My hotel was located on this amazingly beautiful boulevard that was pretty much a tourist trap that you love every damn minute of. I took the bus from the airport to the center of town. The driver was very kind with my serious lack of Spanish. He even stopped the bus to point out the boulevard I’d have to walk three blocks down to find my hotel. Unfortunately, my hotel was having some problem and had to put me up in a slightly nicer one the first night. They hired a cab for me. This was the nicest, newest cab I’ve never seen in Senegal. Nicer.

Once I got there and my luggage immediately exploded in a mess of bathroom products. I showered, shaved, malibu’d my hair, blow dried it into a hot ‘do, put on makeup (that did NOT immediately start sweating back off my face!) and hit the streets. I found a department store and an awesome dress- on sale. It’s a tight red number that comes with a belt for casual day time, but can be lost for more serious dolled-up nights. I bought some other things too, including an amazing picnic of food to take back to the hotel room. Something about eating alone in a restaurant seemed depressing and I was still half expecting to be harassed. This worked out fine because I got to take an awesome bath and pass out early. I slept for nearly eleven hours… best night’s sleep in two years!

In the am, I packed up and moved back to my original hotel- via hired taxi of course. Walking down the tourist trap I scored some really cute new lacy undies that would later allow me to throw out every last damn pair in my suit case. Actually, it should be mentioned that the whole city was celebrating a ridiculous sales season. It was a shopper's heaven. I even bought orange (yes, I can’t believe I’m saying this: orange) shorts. In my attempt to master the perfect travel wardrobe I’ve decided to pair the orange shorts with a navy blazer and light blue pin stripped tank or a flowing white cotton tunic. I’m leaving Peace Corps clothing refugees in every hotel in my path!

Anyway, after the spree I hopped on one of those double decked tourist buses that drove by every important monument and sight in town. This killed a good 5 hours and more than half the battery on my camera. It should also be noted that the bus was a hop-off/ hop-on anytime kind of deal so one of my stops included KFC lunch where, after a near international incident ordering (who can’t count fingers? I want a 4 types of chicken!!!), I felt most comfortable sitting next to a Senegalese family. They thought it was weird that I kept staring at them, but it was probably because I didn’t greet them and not because it’s wrong to stare at people, right? And I don’t want to stereo type, but I seriously get the whole fried chicken obsession now; so cheap, so good, so accessible in comparison to Senegal. I ordered only different types of chicken. No sides, no drink, no dessert. I barely touched the sauce. Chicken only! I also got off the bus to take pictures of interesting places or to do more shopping.

At the end of my gallivanting tour, I stopped at an outdoor café near a popular square and grabbed a large tap beer. I’ve come to conclude they have one kind of accessible beer in Barcelona: San Miguel. It’s no Gazelle, but it goes down pretty well. Walking down the really beautiful boulevard back to my hotel I spotted a couple of cool places to try the “tapas” situation. According to my research this is like a happy hour built around snack foods you’d throw in your oven and serve at fancy adult parties or a friend’s shower. I sought out a bar with tapas already on display- so I wouldn’t have to deal with a Spanish menu or non-English speaking staff. I grabbed a shower at the hotel room, re-upped my makeup and hot hair ‘do, donned the lacy undies and my hot red dress and hit the town.

I found the perfect place and grabbed spot at the bar with a nice glass of sangria and a few tapas. Mozzarella sandwiched in two giant slices of tomato, ham and cream cheese mixed on top of baguette slice, fried things, sausages, clams and mussels (not had by me), etc. The bar staff was great, two girls and guy my age… all speaking enough English to make things entertaining. As I ended up on the side of the bar by the service stand where waiters come to stock up on stuff for tables, I basically got to know all the staff members. It made sitting there by myself not seem so weird; like hanging out at Cheers and becoming part of the gang. As the staff would pass by, they’d each ask a question which was compounded on something I’d told someone else earlier. It wasn’t like being in Senegal, but I did stick out pretty oddly as a blond, alone, not speaking Spanish, and wearing that dress. So yeah, perhaps I was the latest zoo attraction, it was still really fun.

And then I notice Freddie Prinze Jr’s Spanish stunt double from across the room- we catch eyes pretty quickly. He’s so cute, which you know because so is FP Jr. He joins in the staff inquisition about of the blond in the red dress who speaks some crazy African language. We are flirting in a pretty fun and obvious way. My new friend invites me to sit with him at a romantic candle lit table for two in the back when he takes a break for dinner. By now the drinks are on the house, the owner has taken me by hand on a tour of the place (including the American flag) and the kitchen staff is winking at me through the back door as I sit chatting with my Spaniard. When he’s closed out for the night, he grabs my hand, kisses my cheek and we’re off to check out the nightlife: a drink at his favorite place- another hidden square that was so NOT on the bus tour, a stop to see some friends, and a stroll along the waterfront.

The next morning we decide to grab breakfast together in the market by his restaurant before I leave. Fruit bowls with kiwi, strawberry, pomegranate, watermelon, and cantaloupe were followed by another stroll on the waterfront, a hectic packing session that he patiently sat through, and finally my bags being carried to the bus station for me. My Spanish celebrity-double gave me a big kiss goodbye (the kind that rivals WWII ending in Times Square kisses) and I was off to the airport.

Well, actually the minute I turned to pay the bus driver for a ticket my change purse crashed loudly to the floor in an embarrassingly non-suave fashion that sent tiny pieces of money I’m still not familiar with flying in all directions. It was like my good karma ran out because I swear I was well put together the entire time up until that moment. I didn’t even have running mascara in the morning. I was on fire… and then the crash step. When I look back my friend is pulling a James Dean one-legged lean on the bus stop sign with a cigarette. But I had to laugh because that flying change incident is enough to snap me out of the spell; I was in a Barcelona trance.

Leaving wasn’t quite like when I left America two years ago; it was more of an emotional twist. It hurts more to say “I hope to see you again someday.” Someday? I’m still grasping that indeterminable destination somewhere in the future. No final event was more special than the one I celebrated on my birthday. The day before I left, it rained and nearly prevented me from visiting all my friends around town. And shamefully a part of me was grateful for the excuse. I hate goodbyes, but I admit I’m not alone. No one but a schmuck would actually like them. So the idea of debilitating thunderstorms was perfect. And thirty minutes later, just as I was starting to feel guilty about liking the excuse it stopped and I was back in the throes of my au revoirs.

The next day my parents drove me to Dakar early in the day with my four youngest bothers. The ride was quiet until we arrived at the Peace Corps house when my tears wouldn’t stop. When Saliou asked what was wrong with me, and they explained he may not see me for a very long time and that he could not go with me, he also started crying. Luckily, there wasn’t a single volunteer at the house to witness my ridiculousness. And the guard and maid were very sweet, even touched by my affection for my Senegalese family. And then my best friends walked in and distracted me with thoughts of saying our final goodbyes to Dakar- the city representing two years of “getting away from it all.”

Next up was hitting up my favorite eateries and spending quality time with people closest too me at this moment in my life. These are the people that understand me when a sentence is filled with three languages or when I blow up at the whole world over one simple thing. They are next to me when I see the sites of Senegal and are my first thought after success- no matter the size or importance. My friends. I will miss them too, but I didn’t really have to say goodbye. I will see them again soon.

