcome to Senegal, (rightfully) noted for its hospitality. I can’t describe how wonderful it was to see K after 19 months! She has grown into an amazing woman, yet I can still see the little girl who used to get stuck in trees, run around naked (sorry hon, but you WERE very young!), and draw on everything from her clothes to the kitchen walls. But over and over I watched her deal gracefully and competently with situations which left me far out of my depth and gaping in admiration - and all in Pulaar and French. I believe English is rarely spoken there, quite a difference from so much of the rest of the world. She bargained, joked, chatted, sealed deals, got food, got rid of bothersome people on the street, and in general functioned effectively as a Senegalese. And we hadn’t even left Dakar yet.

Lunch at the lovely French Cultural Institute, the endless stream of men (and a few women) going to Mosque, since it was a Friday, and a Vietnamese dinner filled up the rest of that first day.

Heading for Kedougou the following day was fascinating, from going to the ‘garage’ to bargain for a sept-place which would last the trip to the sept-places themselves. These vehicles are amazing in that it’s hard to believe so many actually make it to their destinations. 12 hours to Kedougou - broken by a stop in Tamba - and I’m told this is AFTER road improvements which cut many hours from the trip. The pcvs tend to do the whole thing in one day.

My impressions of Senegal include red dusty roads, awesomely persistent people hawking everything under the sun and not shy about getting in your face or surrounding your vehicle when it slows down or stops, the sept-place driver handing a screwdriver over his shoulder to whichever passenger wants to open a window (these things are usually missing door handles, window handles, and/or various other things), new and strange smells, thatched round huts and poverty, goats and cattle wandering all over the place, anything you could think of carried on people’s heads, (not so easy - I tried it), babies slung on girls’ and women’s backs, omelet sandwiches, cornfields, the mixture of languages often spoken together - the harsh Wolof of Dakar gradually ceding to the softer sounds of Pulaar as you go south and French throughout - a fierce sun, monkeys, beautiful blue starlings, and so much more.

The country becomes greener and hillier as you head southeast and the area around K’gou is beautiful, Pellel Kendessa - K’s village - the most beautiful. Everything there is still green and there is plenty of water in the rivers, though I understand it’s not always so. I really enjoyed finally getting to see the Kedougou regional ‘house’ and meeting some of the pcvs there. There may be electricity by now, but there wasn’t when we were there. I’m sure some of the charm soon wears off when you’re working under the conditions these guys are and as hard as they are, but from our perspective, it was a pretty cool place. (I’m sure he’s been asked many times, yet again I have to ask.......Matt, how do you do it?)

Going to the K’gou market with Kate was an experience I’ll always treasure. It was my first glimpse into her relationship with the people of the area. Not only did all her language, bargaining and competency skills come into play, but I got to learn about ‘joking cousins’ and the funny and lively give-and-take which keeps her on her toes and must sometimes exhaust her. She quickly decided on veggies and other things for her family - ataaya, cookies, salt. etc. Or as quickly as the prolonged greetings and exchanges allowed, which despite her decisiveness, wasn’t quick at all.

This is another thing about the Senegalese, at least those in this region. Greetings are an inimical part of daily life, never to be skipped or taken lightly. From the initial ‘ajarama’ (hello, goodbye, thank you) through ‘tanala’, ‘jam tun’, more ‘jam tuns’ (peace only), ‘hono bengure ma wadi’ (how is your family), more ‘jam tuns’ in response to a lot of other greetings I never quite mastered, these take up a lot of time. They can be frustrating, yet there’s a certain comfort there also and a kind of civility often lacking today. And shaking hands....never have I seen people shake hands so much. Old people, little kids, people you shook hands with a few minutes ago, people with whom you will shake hands in another few minutes, waiters, vendors, watchmen....it’s phenomenal.

Due to Cindy’s occasionally wonky back, we hired a car and driver for the 50k trip to Pellel. It’s not the limo-type ride that might suggest. It’s impossible to overestimate how terrible that ‘road’ is, though it was SO bad it almost seemed funny. I’m pretty sure K wouldn’t agree, having biked it for 1 1/2 years in all conditions. We stopped in Dindefelo, where I’d hoped to hike to the waterfall, but the heat got me first. I knew we were nearing Pellel when I heard kids’ voices shouting ‘Hadiatou’!! (aka Kate). Our welcome was astounding, and the royal way in which we were treated for the next three days, something I will only be able to dream about in ‘real’ life. It’s all a reflection of K and their respect for her, of course, though I know they are naturally hospitable people. Village life was incredible, especially for those of us who didn’t have to lift a finger. Nevertheless, we tried pounding corn, pulling water, and digging up peanuts, much to the amusement of the village. Kate does all these things easily. As Kate’s ‘neene Amerik’ and ‘neene tosokho’ ("little mother" literally), we were assigned special places to eat (for me, the choicest spot, the hammock, for Cindy, the chair). Kate and baaba (her dad) were on tiny stools, and everyone else, somewhere off in the darkness, the women cooking over fires and handing the bowl to baaba, who put it on the ground and gave us each a spoon (unusual, I think). You’re supposed to say ‘mi hari’ when you’re full, then he indicates you should eat more, then you try ‘mi hari’ again and hope you can really stop this time.

The food is notably bad, although K says she’s never experienced it so good as when we were there. The veggies she bought were used up the first day, well-prepared and poured over the daily corn mush which is dinner every day. The roasted corn was an exception - really good. Her ‘baaba’, the village imam, is a sweet and intelligent man. He has three delightful wives and I’m not sure how many children. They respect him tremendously and obey instantly. One thing I really loved was the daily predawn prayer, led by baaba, very long, powerful yet calming. I’m sure the luxury of being able to roll over and go back to sleep during it didn’t hurt, but I really was impressed. I hear it’s not so nice in many areas, where there are often tinny recordings 5x a day calling Muslims to prayer.

K’s hut is tiny and rustic, yet she has made it homey and as clean as wildlife permits (she usually manages to keep the chickens outside, but the bats, frogs, and mice are harder). There are, of course, no electricity, running water, or even latrines in the village, except for K’s. Chickens and goats roam freely and babies crawl placidly through all the dirt.