At the airport my flight was an hour late to board. Next to me, the flight to Casablanca left 20 minutes early. Only in Africa. Which got me thinking; there are so many things that only happen in Africa (to the best of my mildly worldly knowledge), but I’ll save the reminiscing for another day. Once boarded, I waved goodbye to Senegal and Africa. I’m off to Europe; Alys Out of Africa.

The Senegalese don’t really celebrate birthdays. Case in point: I returned a few days after my youngest brother Saliou’s birthday and when I asked my mom what they’d done to celebrate it she replied, “Oh yeah. I forgot it was this week. Well, if we have money we’ll make a cake for him and Baba (my other brother with a birthday a few weeks prior) on Saturday.” That never happened. As Christine’s host family member remarked, “Age doesn’t matter. It will only stress you to worry about how old you are and then start comparing yourself to others of the same age.” I figured this year I’d attempt to try it their way. I didn’t tell anyone it was my day and decided to spend it in Mboro like any other lazy Saturday. I woke up to some great Happy Birthday emails, messages, and even a card and present from my sister. I ate mangoes, Nutella, and millet and yogurt in the sort of gluttonous breakfast only dreamed about in Senegal… which went perfectly with the episodes of Sex and the City I watched with it. Later both my Dad and sister would call from America (thanks!).

Christine came out to spend the day with me, the family, and the members of Mboro for her last time. Awesome friend that she is, she came armed with a bag full of ingredients for a no-bake oatmeal chocolate peanut butter creation that I’m still enjoying. We borrowed some kitchen time, a pan, and some space in the fridge. Later we’d share pieces with both our families with leftovers for breakfast this morning. After lunch we went to my favorite watering hole for a drink. We weren’t there long enough to get beers from the fridge before a couple of trainees stationed in Mboro called looking to meet up for exactly that. Come on down. Cold drinks, new friends, and good chats. It was great.

Aida had been asking to throw me a goodbye dinner where she could make my favorite dish and invite my closest Mboro friends. I figured it would be nice to have in on my birthday even though I wouldn’t say so. The invitees were my parents Anna Ba and Samba Ndaw, Demba Mbow the leather worker, Suzanne Faye my host mother during training, Anna Ndieye a tailor and member of the women’s group I worked with and her husband François Diouf, Aida Seck the restaurant owner, and Christine. We asked the trainees to come along as well, and my Dad would later drive them home because they aren’t allowed to walk after dark. Everyone was dressed to impress, except me who hadn't been thinking of it and appeared in my t-shirt and yoga pants. Ooops!

For appetizers we drank bissap juice and ate toothpicks filled with pieces of spam, pickles and cocktail onions. I’d never seen this before, but certainly felt the need to eat about twenty of them. Don't judge, I wasn’t alone. For dinner we ate large plates of chicken stir fry with Asian rice noodles. You may remember this as the dish Aida and I had made together as part of the marketing idea to bring new items to the Resto Porokhane menu. It just so happens that my friends all love it. For dessert we consumed ginger-lemon juice and pieces of apples, oranges and bananas. We were each handed a cold can of either soda or another drink as well.

A quick note: earlier in the week I had a conversation with Aida about the financing of the party. I placed $30 in her pocketbook and told her that while I sincerely appreciate the gesture of throwing me a party... this was the right thing for me to do. After all, I have been spending weeks helping her create a ledger in our accounting classes; I’m fully aware that a dinner party was something she could only afford through the sacrifice of some of our exciting investment plans. She tried to fight me, but I reasoned with her that she would have two years to save for the going away party of my replacement. After all, that's why we'd spent time learning both accounting and financial planning, right? That seemed to be the most reasonable argument to settle the matter.

After dinner, it was time for my friends to say a few words. They figured out it was my birthday and sang to me in French and then English. They spoke about the type of person who leaves their family and home for two years to volunteer their time. They spoke about the things I had taught or helped them with during my service. They proclaimed an inability to sufficiently express their gratitude. They cried. They gave me presents. Aida’s son painted a large canvas of a traditional African woman at work. Demba gifted me the largest item we’d ever created together: an Alan bag with wax interior. Mama Suzanne gave me meters of beautifully dyed blue fabric. Still others promised parting gifts to come. I admittedly felt mildly less guilty accepting them because it was my birthday.

And I was touched. I’ve never felt for one second that my Peace Corps service anything other than entertaining my own selfish dream to experience the world. But here were my friends reminding me that regardless, I had made a difference. In return I told them how important it was to me to have formed a family of friends in my home away from home. That in fact it was I who could not thank them enough! We may have gathered to say thank you and goodbye, but it was a wonderful way to spend my birthday.

About half way, or one month, into PST (pre service training) PC Senegal has a special ceremony for the newest stage in which they announce each trainee’s future site of service. This is the day one finds out where he or she will be for the next two years of their life, so the staff tries to make it as memorable as possible. At the training center in Thies there’s a slab of concrete out behind one of the huts with a rudimentary map of Senegal painted on it. For the ceremony trainees are blindfolded, then taken one-by-one by the hand and led to the place on the map that represents their future destination.

In September of 2009, that was me. I was shaking nervously and held the hand of the volunteer next to me. I’d been training in Mboro long enough to realize the town was ok. I’d heard from Devon, the current volunteer and my now predecessor, about his work and it seemed to match what I had been doing before I’d left: essentially spending hours on the computer. I’d emailed my supervisor (APCD) and asked to be placed there, but given how little options we had throughout the rest of the PC application process (I narrowed down the continents, than got to say yes or no to Senegal) I didn’t know if that would mean anything.

Yet, suddenly, in that moment I didn’t want anything to do with Mboro. Everyone was excited to go somewhere new. Why hadn’t I seen the fun in that? Why did I want to guarantee and ok thing if there was the possibility to end up with an amazing thing? I’d never been a gambler, and I suppose that’s what let me to send that email for Mboro, requesting something I already knew.

When all fifty some trainees in my group were standing on the Senegal map, we lifted our blind folds and looked down. I was on the coast. I was basically where Mboro should be. I looked at my hands, which were holding a large manila envelope with the words “Alys Moshier, Mboro” written on them and I nearly burst into tears. I didn’t want it. I didn’t want to go back to the only place I’d already been. I wanted something new, something exciting. I cried later that night, and seriously contemplated quitting Peace Corps (or ET: early termination).

I didn’t, obviously. And since then I’ve grown to love Mboro. If I had all the information I do now back then, I would pick Mboro again every time. I’m confident enough to proclaim that it’s hands down the best site in Senegal. I am not joking. Mboro, I love you for so many reasons.

So how do I convey that to my future replacement at their site announcement? The answer is that manila envelope. Inside of mine was a fourteen report written by Devon about all his successes and failures in work accompanied by words of advice. But that’s not enough. I’ll write my own work report, and I’ll attach it to Devon’s, but this time my training class has decided to add a bit more. The envelopes will also include maps, basic descriptions of all the projects in the region (should he or she want to join in on any of them), a great picture of the site, and three fun facts written by the exiting volunteer.

Fun facts about Mboro:1. The Ndaws are the best family! They are willing to try new dishes or leave you be if you don't feel like eating. They love chatting (even in English) but are content with the hours you may feel like passing alone in your room. Sometimes I think they aren't really Senegalese when Mom is making diet friendly meals or tending the flower garden... or when Dad jumps in his car to Thies to buy Mom's birthday cake.