Our idyllic stay ended badly, with K developing chills and a high fever during our last night there. She toughed it out back to Kedougou and the PC house, but by this time was feeling truly awful. She got tested for malaria the next morning but the test was negative, so we headed back to Dakar and PC headquarters and a doctor. Subsequent tests showed no bacterial infection, so it was some kind of virus. As we were all (Cindy, K, Matt and I) going to Morocco in a couple of days, it was crucial that she rest. Matt took Cindy & me on the ferry to Goree Island, which was really interesting. The slave house, the artists and jewelry-makers everywhere, the tiny streets, and Matt bargaining with Fatima - these are some of my impressions of Goree. At the time Cindy and I left Morocco, K seemed okay as far as the virus went, but then there are those pesky bacterial infections......I’ll leave Morocco to Cindy and/or K to write about.

My feelings about K and the PC have become more complicated, as far as reassurance about her well-being goes. I feel reassured by the Senegalese people in her region, especially those in her village, by her great relationship with them and the way they seem to have her back, by all the pcvs I met, and by the structure of the PC itself. I feel reassured by her ability to take care of herself and rise to any occasion. I am terrified by the vagaries of disease and nature. Seeing K so ill was horrible and frightening, and I know it’s not the first time, and that sooner rather than later, they all get sick. This is truly an impressive group.

Although I’ve turned K’s blog into a multi-volume work, I can’t end without mentioning Matt again (carrying through the book theme). I appreciate his humor, levelheadedness, and his unbelievable patience with the middle-aged ‘ducklings’ following him around. And I am so glad I finally figured out when to tell when he’s serious and when he’s kidding. At least I’m pretty sure I did.

And although K’s time in Senegal is winding down, I suggest anyone who’s still thinking of visiting her go to her village. It’s worth it all around. We had no flat tires or sept-place breakdowns or encounters with animals, but I do see that between lack of infrastructure and an apparent total indifference to the concept of time (did I ever see a clock in Senegal? No. Only those for-sale-on-the-street watches) (although come to think of it, I think they may be onto something with the obliviousness to time thing), I now understand about the need for plans a, b, c, d, e, f, g...

In short, a memorable vacation!

Good news: Fatou and Hawa's trip has been fully pledged! Thank you to everyone who is contributing:

Jacqueline, Grace, Allison, Matt, Mum, Ian, Cindy, "Danfakha," Mida, Julie, Heather, Shelley, Cecile, Carol, Kathi, Annette, Jean Anne, Jean, Boo Boo, the Bartz'z...

If you're still interested in donating to excellent causes, see the pckedougou.org site or hold tight until the school project in my village gets off the ground. Thanks!

I will keep you updated on this trip, which I hope to do as soon as possible-- Hawa's (pictured above) husband has been chosen, so here's to her last/first hoorah!

Thank you to anyone who contributed to this year's youth leadership camp. It may be the best place your money has ever gone. It was a great success with double the campers and programs as last year, as well as a three-day senegalese counselor training.This year's schedule included: tree nurseries, tree grafting, neem lotion, business classes, food security, plays, goal-defining, arts and crafts, awesome field games--

hiking up to the waterfall source (the group pictured below MAY have completed the hike in record time, led by the lady in blue...)

soccer,

olympic games (we lost the spoons for the egg-spoon race and joked they had to carry them on their heads. We should have known this isn't a joke in Senegal. Three people could!)

some of the best kids in Senegal,

popcorn in a cauldron for movie night-- Indiana Jones in French (I was on popcorn duty and now I know I will think of these cauldrons and buckets whenever I make microwave popcorn for the rest of my life... and I love that)

monkeeeeyyyyy,

sex ed classes (behold my shining role as a condom demonstrator),

gender and equality classes,

and career day, which was the winner. To adress the distressing lack of imagination encountered upon the "what do you want to be?" question, we introduced the concepts of about 50 professions. Everyone had a card stuck on his/her head with a career like "archeologist" and "tabboo" words beneath that you couldn't say when giving the person hints as to what their card says (ex. "digging"). Real professionals participated as well and gave a panel discussion afterwards. This provided the best most inspiring if-I-did-it-so-can-you, you-are-the-future-of-Senegal speeches. I literally just gave myself goosebumps writing that. That's how awesome it was!Now, none of these amazing kids can go back to their villages and settle. That won't be good enough, now they know that "zoologists" exist. Look out world, here comes the youth of Kedougou!

See Peace Corps Kedougou's website for more photos, videos, and detailed accounts: http://www.pckedougou.org/

____________________________________________________________________

Still looking for help to send 2 deserving village girls on the adventure of their life! (See entries below: Hawa and Fatou and Never Been Missed). Click below to pledge (money will be collected only once the project is fully pledged). Thank you!

Click here to Pledge

One of Peace Corps' finest-- Michele-- recently traded vows with one of Kedougou's finest-- Ousemane. He was her host brother first, but they quickly grew past brotherly love... They are very cute and lovely together, but instead of that, let's talk about the hilarious ceremony.As "witness," the only title role, I worried a bit about how I could possibly perform maid-of-honor-ish duties HERE. The bachelorette party too... as high-profile people trying to keep a professional image in Kedougou, during Ramadan.... it didn't seem possible to do this right. But we did. Unfortunately I am not at liberty to share these details...As for the wedding day, I got up as usual with the roosters and proceeded to pace around all day, reminding people when to get there, and even putting on my Nice Dress. I meant serious witness business, people. Several hours later though, and still no word from the blushing bride. I pictured her surrounded by odd cosmetic contraptions, clouds of hair spray, and those mice and birds from Cinderella. I'm coming, poor, frantic friend! She picked up the phone, "[Yawn] Uhh, yeah, come over. And bring a movie!" Uhhh... what?Roxy and I showed up ready for action and was greeted by a girl in pajamas. "Hey! What's up?" "Ummm.. isn't this your wedding day, Michele?""Yeah, crazy, right?" I asked about preparations and she waved her hand at the door and said Ouseman went to get her shoes. She got her outfit from the tailor yesterday. Want to watch the Office?I grinned. Now this was a pace I was much more comfortable with! We watched and chatted and I unsuccessfully snuck candy (both she, Ouseman, and Roxy were fasting for Ramadan.) Ousey returned with some steller purple shoes and promptly took a nap on the floor.Half an hour before the wedding, we convinced her to maybe, you know, dress? Now, 28 minutes to the wedding. Hmm.. We played around with the tiny pile of makeup the three of us compiled and tousled around her hair pretending it did something. She wore her mom's old earings, her brand new purple shoes, I gave her 100 CFA to borrow, and as for the "something blue" I just took a pen and drew a dot on the bottom of her foot. I felt like we were playing pretend wedding.