2. Food; it just can't be beat! It’s hard to envision not eating at home (because the food is that awesome), but for those times when you do venture out let it be known that there are some pretty cool pork houses, a place to get stir fry, and even a restaurant that serves a 3 course linen-table-clothed air-conditioned meal. And nearly every random thing can be found in town: cinnamon, Tabasco sauce, ramen noodle packets, Heineken, Nutella, ice cream...

3. Mboro is a worker's gold mine! I dare you to dream up any project and I bet you a beer I could find someone interested in it! That goes for secondary projects too. And it is so easy to let work spill over into the void of American comforts. Some of my favorite projects have been recreating designer leather bags at a fraction of the cost, cooking experiments (the Mboroise love stir-fry!), and English class jeopardy games.

For my part, I couldn’t pick just one photo. Instead, I used Picasa to create a collage of my favorites. Perhaps I’ll make my way to Thies for the actual announcement and take a healthy dose of enthusiasm to the new guy or gal. Later, during their visit here (just under one week of quality one-on-one time) I’ll do my best to take him or her to all my favorite spots, talking up the town, and showing the lucky bastard some of my old blog posts about the awesome food or family bios. Hopefully, he or she will request this place by name. I hope they don’t have the same reaction I did. I hope to instill as much enthusiasm as I possibly can. Peace Corps isn’t easy, but a great site can certainly make the difference!

Hotel Fana Courtyard

The end of a volunteer’s service is marked by a three day Close of Service (or COS) Conference put on by Peace Corps. My training class, whittled down to just 44, was checked in to a lovely hotel in Dakar, Hotel Fana, for four nights. Three days were spent reviewing check out policy, job opportunities, and how to continue serving after returning to America. For some, the conference was a late kickoff to the final processing by a few weeks. Others found it an early jump that could have been postponed a few months. And still more, who’ve decided to extend their service in Senegal another six months, perhaps a year, found the whole experience mildly not applicable vowing to have a good time with friends and perhaps join another class’ service in the future to adequately review the materials.

Lofted BalconyAt the hotel, they paired us alphabetically by sex for room assignments, which we immediately reorganized. Rooms on the bottom floor contained a bathroom, sitting area, and sometimes a mini kitchen while beds were lofted upstairs with their mosquito nets. Air conditioning was a treat that was never turned off! We stocked our mini refrigerators the first evening with snacks and beverages from the local grocery store called Casino- which is the place to go for an expensive version of anything you’re missing from America. Breakfast, midmorning snacks, lunch, and afternoon snacks were all provided by the hotel. Croissants, bread, yogurt, cereal, eggs, juice, coffee, and tea were served at the first two. Lunch was chicken or beef with rice, cooked veggies and salad, and a slice of tart or bowl of fruit for dessert. Afternoon snack was pieces of pizza and fish sticks. The food was plentiful and tasty; I over ate at every opportunity.

As far as check out procedures goes, medical seems to be the most difficult to schedule. Each individual needs to submit three feces samples taken at different intervals for testing of parasites in advance of heading to Dakar. The first appointment starts with a full physical with the lead doctor in country and serves as our last chance to complain about any and all ailments: rashes, pains, and more. Blood is drawn and checked for HIV, schistose, and blood sugar irregularities, etc. Next we head out of the office to see a Lebanese dentist in downtown Dakar. He is happy to clean and fix most teeth related issues… but if you get real complicated on him Peace Corps will hand you a voucher to get items fixed once you are state-side. If your rash is complicated, you’ll be sent to a dermatologist. Other specialty doctors exist around town for other issues, and yet again if anything can’t be remedied in Dakar a voucher will be awarded for treatment back home. This process has the ability to stretch up to 60 days in processing, but in the last 48 hours before you exit from PC service, you’ll be asked to reveal the tuberculosis reaction from a prick inflicted upon you three days earlier. You can consider this the last (and most difficult to schedule) process that is rewarded with the stack of vouchers and terminal malaria prophylaxis you’ll be consuming at home.

Small Enterprise

Development VolunteersCopies of your entire medical file are available and, as far as I can tell, contacting PC medical offices after service won’t be much of a hassle. Should you be unfortunate enough to have ascertained a lifelong health problem thanks to your service, you’ll qualify for the federal workman’s compensation plan. Peace Corps extends health care coverage to volunteers for one month after their service ends through a program called Corps Care which can be renewed at the volunteers dime for another eighteen months following the first free one. There are two policy options; both are expensive looking (after living on $4 a day) and only one of them covers international incidents.

Other COS procedures completed at PC headquarters in Dakar include returning PC property (your bike, training manuals, water filter, and other), writing two different reports (official Description of Service to be issued to anyone looking for proof of your work and the less formal Close of Service given to the incoming replacement volunteer), sorting out financial issues such as money owed for projects, purchase of a ticket home (or cash in lieu payment thereof), and details of readjustment allowance payments, and exit interviews with both your program supervisor (APCD) and the country director. As far as the Senegalese government is concerned, you’ll need to write a formal letter to the department from which your program officially operates and submit your residency permit for cancellation. Talked about, but not formally needing a process, is the art of saying goodbye to our host families, work partners, and friends at site. There’s no time table for this, and it won’t be easy. PC does their part by passing out a list of culturally appropriate “good bye” phrases in each local language. Au revoir!

Fall 2009 StageNow it’s time to talk about our futures. Going to grad school? We’ve got fellowship programs at many schools throughout the country just waiting for you to apply. Hitting the job market? PC hands you a rather large career resource manual that will help you soul search for the perfect job and write a resume; it also gives leads on websites and other job bulletins to ease the search. But all this information is given to you in advance of the COS Conference so that while there we can focus on much more entertaining things such as not one, but two career panels inviting the expatriates of Dakar to talk about their grad school experiences, noncompetitive eligibility hiring, and current work abroad. The second panel was actually held at the clubhouse of our favorite pool side hangout, Club Atlantique, allowing PC the opportunity to cram 44 people in a bus designed for 25; how very Senegalese of us!

Mboro Training GroupAnd this brings me to our final topic, continuation of service. During our COS Conference my training group and I rehashed our favorite and not-so memories, talked about the impending reverse culture shock, and all the various ways to continue the third goal of Peace Corps: better understanding of the host countries on the part of Americans. Task number one upon return is finding an alumni group of returned volunteers (RPCVs) to join. They should help me transition from the loss of volunteer identity, through the job search, and into an active community member where I am encouraged to speak about my experiences at local schools or career fairs. I shouldn’t be hesitant to submit articles to media outlets. The possibilities for outreach are endless and there’s even an entire department of PC dedicated to providing RPCVs with presentation help and PC paraphernalia. While one can’t remain an official volunteer for much longer, the mentality of Peace Corps volunteerism continues long after we’ve left our host countries.

Back at Jazz Fest, because this story is so grand I split it into two…

I tried spend as little time as possible at our artisans unfathomably full booth in the middle of seller’s alley for more than one reason; it was incredibly hot, there was zero space, and I didn’t to become a selling crutch to Demba. Still attempting to get solid work done, I passed the mornings of Jazz Fest sitting at a local gallery, Galerie Arte, owned by a European woman selling high quality product. The product available was art from all over West Africa, and only the highest of quality… we were lucky to be there.

The Burkina Faso volunteer I mentioned before had chosen to extend in order to work with West African Trade Hub, an organization specializing in West African products (art and other) for trade throughout the region and, if possible, the world. Through her volunteer “job” at this organization and her connection at Peace Corps she was able to arrange a test run selling Peace Corps artisan product through the gallery. If it went well, we all hoped the owner would chose to sell product both in Saint Louis and the Dakar gallery full time- a huge step for our artisans!

PC Jewlery Display at the GalleryWe were given use of the courtyard, a table, and a few chairs to make a display. PC paraphernalia with Kennedy’s smiling visage was brought up from Dakar to promote our volunteering spirit. We used the wood and basket products to display jewelry, leather, and collaboration handbags. The goal was a simple, beautiful display designed to serve as both a selling point and an educational model for our Senegalese colleagues.

Mme Ly, Pouncing on PCVsLater in the morning, we pulled the artisans from the booth a few at a time and to view and discuss the gallery. Whilst walking there, Demba and I talked about an overcrowded booth that made me uncomfortable. It would take time to search through the pile to find something I might be interested in buying. In the mean time, the seller would pounce. He or she would harass me about pricing, buying, and insignificant details such as whether the item fit or was relevant to my life. For me, the pressure of that warrants no more than the passing glance at the booth. But the point I chose to expand on was not the mannerisms of the seller (as Demba has already learned these lessons) but yet another impression the piles of product leave me with:

Wooden Bowls from DjouribelMe: “I would never go into that booth; all that stuff piled high makes me think it’s cheap and comes from China. That’s not art. I’m discouraged from even going near it.” The PC display, pared down!Demba: “Yeah, but the Senegalese people love it. See all of them in that pile of shoes?” Me: “What does this tell you?” Demba: “The Senegalese people are very different from Americans and other tourists in how they like to shop.”Me: “Yes, and who are your clients?”Demba: “Non-Senegalese tourists… but there aren’t any here.”

We’d reached a sort of ah-hah moment, but also the pinnacle of our problem. My initial impression of the Jazz Festival was a popular tourist attraction to Europeans. From years past we had heard about the local artisans that line the streets, creating a fair-like atmosphere, selling their handicrafts. And that’s why we invested in a booth, spent months planning and producing stock, and dragged ourselves hours away from home to be there: the chance to sell our amazing goods to passing tourists. But sadly that just wasn’t the case.

A Small Bracelet

SamplingInstead, anyone with something to sell and the cash to pay for a stand was welcome to give it a go. As a result, the vast majority of “exhibitors” were those who’d bought mass quantities of goods just off the shipping containers in Dakar from other third world producing countries. And the people interested in that type of product were young school girls… so they constituted the vast majority of passersby to the Peace Corps artisan booth. That’s not our market; we were up a creek without a paddle. Unfortunately this left our artisans feeling justified in their decision to ignore our display tactic recommendations and march full speed ahead with the explosion method.

Baskets spilled out of the booth

and landed on the roof!Demba and I arrived at the gallery, a bit crestfallen with regards to our expected sales, to start a conversation intended to reinforce the concept of simple display tactics. See? This is how a carved wooden table sits by itself allowing a customer to focus solely on that item, the carvings, and how great they are. Or that one has small wood pieces demonstrating color options and a catalog of products. Here there are only 4 scarves on a rack and all of them are different!

Our Burkina Faso volunteer then explained the mental game behind one-at-a-time: if there’s only one, I think it’s unique. If I’m on the fence about buying it I now have to consider that it is the only one available and I need to make a decision to buy it now as opposed to walking away, thinking about it, and coming back to the possibility that someone else has already purchased my treasure. Because it is unique and displayed simply yet beautifully I believe that it has an inherently higher value, and I am therefore will to pay more for it. Demba caught on.

Later, we walked the gallery together and discussed presentation, new product ideas, and what makes this or that piece higher in quality. The talk went really well. My hope is that although sales from the event we overestimated, the overall result was an enormous gain in display tactic knowledge, yet another form of Marketing!

Promotional Poster

One of the last big projects of my service took place at the 19th annual Jazz Festival in Saint Louis, Senegal. A four day adventure in Jazz stylings from around the world centered on the island of Saint Louis and entertaining both your days and nights, this festival provided an opportunity for local artisans to expose their products to both tourists and locals alike. Through the network of artisans affiliated with Peace Corps, Demba- my leather cohort- collaborated to rent a booth with six other artisans in the group.

We set about preparing for the festival months in advance. As a part of a chain of events we anticipated, Demba and I began by sitting down to estimate the potential sales by items we believed were possible. Given the time frame we had between that first discussion (late February) and the actual events (TICAA tourism conference at the end of May, Jazz Festival in mid June, and Close of Service conference just after Jazz Festival) we were looking at a pretty tight production schedule. In order to maximize the potential sales, Demba made a trip to Dakar to purchase hides that were already cleaned, treated, and dyed to cut out nearly half the production time on a number of items. This introduced a whole new color scheme to our products: pastels!

It’s also worth mentioning that I impressed upon Demba the idea to use traditional Senegalese fabric prints for linings in all products that required one. The idea was born from J.Crew’s modification of the magic wallet a few years after I bought my original one. What was once leather interior and exterior was suddenly available with men’s tie fabric interior. Why couldn’t the same principle be applied to our Senegalese version? It took a PCV guinea pig and a Facebook photo campaign, but the concept quickly became popular. Later at the expo, Demba would remark that he had indeed been the only producer of such a unique “African” leather product.

As the weeks passed, Demba stuck to his schedule of finishing stock by product model. In the evenings he reportedly worked on smaller items such as bracelets, magic wallets, and pouches from the comfort of his home in Taiba Ndaye (a small village outside of Mboro) bringing finished items back to the shop each morning. He was seriously dedicated to our estimated sales potential and I suspect this is directly related to the sell-out we experienced in the December expo held in Dakar. And upon arrival at the Jazz Festival I counted a minimum of four large bags of product accompanying Demba.

The logistics for the artisan exposition portion of the Jazz Festival was reportedly vastly different from years past. The organization changed from French Cultural Center management to the Mayor’s Office of Saint Louis. In addition, booths were smaller, more or less expensive (depending on who you asked), moved to another less favorable location, without quality power or access to water, and available to be rented by anyone looking to sell – regardless of product type, quality or origin of production. As a result our artisans were not pleased with the initial outlook of the selling opportunity.

3rd Year Expertise! We spent the first full day of the festival setting up the booth. The best way to describe the initial display is “an explosion of disorganized product that vomited into the passing street.” A third volunteer, who’d spent most of her Burkina Faso service working with handicraft goods and expos, was ruthless and told all the artisans that instead of displaying piles and piles of the same product it was much more enticing to artfully display a few items at a time. Stock could be carefully hidden and then as sales were made product could be replaced in the display.

But the notion was unfamiliar and wreaked havoc upon the booth regardless. It had been a long day and our artisans were grumpy and tired. They didn’t want to be learning skills right at that moment. To show them what we meant, we had to forcibly remove their product from the table and set up the artful designs ourselves. No one was happy. We bought them cold sodas and doughnuts at the end as a peace offering, but it was not well received. This topic would have to be revisited later, as I will do in the next publication. For now, back to the Jazz Festival.