Especially since I then biked to the ceremony. The other volunteers were there in full form, mostly in ridiculous Senegalese outfits. We waited, true to all things Senegal, for over an hour for the mayor to show up. During the wait, the hidden donkey charette with the "Just Married!" sign and trailing tomato paste and fanta cans-- ran over and ruined the surprise. These sounds of jingling, braying, and people running to catch it became steady background noises to the event.

At the ceremony, the officials seemed a bit uneasy about having a room FULL of toubabs for probably the first time. They made us-- especially me and Michele-- switch seats about ten times. Then they wouldn't start until everyone had a coke or fanta in front of them-- even though about half the room was fasting and wouldn't touch it. They called Michele by her middle name. They spoke in such a rapid Wolof-ish french that we all struggled to follow. We held our breath when Ouseman didn't understand the "monogamy vs. polygamy" option at first. Whenever things were directed at me, I leaned forward and frowned in concentration. "Uhhh... OUI." I think I got everything until the end, when I inadvertanly promised to come back the next month to marry another senegalese guy. Oops!

My greatest failing as a witness was probably that I couldn't stop giggling throughout the entire affair. But everything-- EVERYTHING was so funny! The guys trying to put on a good show for the toubabs, the looks on the other PCVs' faces, the donkey outside and shouts of people catching it, the blue dot on the bottom of Michele's foot... I don't feel too bad, though, because the only other person giggling as much as me was Michele.

Hands down, the best wedding I've ever been to. Felicitations, Madame et Monsieur Kante!

(This is in reference to the previous blog entry)

So Melinda Gates does not read my blog. New plan-- let's work together! You can comment on this page an amount to pledge-- or email me if you want to remain anonymous. That way if we can't raise enough, you never actually paid anything, and it just won't happen. If we can successfully bring our forces together, you could give checks to my mother who could transfer them to my account. Sound like a plan?

Also, I just learned they have a Guinean husband in mind for Hawa, so I'd really like to do this as soon as possible! Thanks so much for your support!

Our Goal: $850

Fatou and Hawa are two of my favorite people in the village. Always patient and friendly with me, they really stand out as genuinely nice people who aren’t trying to milk me for anything. They amaze me with their consistently positive attitudes and the respect with which they treat others. They work harder than anyone else I’ve seen: from dawn until bedtime, they pound corn, wash clothes, pull water, clean rooms and dishes, feed and move the animals, help with harvesting, find firewood, cook meals, and are the main caretakers for the children of their households. They are both 12 years old.

Do you remember what you did at 12? If I remember correctly, I wore mismatched socks, went to the movies almost every weekend, and secretly had not yet given up my collection of stuffed animals yet. I probably had more stuffed animals than these girls have articles of clothing (which is probably about 4 each).

My favorite subjects were art, science, and english. I didn’t feel like I took school completely for granted, but I definitely faked sick many a time. Hawa was pulled out of elementary school a few years ago even though her sharpness is evident within the first 5 minutes of talking to her. She had to stay at home to take over household responsibilities from her frail mother. Fatou is lucky to have not yet been pulled out, but without any free time to study and do homework, she’s falling behind and apparently resigned to this.

They are bright beautiful loveable girls just becoming women. It’s refreshing to see how gracefully they take these changes—none of the embarrassment or awkwardness that accompanied them for everyone I know in America. But sometimes I want to grab them and cover them up and keep their growing a secret. With all the times I’ve heard I should really get married since I’m developed, I know they’ll be married off sooner than I’d like. By law they’ve still got a few years, and I doubt this law will be broken at least with Fatou, my sister, while there’s a PCV living in the household.

But then they will be, and their lives will very much most likely match the lives of their mothers and grandmothers before them. One of multiple wives, they will most likely bear many children and do the same work all day every day that they did at 12. And no books or soap operas or shopping sprees will line their clouds, either. Hopefully they’ll have nice husbands who don’t abuse them and who use finances appropriately to ensure everyone can eat enough. Unfortunately, these elements are far from guaranteed.

By the time I was 12, I was fortunate enough to have visited several countries, museums, zoos, and to have tried many varieties of food. Fatou and Hawa have only ever been as far as Kedougou, 1-2 times, and aren’t likely to ever travel beyond, as they are/ will be women. Of course they’ve never seen a museum or anything of the sort, and other than my “pop-kabba” and “espaghett” ventures, have had less than ten dishes in their lives, usually the same three over and over.

I would like to change at least these few things. Another PCV—Kevin—took his two village brothers to Dakar for their first times, and I would like to do this with Fatou and Hawa, the most deserving girls I can imagine.

Their first trip to their country’s capital would show them many more firsts: hotels, showers, toilets, sinks, swimming pools, hamburgers, french fries, ice cream, pastries, seafood (etc. etc. etc! important category for these twiggy malnourished girls!), museums, boat (to Goree Island to see the House of Slaves and the best school for girls in the country—stark opposites!), zoo (I hear the Dakar zoo is depressing, but I think it might be more depressing to have never gone to a zoo?), movies (french cultural institute), live good music, grocery store, big market, beach and view of ocean, views of nice mosques (unlike our stick one), views from tall buildings in Dakar (first stairs, in fact!), other sightseeing (Presidential Palace, etc.), and the first/only time they’d feel like they’re living it up like toubab princesses.

I’d also want to show them successful working women, first-hand. Awa, in particular, is a fantastic role model who could life-alteringly inspire any girl within 10 minutes. I’d give them both photo albums to remember the trip forever. They would find themselves in the new positions of authority in the village and sad as it is, I know people would treat them with more respect afterwards. They would gain an invaluable greater understanding of their country and the world. They would be able to buy gifts for their families, and in Senegal, there is no greater feeling than this.

Here’s the thing. I’m a PCV with no money. Kevin was able to do this because of a private donor. I have a sinking suspicion I have no private-donor-types reading this blog, but I’m going to try anyway. I estimate this three-day trip would cost about $850, everything included. If I had to cut out some hamburgers and gift-buying money, I could go down. I know I’ve been soliciting a lot lately and all you over there in the great Amerik are worried enough about money already. But this is a really important cause to me. Hopefully I’ve been able to express the impact this trip would have on Hawa and Fatou. If anyone out there is interested in funding this, please please contact me. I can provide a budget, photos, thank you letters from the girls, receipts—whatever you’d like!

I promise you would change the lives of two of the sweetest, most hard-working girls I’ll ever know. Please help me make this happen.

I meant for these to go in the opposite order, but the prospect of attempting to make that happen at this point overwhelms me. This is our trip to Ingley, in photos... in reverse...

Until dry season returns, it's this or a dug-out-tree canoe, every time I want to go to or come back from my village.

1. Leave Pellel Kendessa

2. Enthusiastically un-fast with a Ture's omelette sandwich and milky coffee in Dindefello

3. Make the market ladies giggle

4. Tell all the fasting food vendors that they're either very strong or very crazy

5. Pet the 2 domesticated monkeys and avoid watching abuse

6. Steer clear of the campement sai-sai's, as good as a beer would be... not worth it!

7. Walk to waterfall, through gorgeous viney jungle bits

8. Upon arrival, crane neck and admit it actually is a cooler waterfall that you give it credit for (even if yours is better, at least this one has a path)

9. Sigh in relief to be in sweet sweet solitude-- no villagers OR tourists!

10. Prop up on Throne Stone and contemplate waterfall. Decide it could be a gutter drain from Heaven. Holy refuse. Notice how drops of water seem to hand suspended and distinguishable after last drop-off before careening in down-arrow shapes, looking like diving angels. Imagine that this is how guardian angels get delivered and decide to stick your toes in the water in case that's how to pick one up.

11. Realize that you really are along and no one else will come. FREEEEEDOMMMMM!

12. Besides taking off clothes, for which it's a bit chilly as you're next to the fall's mists, there's really only one way to celebrate your solitary situation. Sing like you haven't sung since a shower in America. It's like a really big shower, so raise your singing volume proportionately. Feel like a waterfall diva goddess. Wail "Wicked" songs at the water, christmas carols at the opportunist waterfront property trees, "Amazing Grace" at the sky, classic rock to the forest. Oh how you rock.

13. Picnic on tuna sandwich, also from Ture's sandwich stand.

14. Shiver. In SENEGAL!

15. Sing Beach Boys, Mariah, and Rent on the walk back. Even as you pass people going to different parts of the river to wash their clothes. Assume you're probably brightening their days with a crazy-toubab-sighting.

16. Charge phone and get texts. Phone service and electricity are also nice things...

17. Turn a crying toubab-a-phobe baby into one that giggles every time you smile at him

18. Buy lots of breaking-fast foods for the family and bask in adoring appreciation once you deliver it

19. Go to bed while you're ahead.

the unbearable heat of the day mounted

the mountains, building up until it

broke out in thunder and ex

ploded in lightening. the sky was lit

as often as dark, I tried to keep score

in seconds: 1:1, 2:2, 1:3, 1:1, 3:1, 1:1...

It lit my father praying,

standing, kneeling, bowing,

kneeling, standing, praying,

it lit Balla next to me singing verses I never

knew he knew, head whipping, trancelike,

it lit the bodies that fast for it,

who were already starving,

it lit us all, suddenly,

exposing us, bent in the effort of blinking

dark out of the thing or people we most wanted

to see; it captured us staring at each

other. light, dark, flickering,

night

fighting day for control of the sky,

channel 1

no, channel 2,

channel 1, I said! and the tears flow...

the edges of thatch roofs mourning the most,

like children in the midst of their parents' divorce.

heads tilted to see if holy things might spill

as things are thrown across heaven, smashing,

cracking on the floor until

even the beating

of the ground turns into a

lullabye, the rest, a hovering dream.

8/21

This is the emerald city.. er.. village. It is a village of corn. Corn yards, corn avenues, corn in the bathrooms, corn obscuring huts, cows, people, and of course corn in every bowl. The kids call out, work blurring with play. Are they chasing each other through vibrant green rows or shouting goats and baboons off our crops? Children of the corn as well. I remember last year at this time, that thought actually spooked me. The obscure shadows rustling in the night... Now I'm thankful for the visual feast of green, and for the buffer layers of privacy keeping the eyeballs of kids from the gaps in my fence. It's almost like privacy...

The picture of pastoral perfection, as well. Rising high into stormy skies or painted sunsets, the stalks might seem dignified themselves if not for their ridiculous firework crowns and crazy-haired infants they cradle. Their leaf appendages rustle fabrics as they shake each other's hands and scratch their own mosquito bites. They make the village smell like life again.

Other than corn, you may recall, we grow cotton and peanuts. There exist also the odd rice or funio field too, but I've sadly yet to taste the delicious fruits (or grains) of those labors. Since the fasting of Ramadan begins tomorrow, we've been having work parties to get the work done while people have some energy. This is when farmers bribe their friends to work in their fields for the day in exchange for lunch and company.

Over the river and through the woods... and over another river and some fences, up and down some hills, through the mountains in the mud, and over 3 more rivers... to the fields of Guinea we go! (so stop bitching about your commute.) Lunch is brought in huge bowls on women's heads, along with their laundry. The work parties are surprisingly upbeat occasions. Hard, painful, with sweat literally raining on the earth below you (watering: check!), but people are glad to be in each other's company. I'm usually just relieved for an excuse to zone out and apply focus. So I zoom along, not noticing blisters, and basking in all of the, "Wow, Hadiatou can actually farm!"'s. There's something also deeply humanly anciently satisfying about communal subsistence work, under the sun, feet bare in the worm-filled soil. But I must admit that after a while, I do recognize the blisters and the aches in my back and the shaking of sore legs... and I have no problem playing the toubab card and going to the river for the rest of the day.

At the river, women beat rocks with colorful cloths, turning the water to a river of grey bubble bath. Washing clothes in rivers is even better than wiggling your toes next to other in corn fields. Everything but underwear, if I'm with others. How strange to be embarrassed for actually wearing underwear!

And in another anciently-pleasing renaissance painting scene, the women bathe in the river. I'm always so shocked to see their butts that I have to laugh for not even noticing anymore whether or not their topless. What is it about communal female bathing that makes it seem like it's just as a male might imagine it? Laughing, splashing, scrubbing each other... I'll stop there. Anyway, I have yet to fully join in. It looks so fun and greek mythic! But there's the wretched weight of being the only toubab and object of everyone's curiosity. The woman who tells men what to do, the strangest creature in anyone's life.. I just don't want to have to face peepers or further curiosity. Oh, the pressures that prevent my fairy bath time!