We called it a day with a celebratory beer at a local PCV hotspot, got food and caught up with friends I hadn’t seen in a while. I rented a hotel room and eventually made it back there. The male artisans were tasked with sleeping at the booth all night to guard the product. Female artisans found friends and family to stay with for the weekend. The “serious” selling opportunities began the next day where myself and two other volunteers took turns sitting at the booth with the artisans encouraging them to heed our advice about the method of display.

Me and AlyssaThe rest of the weekend was much of the same; back and forth between the booth and the gallery. In the late afternoon and evenings I caught up with PC friends. Our favorite activities included eating good pizza, hanging by the pool, and catching up on stories. Evenings were spent dancing in to the wee hours of the morning. Volunteers stationed in Saint Louis did a great job of organizing festivities at a local bar. American beats were shared across many a nationality. Some US Marines on vacation from Mauritanian duty joined our merriment. Pick pockets were a steadfast opponent to our desired to relax, but all told few items were taken that couldn’t be replaced. Jazz music may not have been formally heard at the venues promoted- with exorbitant entry fees (unaffordable on a volunteer stipend) - but I’m pretty sure I passed by a few amusing beats.

With the end of my service quickly approaching (time flies, what?), I’ve been working pretty hard and basically non-stop so I figure I deserve a bit of relaxation, a break. African Bucket List, what have you got for us this time? Not too far from one my well documented favorite destinations, Popenguine, is a destination called Accro-Baobab Adventure. The name combines the idea of acrobatic adventures with symbolic tree of Senegal: the baobab. This wiry tree brings with it the baobab fruit, also known as monkey bread, which is made to make bouye juice- a local favorite as popular as bissap. But how does one perform acrobatic adventures with this tree? By going displacing oneself from one tree to a nearby tree from high above the ground, obviously. Sounds like fun to me!

So when friend had a visitor from the States last week, I finally had an excuse to go and we recruited a third volunteer to take pictures as we concurred our fears high above the ground. On the practice course we learned safety procedures for lines, carabineers and pulleys. We walked a mini tight-rope/ high-wire and did the tiniest of zip lines. It was only maybe ten feet off the ground but that was enough to seriously scare us. They counted me off multiple times before I could manage to finally go. When I reached the other side, successfully without incident, I was shaking so badly I’m not sure my death grip on the rope would’ve been all that effective had I actually needed it. Damn it was scary.

And then the actual ropes course was upon us. High wires, swings, notched logs, log bridges, and boats were the easy bits. Zip lines and Tarzan ropes into nets were a bit scarier. No two crossings were the same, but before long we became pros. At some point our safety guide/ leader Ousmane asked me to stop mid high wire cross and stare out into the vast fields of African terrain and Baobab trees. It was one of the first crossings so I was still pretty scared- but it helped. I probably started gaining courage right then; a momentum that kept building all the way to the end.

The culmination was a three hundred eleven meter zip line across the terrain. Two steel safety wires, two pulleys, two safety cords and NO HANDS! It was exhilarating. Liberating. Fast. I was excited- empowered even- for each next obstacle. I no longer shook like a leave in the hot African wind. I no longer needed to be counted off only to blatantly ignore the “jump” call. One deep breath and then just do it! Nike commercials everywhere would’ve been proud... had I been wearing tennis shoes instead of my flip flops, that is. In fact, I’m really proud of myself and my accomplishment: completing the course, not falling (or letting a flip flop fall), and not letting fear get the best of my pride. “GO ME!”

Laura was our resident “expert” having done a ropes course or two before in the US. She confessed that this was the best she’d ever done. And the least expensive, leading me to believe it was one of the best uses of $35 I would encounter.

We enjoyed celebratory Sprites and Senegalese tea afterwards while chatting with the operations managers about our work as Peace Corps volunteers. I pulled out the first printed draft of the tourism guide that my fellow volunteers and I are working through and showed them the Accro-Baobab entry. Obviously the current picture needs to be changed from basic scenery to one of me flying upside down across the African terrain, but aside from that the guys seemed pretty excited about it. As it turns out, Ousman actually wants to open his own new business: horseback riding excursions to a local lagoon. Wait, there’s a lagoon in Senegal? Apparently. We all concurred it is a genius idea and encouraged him to follow up with the nearest small enterprise development volunteer in Popenguine.

And if none of the things described in the above excursion are sufficient enough to peak your interest keep in mind that you’re invited to par take in many more activities. For instance, after all was said and done, we were invited to climb a giant Baobab like you would a cliff. The tree had been set up like a practice rock climbing wall. But as I was mental and physical jelly by that point I went nearly half way up, had a picture taken, and called it quits to enjoy the short line ride back down. In addition to the climb there’s a kid version of the ropes course, corporate team building activities, a kids camp dormitory (under construction both physically and logistically) and/ or sand sailing- which is how I would describe a race course with dune buggies powdered by wind sails. I’m not entirely sure that last one makes sense to me either, but it looked pretty fun none-the-less. The place doesn’t happen to sell booze or house people over night- yet. Management is in the process of building a nearby hotel. Nor is it particularly easy to get in and out of the “park” without a hired car. Good news is the operators are all willing to call their driver friends to come help you get back to town without too much hassle.

Adventure, indeed. For more information check out the establishment’s website. Or check out my online photo album for more awesome photos!

Laundry SoapPeople who haven’t heard from me in a while ask how getting back to basics has been. When they think of Peace Crops they think about an experience without all the technologies and comforts available in the United States of Heaven. A place where mornings are spent sweeping my hut, washing laundry by hand, and tending my garden. Then I help cook meals over a fire whilst chatting in a cluck based language with the local women. I pull water in from the well, carry it on my head back to my hut, and use it to take a bucket bath. In the evenings I read Tolstoy by candle light.

Yeah, it’s not really like that. I do my laundry by hand, but that’s because I’m stubborn and don’t want to pay our maid to do it for me. I had to spell check Tolstoy because I’ve never seen a copy of War and Peace here. But, I can say that the idea of running on less is still with me however less glorious. And one such example is the simple idea of soap here. Now don’t let your imagination go wild, we still have soap and we don’t have to make it from the fat of the animals we kill each season. The oils can be bought, local women’s groups make it as a cheap means of income, and it’s available at every boutique around. But still, the utilization is different. Let me explain.

Soap in the US

American SoapThinking about the different types of cleaning products or soaps that I had, it kind of blows my mind. We buy products for one specific function. I have product for my hair, a different one for my face, my dishes, cleaning the toilet and another for floors, for the laundry and my car, for the windows… this list isn’t ending soon. And each type can come in a number of different physical states. Take my face wash for example. Is it a bar? A liquid? A foam? A disposable towellete? I choose a liquid version… but is it then creamy? Scrubby? Age defying? Acne fighting? Made for dry skin? Now, I implore you; think about the scope of what I just outlined. Pick a function, then a state, then other adjectives… that’s a whole lot of possible combinations! That’s a whole lot of soap… a whole aisle worth at the grocery story. Probably more.

Liquid Multi PurposeSoap in Africa

The best way to characterize the soap in Senegal is to skip all the functionalities and go directly to the state of the soap. We have solid, liquid, and powder. One is invited to buy any of these three, which can be produced by a few different competitors (half of which aren’t even in Senegal), and use it for any task in life requiring soap. That goes to say there is no marketing for it in Senegal. It’s soap, everyone knows what it’s for: to clean! You can wash your person, cloths, or household with any form you see fit. The world is your oyster; choose your soap.

My Soap

How do I choose?What do I do? I’m stuck somewhere in the middle. I landed here nearly two years ago with separate special face wash (scrubby liquid), shampoo, and body wash. I quickly bought dish soap for my cup and spoon. I bought powder for my laundry. And I bought a bar of natural stuff from a friend in town, just to make her happy. Slowly I started to run out of the items I’d brought. There’s a western store a few towns over that sells soap by the functionality, but I don’t find myself there all too often. So to make due I started using the liquid dish soap for more functions like body wash and cleaning my room. When the laundry soap ran out I started using the bar my friend had sold me. I had way too much of the scrubby face wash sent over in care package from the US, so occasionally I use it as full body scrub after a particularly hot and yucky day.

If this makes you say “Ohhh” and think about sending me either a) soap in a care package or b) money. Stop. I’m saying I’m doing just fine. We don’t need fourteen million different soaps to rid our lives of dirt and bacteria. If I didn’t have stock of multiple different kinds I’m sure I’d be just find with my bar or bottle of liquid stuff covering all functions. After all, that’s what most Senegalese families do and they get along just fine. I tip my hat to the marketing executives that came up with a million and one different “necessary” household soaps. Excellent job you’ve done getting the masses to spend hard earned money buying the same thing over and over again in different packaging. Had I never come to the simpler life of Senegal perhaps I would’ve never realized just how much is thrown into this single industry alone. Which begs the question: where else in life have we naïve Americans been duped into buying more? I can only hope this is one of those lessons that stick with me long after I’ve finished my service and gone back to the land of plenty. Realistically I’ll always have a unique shampoo for my hair. And if I have a washing machine I’ll probably have a type of soap for that. And the dish washer, too. But perhaps the rest can be accomplished with one single bar… A girl can only hope. Or she can continue doing dishes and laundry by hand; I guess it remains to be seen.

Once upon a time there was an adult woman who joined the Peace Corps, moved to another continent, and started living with undomesticated animals. Colonies of flies, deadly mosquitoes, and insolent mice were the worst of the offenders. There was an adjustment period where household improvements were made in the name of preventative entry. A new screen window, a new tiled floor, and a new toilet where gradually installed. But most recently our heroic (for the sake of the “fable” we say heroic, but she isn’t really) volunteer took what she hopes to be the last measure to barricade herself into her hut…

Wait, wait, wait... this isn’t like Custard’s last stand or anything. And the point of this story is actually all about lizards, or ounk as they say in Wolof.

Steve NdawThe lizard population in my room started as one. The first time I saw it I freaked and made one of my older brothers come in and kill it. I did the same with the one who came after that. But they seemed never ending, so eventually I had to accept that it was the Mefloquine convincing me this animal was going to somehow ruin my life. But in reality, the only thing it was doing was pooping all over the place forcing me to clean my room on a regular basis. All things considered it wasn’t that bad a house guest. I talked myself into the benefits of having something hungry for the mosquito population. Unfortunately, just because I was ready to put the pineapple away for my house guest doesn’t mean I was ok with his sporadic leaps from one shadowy corner of my room to the next. I kept yelling out, but my sentence (Damn it...) didn’t seem complete. Something, a name, needed to be added. “Damn it Steve” became the go-to expression for the speedy lizards movements.

So Steve came and went as he pleased. Soon, though, Steve got fat, then lighter, then shrunk in size. Hmm. It became clear that Steve was actually more than one lizard over the months. Then there were two at a time. They started coming around just about the end of afternoon siesta but didn't actually spend time together. They just ran in circles around my room six inches below the ceiling, each on an opposite wall from the other. I told myself they were courting each other and Steve had brought his girlfriend, whom I called Stella, home for a visit. But then I’m afraid, she moved in. I think the relationship went bitter fast. Steve took the bathroom cubby. Stella took the painting and wardrobe area. It was as though these areas of my room were the result of a division of assets in my lizard roommate’s divorce.

At this point is it necessary for me to explain to you once more about Mefloquine making me crazy? Crazy nightmares and apparently crazy daydreams to boot! Lizard divorce. Seriously.

Anyway, now one point five years later, we recently started counting three lizards taking refuge in my sanctuary. I say we because by now my youngest brothers had become accustomed to rushing to my room when I would return after dark to see if they could spot the lizards. I opened my door, threw on the lights and I-Spy had nothing on my lizards. I almost became (Mefloquine) paranoid that my family was going to charge me extra rent for the long-term house guests. But that’s just ridiculous, right? This is what I would call the height of the lizard rein for Chez Ndaw.

The Hardware Store, or backyard.The turning point was my brother demanding that my mom come to see Steve. What is Steve? Look, see, he lives in Soda’s room. That’s his house. Ok... what? And at this point, I explained to my mom that I’d been living with the lizards because they just kept coming back, no matter how many were killed. When she asked where they were coming from I pointed to a gap in the sheet metal plating of a roof over our heads. The next day my uncle was commissioned to patch the gap with cement materials we have “stored” in the yard. Cement is still littered about the walls, trapped in my mosquito net, and stuck to the floors (because my uncle is not a mason by trade)- but the roof is patched. Afterwards we tracked down the single Steve left in my room, killed him and buried him in the back yard.

The Last PatchSince arriving in the land of critters, I’d been turning on a light when I got up to pee in the middle of the night. I would spend a few seconds locating Steve on the wall (and actually all the creatures) so that in my haze of stumbling to the toilet I wouldn’t be caught off guard by his scurrying. Too many occasions had passed where I’d find myself so spooked from his sudden movement through the shadows that my racing heart wouldn’t allow me to return to sleep for a minimum of half an hour. Steve wasn’t worth losing sleeping over, so I’d search him out, then pee, then sleep. I slept easy that night after we saw to Steve's gateway to heaven. With the screen in the window, the tile floor, the new toilet, and now a patched roof there was no possible way Steve could come back. He’d been evicted.

Go away, Stella!Yeah right. Crafty foe that he was, Steve found a gap in the wall by my sink and was able to scare me awake two nights later. We patched the hole and killed him. Steve was becoming desperate at this point; he wasn’t taking our breakup well. He found another hole between the roof and the wall leading to the neighbor’s house and proved determined to stake his claim in our fake divorce. But I pulled out a pre-nup and this time I was holding my ground. Once more my uncle came with the cement. He had bludgeon Stella as she tried to enter, but was able to successfully close the door. Then we buried Steve once more, with his other selves, in the back yard.

And again I slept soundly.

And again. In fact, we haven’t seen Steve since. My brother Saliou asks every day where Steve is, but no answer satisfies him. He went home. Where is home? Is he in Dakar? I don’t know but he won’t come back. So, I’ve successfully barricaded my room against all undomesticated enemy animals. A part of me feels guilty for killing him so many times, but I gave him plenty of chances and he took a mile from my inch when he invited his friends to stay. Although I’ve always secretly longed for the eradication of Steve, looking back on it I’m a better person for having had him as a house guest. I over came the guilt of eviction, bouts of paranoia, and an irrational fear of small quick moving lizards. Goodbye Steve.