So while the women scrub each other's backs, I impress them with my swimming, showing off like a child. Despite the abundance of rivers and children falling into wells, no one can swim here. So I find myself in undeserving authority, very much similar to how I give cooking/nutrition classes. I am not a swimmer. I was never on the swim team and my "freestyle" is a sloppy pantomime of what it looks like to me. Ridiculous. So now I'm teaching swimming classes.

Mamajan is my main student. He visibly basks in my attention. As well as kids seem to turn out with the heavy-hands-on only parenting here, I think some kids still just really need the positive reinforcement and gentle instruction they crave. He worships me. I was showing him a few things: breathing in the water, kicking while holding a rock, and how to use your arms as paddles. He in his Senegal-acclimated body was quickly freezing. His entire body seemed to be overtaken with goosebumps, and he shook violently. Also, learning how to swim sucks, right? You can't do anything, you choke on water, and you're overtaken by all these brief bouts of "Oh I might actually die right this second." So I kept offering him outs, "Great work! How 'bout we go in now?" He shook his head passionately until finally his mother shrieked for him to get his baby sister or she'd beat the pee out of him. Grinning at me and stumbling backwards over rocks, he said, "Hadiatou, I'll be right back and we'll breathe more, OK? We'll keep breathing!" Hahahaha, that was during the breathing-above-water, blowing-below lesson, when I kept instructing poignantly, "Breathe now!"

Ahhh, rainy, corny, rivery breathing season.

Ladies Last..

In June we finished interviewing girls for the Michele Sylvester Scholarship. (This is the thing “my article” plugged. Here’s the plug again: http://www.senegad.org/).

It was fun going around to paint AIDS murals and meet the top girls in the region’s middle schools. Also—depressing.

The girls were meek creatures. A lot of them get their top marks by silent obedience and straight memorization. I was hoping to find a little more spunk… I realized these were their first interviews ever and tried to be as unintimidating as possible. Most eventually laughed and relaxed, but it still wasn't exactly a party. They tried so hard to give the "right" answers. We don't do "individual" or "creative" here in Senegal. The first question, "What do you do (for fun) in your spare time?" was met with answers like, "Nothing," "I don't have spare time," "study," and "read my dictionary." Each went along with a terror-struck face that said, "WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY HERE?"

Another sad group of answers responded to, "What do you want to do (as a career)?" A lot of blank stares here. What do you mean want to do? I have a choice? A few people said nurse or teacher as these are the only careers they've even heard of women entering. (Someone want to send over an African zoologist barbie doll?)

Many girls simply said, "wife/ mother." At first I felt like I should let this go and stick to a no-answer-is-wrong policy. But then I realized the whole purpose of my being there was to encourage other options. So I found myself giving broken but impassioned speeches. WHO ELSE WILL? I said we were there because girls' education is important; girls have a lot of skills that aren't being put to use here. Senegal's development is a slower battle than it has to be because of this. If girls were educated and employed and valued as much as men, we'd have double the workforce and double the power and creative energy to find and pursue solutions. They could bring money into their families, and in my opinion be even better mothers and wives because of this and their own senses of worth. I don't need to tell these girls about fullfillment. Duh. I lamented with them a bit about it not really being their choice and that I understood this might not make a difference for them. But I encouraged them not to give up completely-- to keep talking about it and fight for the education of their sisters and daughters. And maybe someday we won't need scholarships to keep top girls in school or to gets fathers to turn their heads and wonder WHY people are awarding girls. I felt myself balloon and deflate in these speeches, telling myself I had to at least try, even if I just got blank stares back.

To my surprise, it seems a lot of girls did take note. In the essays they wrote after the interviews (and lectures as the case may be..), many of them completely changed their answers and went off on semi-feminist rants. Woo! I don't know how far the fire will get them in this god-forsaken patriarchy, but hopefully somewhere better.

Sorry to sound so jaded (I freely admit I am). I will share some good parts of the interviews too. First, one girl said her favorite subject was math because it explains everything. You can solve most any problem using math, like electricity and building things. This might not sound impressive to you all, but coming from Senegal, it blew me away. Second, one girl married at 12 and was pulled out of school. She hated her old mean husband and wanted to go back to school. So... she divorced him and did! How is this possible? Her dad died. Unfortunately this is often the best thing that can happen to a daughter down here. If a girl has successfully gotten a divorce, chanced are her dad died and she gets the full support of her mother.

Another depressing anecdote: I gave a neem lotion (neem leaves repel mosquitos) lesson to my women's garden group so they can sell the neem lotion to raise money for vegetable seeds. At this causerie, I met two new girls from the farthest quartiere who I really liked. They were young, energetic girls who kept cracking jokes and telling me I'm pretty (obviously those are separate things.) Anyway, my excellent counterpart, Daby, gave them a free bag of lotion to take to their quartiere to show off as a kind of advertisement. They left and came back about 5 minutes later, still giggling, and somewhat sheepish.

"What are you doing back here?" we asked. I thought for sure I didn't understand their answers, thrown off by their smiles. But sure enough, they realized on the way back that if they told people my male counterpart bought them the lotion, their husbands would beat them for it. We sent them back with the lotion as a gift from all the women instead. But... ouch. It's so frustrating how normal things like this are and how no one is ever held accountable.

Recall also my ear meeting with the doctor's tongue (he was aiming to french me, apparently very sloppily, but I turned away). It's fine for me, but what about all the women in those villages? Are they really going to take the long road to the doctor when they or their kids are sick with the doctor is a creepy ball of sketch?

OK I'll stop with these stories. It is getting better... I think. Female circumcision has been confirmed to be on the outs in my area. There are still a few people who sneak it, but the social pressure is against it now.

Also, I've decided to make a kick-ass woman book. I will enlist people to find women who have defied the odds and triumphed over Senegal. We will take their pictures and interview them. I envision a cook compilation of glamour shots and celebrity-interview style gems of wisdom and advice. Maybe a coloring book for little girls? We will magically get funding to print a load and distribute them to all these schools that aren't telling girls they can be something. They'll be able to learn about real women from similar situations and the careers they got. Proof of possibility.

And we'll all live happily ever after...?