If I had to define the nature of my work in Senegal in one word it would be “marketing.” If you gave me a few more, I might be tempted to add “Microsoft Publisher.” But marketing could sum up most of what I spend my time talking, thinking, or dreaming about and generally working on project wise. I’ve left no page un-turned, translated, or attempted in the PC issued book on Marketing in Western Africa. There are even mosquito carcasses and dried moisture rings from cups due to late-night over usage. Heck, its own cover has long since ditched this party. I guess what I’m saying is “Dear PC, I recommend investing in another copy of this one for my replacement. Love, Alys.”

All seriousness continued, this book recently took a turn guarding Aida’s night stand. We walked through some of the more relevant pages together and I left her to read the rest on her own time. In the mean time, we were to each generated some ideas to try out for Aida’s plan of action. Let us know what you think…

My Ideas

Stir Fry! Brainstorming New Products: When my sister came to visit she brought with her a few random cookbooks she’d had lying around. Luckily, the pictures accompanying the recipes are quite enticing. One day, while we sat around making a traditional Senegalese meal together, Aida joked about me teaching her an American dish. Hungry PCVs can attest, you don’t joke about these things. I quickly brought her the cookbook and translated four recipes: Keys Style Citrus Chicken, Stir Fry, Seafood Jambalaya, and Garlic and Sage Beef Pot Roast. They were the most delicious looking items with ingredients not too hard to come by in Mboro. We kicked off the fun with stir fry… and it’s a HUGE hit! Word is starting to spread among regulars about the new American dishes available and Aida couldn’t be more proud of her creation.

Meal Deal: The idea would be to come for lunch or dinner and get a complete meal. Think kids meal at McDonalds’ without the toy. We’d offer the plate of the day plus a piece of in-season fruit for dessert and either a cold drink or traditional Senegalese tea. We’d offer a set price for the package even though plate and fruit prices may vary.

Flyers: Aida couldn't ask for a better location than the main street through Mboro. But her horribly obvious location is only attracting the customers wandering the streets by foot. So I figured why not tip the scales by focusing on more upwardly financially stable potentials (read: those with cars) with a flyer for our establishment. I envision a quarter page noting Aida’s weekly dishes, as well as a quick note on calling ahead to plan your next work meeting or to have meals delivered to you.

Client book: One day I asked Aida if she remembered the day we met. I’d been hosting trainees and we stopped in for breakfast. Aida was the warmest, most genuine, and least pushy Wolof person we could’ve happened upon. We all loved her instantly and the short of it is: who wouldn’t want to come back time and time again for coffee and work? If her amazing personality is her best attribute then her not so keen memory would be a bit farther down the list. So, I explained the idea of a client book to keep record of her regulars. Names, family info, meal and drink preferences, birthdays and more could be jotted down for quick review. Imagine if this was the Cheers of Mboro and everyone knew your name, favorite meal, and about your crazy uncle…?

Customer Survey: The idea is to hand a quarter page piece of paper to each hungry guest in order to help conduct a market study of our patrons. Who are the customers currently eating with us? How often are they coming and why? What do they love about Restaurant Porokhane? What would they change? What are their demographics: sex, age, town of residence, job, and dependents? The list of questions I’d love to have answers to could go on for miles, but we’ll have to consider paring it down to what would interest Aida to understand.

Aida’s Ideas

Sales Promotion: While we sat reading through the marketing training book, Aida and I discussed sales promotions such as raffles, package deals on complimentary products, and frequent customer programs. Her favorite idea was rewarding repeat customers with a free 16th lunch. It took all of a half day to draft, review, and finalize a quarter page flyer that matches our other publications in format. I printed forty of them on the cheap at the PC office in Dakar… and the program is underway already. I talked to Aida about having a client specific book in conjunction with this idea but for now we’ll just keep track of people in the daily ledger.

Prospectus: I made a one page double sided flyer for my leather worker Demba- to promote his skills and products- and showed it to Aida. She loved the idea and asked me to help her with her own. The details of the flyer are still TBD, but I’m hoping to make one for a tourist audience that could briefly describe dishes and their importance to the locals. Almost like a 411 for new comers to Senegal, but with pricing and directions included.

Menu Board: Outside the front door is a tripod chalkboard that spells out the daily dish to all who pass by. But perhaps you're already inside and wondering what other meals you should come back for? Like the menu you’d find hanging in your favorite fast food joint, this would be a large scale display of all the dishes and their prices. Hopefully a chalkboard can be constructed and mounted on the wall so that later drinks and maybe desserts or other offerings can be added.

Advertisement Board: How else are the people of Mboro going to realize Aida’s open for business on Easter Monday- a national holiday? Everyone too tired from partying is welcome pop around for a bite to eat… a tip they’d know if they read the chalk board (chalkboard paint, why didn’t I think of that???) on the outside wall of the restaurant. We talked about it being a great place to post the news, opening and closing irregularities, and menu announcements.

Billboard: Directly across the street from Aida’s restaurant is a street with a beautifully painted sign advising passersby of a watch repair specialist just a few meters from the main road. We had a discussion one day shortly after starting our training in the 4 Ps of marketing (product, price, place, promotion) where we discussed “if your place isn’t perfectly located, use promotion to ease the disadvantage.” I’m quite impressed that Aida quickly became concerned that because she was on the main road people could easily miss her locale if they drive too quickly down the road. So, she’s commissioned her son to paint a sign to be mounted high on a telephone pole pointing drivers many meters away to her door.

It’s time for another bucket list check mark! I found myself accidently walking into the perfect opportunity to participate in a fun activity simply by being in the right place at the right time. Waking up in Dakar, I was presented with three friends headed to Warang- a destination not too far from Mboro- for the morning. Located just east of a popular tourist town, off the road headed to lesser known sightseeing treasures, is the distillery and tasting room of the Liqueurs de Warang.

By tasting room I mean a backyard with pond, flower and ornamental tree garden, and a long, winding, covered bar. The pond had real lily pads and fish in it and the distillery resembled a ranch house bred with a barn. For decoration beautifully colored place mats- made from palm fronds and frequently exported in laundry hamper form- were hung like enlarged wind chimes spinning in the light breeze.

There were quite a few other tourists when we arrived, but they quickly worked their way through the tastings and meandered elsewhere for, presumably, lunch plans. My cab of four was left with another cab of volunteers who’d had the same idea but a different jumping off point than Dakar. Our clan quickly became chummy with the barkeep as we learned about the day’s offerings and worked our way through them more than once. By the end everyone lined up for the PC discount on their favorite bottles:

MintOur first sample reminded me a lot more of Senegalese tea than the cashew apple it was reportedly brewed with. The whole apple, plus the nut, is processed in what I can only describe as pickling-esque fashion. We were not allowed to see the distillery but a demonstration jar was up for display. It doesn’t matter, really, because once you drink whiskey colored shot you’ve all but forgotten about the cashews and are instantly transported to a snowy winter cabin with roaring fireplace and laced mugs of peppermint hot chocolate- sans chocolate!

GEBISThis flavor is a hybrid of ginger and bissap. I found it very sweet with the taste of alcohol taking the lead on the sensory deciphers. I commenting to friends that it would probably taste great mixed with Tonic, Orangina, or any other lightly flavored carbonated drinks. This boozy concoction reminds me of a remote island getaway with expansive white sandy beaches and bungalows. Call over the cabana boy and make sure he brings ice!