A Tale of 7/26

In a sept-place (aka sweat place, teeheehee) ride to Tamba, I sat in the way back learning Jaxonke from a girl while Daniel (my neighbor) sat in front of us (he won rock-paper-scissors). We fell asleep. I woke up to the girl vomitting all over: the seat, my foot, the floor, and best of all, the back of Daniel’s head. In fact, most of it landed there. The best part, though, is that he didn’t wake up! I got to have a little giggle and sadistic pleasure in poking a clean spot on his back and waking him up with the news. He took it suspiciously well.

WARNING. This blog has been kidnapped by Mariama Souaré (aka MB) to give you all the inside scoop on my recent visit (with Hawa Souaré, aka Heather) to Senegal. I tend to ramble in informal, narrative writings. Apparently, I can only be succinct when writing about science. Consider it a symptom of my enthusiasm. (Also, I overuse parentheses. Deal with it.)

1. K is a badass. We all know this already, but why not point out the obvious? (and perhaps K asked me to… are you going to delete that?). She puts up with/goes without so, so many things that most of us can’t even image. Think about K next time you complain about almost anything – chances are good she’s dealing with a situation far worse, and doing so cheerfully.

2. K is surrounded by wonderful people. This is probably how she has managed to stay sane despite the many challenges thrown her way. The other PCVs are fabulous (especially M), and K’s family is completely wonderful. Rest assured, she is happy, healthy, well –loved and looked after (not that she needs much looking after – she is a badass, after all). But this should not stop you from sending her packages of tasty food.

3. If you go to Senegal, none of your plans will work out. You may come up with a perfectly wonderful sounding Plan A, B, C, and D, but in reality, your itinerary will end up looking more like a mishmash of Plans Q and U. But that’s ok! You will have a fabulous time nonetheless. Just be ready and willing to be flexible. A sampling of things that didn’t work in Senegal:

-The ice cream machine in Kedougou (I’ve since gotten over this disappointment, but I was rather bitter at the time)

-Waterfalls (many are a trickle at best due to an unusually dry rainy season this year)

-Rain (see above)

-Sunsets (again because of the lack of rain and therefore clouds, as clouds are what make sunsets fabulous)

-Bikes (I really need to learn some bike repair skills… K on the other hand, had become quite knowledgeable)

-The door on M’s hut (aka the Love Shack… can we please adopt this name for M’s house? K doesn’t seem as enthusiastic as I am about this idea, but I think the majority rules in this case, so who’s with me??)

-Transportation, especially ferries that only run on certain days of the week, and then are sold out (but many thanks to Jared for trying to get us tickets!)

-Running water (optional at the PCV house in K’gou, as well as the hotel in Toubab Dialao)

-Tracking down an Obama belt in Dakar (they are SO COOL, yet so elusive…)

-Hamburgers in France (aka the French Cultural Institute in Dakar, which stops serving their magical burgers at 19h00. SO not ok when it’s 19h30 and all you wanted was a burger) (yes, I know it’s ill-advised to eat ground meat in developing countries… but I as already pointed out, these burgers were in France, so it’s ok)

I could go on, but you get the idea. The moral of the story: neither Hawa nor I got to do what we most wanted to do (besides see K, of course) (visit friends in Ziguinchor/see waterfalls, respectively), but we still had an amazing trip.

4. Lots of things in Senegal do work (at least sometimes)! Things in Senegal that I loved (besides K, duh):

-Bissap. So good. Especially frozen. Or perhaps with gin or vodka. So I’m told.

-Peace Corps parties. Good company + good food + good music = best party in a loooong time.

-Warthog sandwiches, especially when served poolside at the Relais in K’gou

-Bean sandwiches for breakfast. Mmmmmm I want one. With mayo and barbeque sauce.

-Maafe. Rice + peanut sauce (+/- mystery meat chunks). So satisfying.

-M’s cooking. He can come visit me anytime he wants. And by visit I mean bring K with him and make us food.

-Can you tell I’m hungry right now? Perhaps I should have a snack before I continue…

-K’s village is so, so gorgeous. She must have one of the best sites in the country. Definitely worth the 50 km trek, broken bikes and all. (Although you couldn’t pay me to go on that road in a car… biking is so much more pleasant, provided you stay hydrated and have a working bike.)

-K’s family, especially her brothers. She couldn’t have been paired with a better group of people.

-Outdoor showers/bucket baths. So refreshing.

-Food in Dakar. SO GOOD. K knows alllll the good places to eat. Especially…

-N’ICE CREAM. This magical place of confections deserves its own line. I highly recommend the Obama Cookies, or a Passion Fruit and Vanilla milkshake.

-The Senegalese. They truly are some of the most friendly and hospitable folks you’ll ever come across. They love to laugh. Especially at the crazy toubabs. They are also incredibly blunt, which is mostly refreshing (“Hawa is better. She said thank you.” Fair enough.). The one exception is when Senegalese men try to seduce/marry you. Not so smooth.

-Pulaar! It’s far superior to Wolof. And has so many great words and phrases that I am trying to export to the US/UK. Including:

a. Attention. (Watch out. For that thing that already happened. But still, watch out.) I still say this all the time. No one has called me out on it yet, but I have gotten a few curious looks. Or maybe I’ve always muttered to myself so no one thinks anything of it…

b. Atcha! (Shoo! Go away! Scram! Skedaddle!) So much better than any sort of English equivalent, and remarkably effective with Senegalese livestock. Unfortunately, I doubt American or British animals will be quite so responsive. Perhaps it’s worth using with sketchy guys in bars/clubs, however…

c. Alhamdullilahi (Praise Allah). This is just a great word. I don’t use it nearly often enough. You should use it too.

5. Are you really still reading? I’m impressed.

6. K is still the K we all know and love. She has adapted to her new environment, and it’s strange (though pleasantly so) to see her eat meat, but she is still the generous, caring, sincere, fun-loving person we all adore. Now go donate money to her mosquito net campaign and send her care packages.

After visiting Kate in Senegal this July, she asked that I write a "visitor's post" to update her recently neglected blog. I'll start by telling you all that our dear friend Kate/Katie/Kay/Hadiatou has become Senegalese. She speaks Pulaar practically fluently and has mastered the art of haggling for reduced prices. She can carry heavy objects on her head and she dances the Pulaar dance with expertise. (we taught her Senegalese mother the "American dances" of the macarana and the chicken dance, haha). She is the most tan she has ever been in her life, and she looks healthy and beautiful! (Kate you better post these compliments and not edit them out- your family and friends will want to know the things you are too modest to say!) She is sooooo tough, riding that 50K bikeride to and from her village as if it were a piece of cake (or Obama Cookie icecream at N'Ice Cream in Dakar, mmm). And let me tell you from experience, that bike ride was the hardest thing I have ever and will ever do in my LIFE!!! Hilly, puddly, muddy, rocky, unpredictable bikes, ahhhh! (Thank Allah that Kate rode behind me all 8 hours of torture and sang Disney and Sound of Music songs to me to keep me going and back on the bike after each fall!!) But no worries about Kate who is now an extreme biker. She does the ride in 2-3 hours. Kate is still the same Kate I have known since 2nd grade though, just with a tough Senegalese outlook. And she has become slightly more responsible which I was happy to see (double-thinking before jumping out of the tree she just climbed because she realizes it is very likely she could sprain an ankle...can you imagine the carefree American Kate reflecting like that?!) And she LOVES meat of any form, including things like shrimp eyeballs that you just aren't supposed to eat. So strange. She says she will return to being vegetarian in the states after she crosses off all of the "meats to eat" on her list, but I wonder. I can't forget to mention that MaryBeth and I were both very impressed with Kate's boyfriend Matt- his dancing, tarzan vine-swinging, and cooking skills were all quite amazing. What else to say? The trip to Senegal was incredible to see Kate, the life she is living, and the beauty of the Kedougou/Pellel Kendessa area and the people there. Advice for future visitors: be flexible and prepared for anything; be ready to sweat and smell like never before; only do the 50K bikeride if you are insane or very athletic and daring; bring Kate lots of food (the corn mush in her village was pretty sad); be prepared to be eaten by mosquitos despite wearing repellent; bring gifts for her village family (they loved the photo album of pictures from Kate's blog that we gave them!); a neckpillow for the looooong car rides across Senegal would be a good idea; bring a flashlight/headlamp and tissue packets; try to pack light in a backpack, learn basic Pulaar (A Jaraama = hi, thank you, and bye!, Jam tuŋ = Peace Only, and Mi hari is I'm full of corn mush!; and pick a Senegalese name (the Senegalese will probably laugh at your American name and not be able to say it). I hope you have a wonderful trip if you are visiting Kate!!

~Heather Soldano, aka Hawa Souaré

With my dear Heather and MB's visit and a health summit soon after, I didn't have time to help too much with net distribution this year. This is unfortunate because we've never tried to cover such a large section (the entire arrondissement of Saraya). It was quite the cluster----- and we are still 7,500 nets short! This is because population estimates were way off, and there are loads of villages not recognized in any way by the government. But we want to stop malaria there too! Please help us raise enough money to finish reaching our goal for the year by donating at this site: http://www.againstmalaria.com/Fundraiser.aspx?FundRaiserID=5444 . Remember, the other PCVs and I are literally going to recieve and distribute these nets with our own hands. We have a thorough system of checking the population numbers and visiting homes if we think the numbers are wrong. As legitimate as I think anti-free-net arguments are, I can see for myself that it works here. We live in these villages ourselves and we see the nets being used correctly. Every villager knows malaria is the number-one killer, so they're not all that tempted to sell their nets off (I'm sure it happens, but not at a large rate). When more people sleep under nets, the spread of malaria decreases-- less humans catch it from mosquitoes, and less mosquitoes catch it from humans. This includes long lost PCVs living over here too...

OK, moving on to distribution highlights:

-took a carved-out canoe to Mali

-a 1-armed man did a 1-2 minute song and dance of thanks

-saw at least 2 children playing with skinned dead parakeets as if they were barbie dolls

-taught "Frere Jacques" and "We Will Rock You" to a classroom of kids to distract them from the cluster---- of distribution in the next room. Actually we WERE giving them causeries on everything health, but then the rain pounded the tin roof so that you couldn't hear anything that wasn't a loud song.

-a dr. licked my ear. Uninvited (need I say?)

-a bat entered Sheila's mosquito net. She casually brushed it away softly saying, "Huh.. bat..." That would NOT have been my reaction. This bat was special though and kept dive-bombing and making me duck for cover.

-Not so much biking this year. Can I get an Alhumdulilai? Instead we had a lot more rides from ambulences and such. One of the photos above is from when Sheila and I hitched a ride back to the Gou in an ambulence (yes, that's the bike on the stretcher.) I must say that these rides are most definitely not what you're thinking, even with the ambulences. More like a mechanical bull with walls. For many hours. At several points getting stuck in mud/rivers/hills/giant craters, or smacking my head against the window, I had a bit of a morbid giggle to myself. "Is this how I'll die?"

On that note:

The NetLife blog site for this project: http://netlife2009.blogspot.com/

PLEASE DONATE!

My leg and Jordan's neck crater. More to come, I'm sure

Milan: Monet, Samurai exhibit, rejection of the 3-meal system in favor of one in which I at no time have free space in my stomach, best pizza of my life, even the graffitti impresses me to the point where I thought the subways's graffitti might have been commissioned. I'm still not entirely convinced it wasn't.

Venice: My brothers and I used to call our bath-tub "Venice." It has always seemed to me an unreal, magical place. Going there didn't change that.

"Venice defies description. Many have tried, from Goethe to Brodsky, but it has to be seen; felt, and wandered through to be believed, and even then you may have trouble thinkging it real. Yet no theme-park creater could ever have come up with this result of 1400 years of extraordinairy history." (Lonely Planet)

Still, there's a whimsical-seeming system at work, like the next city or planet over is the Jetsons-themed one. On the other hand, its age and history is so evident that it's more like it's the rest of the world that's putting on a show. However you want to think of Venice, it's incredible. On 117 islands, with 150 canals, and 410 bridges. You must commute by boat. You must! Just as you must face the beauty and you must feel the sunlit watery winds through your shampooed hairs. I'd recommend going as a couple, if you have the choice. We saw a few Goths and M remarked it must be hard to find something to be angry about in this magical city where people come from all over the world to be in love. I say I'd probably feel dark myself if I were 16, single, and pimply and I couldn't walk two steps out my front door without running into tonsil-hockey in the streets. The whole romance thing gets exploited too; we had countless photos taken of us during our gondola ride. I wanted to throw my email address at the photogaphers and at least get something out of it. So if you come across any on a random web-album, send 'em to me!

Piazza San Marco: besides its stunning magnificence (sometimes I find it difficult to take in the full picture of things like this. Or, like grocery stores, where I might spend 10 min staring between 2 cereal boxes instead of facing the bountiful rest), has a lot of pigeons. Something I didn't get to do was throw breadcrumbs at a snobby-looking lady and enjoy the aftermath. So if any of you go, that's a cheap activity to consider. Personally, I could not part with any crumbs.

Basilica di San Marco: U-B-E-L-I-E-V-A-B-L-E. You can't even look at the floors of advanced geometric marble splendor because it's so hard to tear your eyes from the golden, colorful, meticulous, dazzzling mosaics all around and above, dating back from the 1060's. Neither of us could refrain from saying things like, "My villagers can't even dig a well!" But it was also somehow nice to think of them and their thatched rooves among mango trees, and to remember that that exists as well as this glittering palace, as well as all the things in between. It's nice to witness the spectrum and remember to be amazed at the variety of the people and places of the planet. (I've had a lot of cheese on this vacation; I guess it's coming out here).

...Guggenheim museum, churches, shops, markets, music, and every other building is a landmark... And getting lost on purpose was the best part:

"A city for meanderers, Venice rewards every minute devoted to penetrating its cat's cradle of intertwined lanes." (L. P.)

Rome: We started out a bit rough with a hotel scam (OK, this 19 year old will now drive you to your room. OK, you can get out here, it's that unmarked door covered in graffiti...) But Rome bounced back as it will enchant anyone who's ever enjoyed two words of history.

Colloseum, Palatine, Forums: awesome, gorgeous, go. We were overwhelmed by all the english-speaking tourists so we played a game in which they overheard us describing false attractions. "So the trapeze show starts at 1:00, right..." "I can't beleive they dressed up that monkey like that. It's kind of cruel. But Very impressive how well he's learned to handle that sword!"

Vatican: even more english speakers, mostly wanting us to pay for their tours. So we spent the first 2-3 hours speaking only Pulaar. We pondered how often-- if ever-- this happened at the Vatican. Sistene chapel: Jeez! I was intimidated by my senior thesis in art! Un-freaking-believable. Not overrated. No wonder Michelangelo is my favorite ninja turtle. Don't ignore the paintings everyone quickly walks by on the way to the chapel either, or you'll miss some Dali's, chagal's; and other gems. the other stuff didn't move me too much.

Gladiator School: how amazing that this exists. I really really wanted to meet the passionate gladiator students and teachers, but unfortunately, once we finally found the place, it was empty. And creepy. Voices that didn't answer, wind opening doors, a dog the size of a bear... "Let's split up!" I suggested. You know how I like my horror flicks.

Indian restaurant: this gave me an odd language overload. I was trying to remember my few words of Hindi while hearing Italian, speaking english to M, and still most inclined to speak to other people in French, Pulaar, or even wolof. M got fuzzy feelings of global friendship especially when japanese tourists came in. We decided everyone should eat everyone else's food to stop war. I mean, who wouls ever want to bomb India after eating a delicious samosa (the question mark on this keyboard doesn't work) Bring on the middle-eastern cuisine. (But forgive my village for having awful food).

Bookstore: Rome had the biggest one I saw, with 4 aisles of english books. Bliss! I literally took my pulse and asked M if he thought I had a fever. It was thrilling. I've since treated myself a few times and can now do so at a regular breathing rate.

French Fries: You know how when you go on vacation, for example, to Europe, you have to bypass things like hamburgers that you can get at home (question mark) That's why a Peace Corps vacation is dangerous. There falls nothing in this bypass-category except corn mush. I have yet to see corn-mush on a menu. Therefore, I am rendered unable to bypass anything. I went to Italy and all I got was this double chin. And I love it!

Catacombs, ruins, pasta, paninis, churches, Trevi...

Madrid: hyssen, Placa Mayor, Reina Sophia, oldest restaurant in the world (certified by Guiness Records), Sol, Movies with big buckets of popcorn, La Latina, tapas...

To my high school sweethearts: Tessa is doing fabulously in her glamorous Spanish life. She speaks in a rapid perfect spanish that I sometimes couldn't believe was coming out of her mouth, even if I was staring at her. She knows the coolest restaurants (one is a japanese buffet with a CONVEYER BELT. It went in both directions so we gave up pretending to pay any attention to each other and just said things like, "Spring rolls coming up.. three left.. two.. shoot! Reach over NO, get it before these people, go, go!" This place would never be able to stay in business if I lived in Madrid. Lucky for them, Madrid likes size zeros more than complete ultimate fulfillment. There was a particularly hilarious incident here involving essa's arm in sauce over the belt and me crying from laughing so hard.. but I think you had to be there...) Back to Tess: She teaches english to adults and some adorable kids. I spoke to the latter about monekys and snakes and living here. I may have accidentally called them selfish too, "Yes, we have a school, but no tile floors like this, or decorations, or lights, or books, or... any of this... Anyway, the monkeys..." Tessa has a lovely apartment with a cushy couch, and many other wonderful things I fully enjoyed (fridge, microwave, washing machine, TV...) She dresses fashionably and is basically married to Felipe (I still love that name), who is the male version of Tessa. They make lists of travel destinations like other people make grocery lists. But don't go thinking she takes it for granted. She was very sensative to the things overwhelming me and sometimes quoted bits of THIS BLOG to me. I was touched to know she thought of my experience while living it up in hers.

It was very hard to leave. Tessa clearly needs me as a roommate. Thus, I am tragically torn between the debts of friendship and the debts to society. Now I'm in Kédougou sweating on my own sweat with a throbbing earache. Clearly, I made the wrong choice. Tessa! Bacon! Cheese! Come back to me!

white sheets drying

perfectly spaced like

well brushed teeth

next to polka dotted dresses

I could wear

the line ends

the little farmhouse fades---

roof top gardens grow

like house hair-- blossoms

braided through tomatoes, basil,

parts of a recipe

I could find---

vineyards in whose

perfectly measured

rows, I'd fit, holding

my lover's hand, even,

and the grapes that would

stain my fingers

I can almost taste---

that man with the mo-ped

looks like a friend

he'd give me rides to the

post office, just

to have my hands

on his waist---

the playground where

a little boy with

my eyes could

step on the sky

seated in swings before

my stretched--out

hands---

the mountain

that reaches the

high clouds, tall

enough to watch over

it all, but it

could fit snugly

in my window---

----------------

if this-- were

my stop---

-