GEBIS PlusTada! This “plus” flavor means more ginger is prevalent. While I couldn’t necessarily taste the addition, I did remark that this mixture seemed noticeably less potent than the previous. It would not need a mixer in future and, as the bar-keep advertised, this liqueur was perfect for a “nice night.” I add to that by envisioning a summer barbecue with good friends and music where this liqueur is chilled and served in Dixie cups with your slice of watermelon for dessert. Or made into jell-o shots!

GuavaThick, juicy, fruity… very much like someone threw a few guavas in a blender with a splash of rum. If it’s called pulp in this instance then it's there; the blender was set to pulverize. Don’t worry, it doesn’t take away from the high quality taste, if anything it lends it a completely unique excellence compared to the rest of the tastings. Consider this a great alternative to your usual Mimosa, or maybe even a Bloody Mary, at the next Sex and The City inspired Sunday brunch you host with the girls.

3 CitrusOr next tasting was comprised of orange, lemon and grapefruit. It was sour and boozy… and honestly had my taste buds screaming “LEMON DROP” much like the shot at home (sugar and lemon already mixed in). Throw a bit in your chicken’s marinade for the next spring barbecue or, for a younger crowd, take a bottle to the next frat party and make some friends. If you can’t figure it out: I’m not a huge fan of lemon drops. But this is surely a great Senegalese stunt double, so enjoy.

Crème de WarangClose your eyes and imagine the following. It’s your favorite holiday. Somehow you haven’t eaten as much as a Peace Corps Volunteer dreams and there’s still room for dessert. How about an ice cream Sunday? You’ve cleaned out your guava laden blender and decide to opt for the liquid version of this treat. Throw in chocolate, cream and a few ripe bananas. You’re in the mood for a twist so you throw in coffee and hit pulverize once more. The best alcoholic milk shake of your life comes out; it’s sweet and creamy like you could never imagine. This tasty indulgence is the perfect end to any holiday, relaxed gathering, or random detour from Dakar back to Mboro.

While Senegal is known for being a Muslim country, about 20% of the population of Mboro is actually Catholic. We have a beautiful church complex (school, chapel, dance hall, clinic, and living area), a handful of booze selling outlets, and even a few nuns on mission in our fair hamlet. The two religious groups get along swimmingly side-by-side: the elected mayor of Mboro is Catholic but most of his cabinet is Muslim, and the Catholic school is home to most of the practicing children (who can afford to go) but quite a few Muslim children attend as well. I’ve yet to hear of one conflict between the two parties; which is to be expected, but just in case you were wondering…

Catholic Church of MboroThe events leading up to Easter are worth mentioning. The local Catholic population had a party for Mardi Gras (Fat Tuesday) and then proceed onto Lent activities. Lent in Senegal is an exercise in solidarity with their Muslim friends who participate in the month long fast of Ramadan. They will spend six days a week- skipping Sunday- fasting during the day until an evening mass conducted at about 6:30p after which they are free to go home and eat. Some Catholics are said to forgo eating meat on Fridays during Lent (my choice), some don’t, and then there are those who don’t meat on any Friday of the year. I’ve yet to find indication or proof that any bad habits or guilty pleasures are given up for the forty day stint.

On Good Friday, most people are still working but those that aren’t take the day to prepare a meal called ngallah (pronounced: en-GAH-lah). It’s made from millet balls, peanut butter, and chocolate sauce in my neck of the woods. Upscale families add vanilla and orange extracts as well as coconut shavings and raisins. I’m told that elsewhere there is no chocolate mixed in and that’s a shame. This soup-like dish is made in enormous quantity, think of an oil drum, and then passed out to all friends, relatives, and neighbors of the household. My family received so many bowls of ngallah we were able to feed our ten person family twice over!

Saturday is marked by ngallah eating and preparations for Sunday’s meal. I spend the afternoon with some trainees posted in Mboro trading stories and a few beers. Mass takes place at 6:30p and again at midnight. After midnight mass a “revival” party is thrown. Family and friends get together for music, dancing, drinks, and dessert snacks. Unfortunately, I got really sick at this point in the weekend extravaganza. I passed the evening with a migraine and my toilet- as I couldn’t keep anything down. I briefly woke up just before midnight, but knew straight away it wouldn’t be a good idea to try mass or the revival party.

Church ChoirSunday isn’t exactly the main event, but is as close as one would come to it. Christine came to Mboro for the day as she lives in a town without a significant Catholic population, so we kicked off the day with 10a mass. We deemed this a ‘must-see’ for the phenomenal choir if not for the fashion show of Senegalese clothing like you couldn’t see anywhere else. Groups of women typically search out patterns made from religious depictions. Every combination of Mary and/or Jesus you can think of is represented and worn by each group of friends. As a bonus, half a dozen infants also got baptized during fifteen minutes of screaming.

Training Host FamilyAs I did my first two months of Peace Corps language training in Mboro as well, I am fortunate enough to have an entire second family in a different neighborhood of town- and they just happen to be Catholic. After mass we stopped by the boutique to buy some fancy juices that we brought as a gift to our hosts. Like most religious holidays, a hosting household will be filled with members of the other religious affiliation helping out for the day. Muslim neighbors from up and down the street were nearly finished with lunch preparations by the time we arrived.

Lunch is ServedA few finished touches were completed, and an enthusiastic few minutes of dancing were had, before we sat down to a delicious meal of chicken vermicelli. The vermicelli was mixed with veggies, sausage, and olives. The chicken was served in the middle with ladles of onion sauce. It was so unbelievably good I ate until I was full. Then I sat back for 5 minutes before eating yet again; I ate so much I irritated my already upset stomach. Afterwards we were awarded with a buffet of drinks: beer, wine, local and tropical juices, sodas, and filtered water. Take your pick; have seconds and thirds.

Dance Party!To keep ourselves from falling into a food coma, the music was turned up and a dance party was kicked off. The children were most enthusiastic, but everyone joined in for the the latest popular dances. Other neighbors came to visit and share their well wishes for the holiday. My former host sister set about making traditional tea, attaya, in no less than three rounds. We nibbled on watermelon and- had we stuck around long enough- cookies and mini cakes. But alas, it was getting to be late afternoon, and we had others to visit. Stopping at along my street to greet friends and share drinks, we arrived back at the house so that Christine could visit with my family a bit.

As dusk drew near, a friend on short term contract with the local mine picked us up for an American dinner celebration of Easter. He was kind enough to drive Christine all the way back to her town, where we found a new restaurant to try, before I finally headed to bed. About this point two thoughts crossed my mind: 1) my family had yet to call so it was time to turn on Skype and 2) I was going to be sick again.

Easter Monday is a national holiday in Senegal, so we all had the day off. Well, actually I had made plans with Muslim coworkers… but they got derailed by my incurred bacterial infection. The PG version is that I was stuck in my room all day because a) it was close to the toilet and b) I didn’t have enough energy to do anything but lie in bed all day anyway. My family spent the day making way too much noise to offer me a decent nap, but it was all in good fun. Traditionally, Catholics use this day to sleep and clean house after their massive amounts of partying. In the later hours of the evening you could hear music floating over the houses coming from the church grounds as though yet another good time was under way…

As Demba and I gear up for future festivals, expositions, and tourism conferences planned for my last few months of service, I felt it was time to make him a catalog. And what better place to display the draft than here? The one caveat is that everything displayed is thanks to the efforts of by Demba and myself. He has other products (Senegalese style bags, shoes, and even home decor) but I wanted to display our work together! You'll have to check out the catalog to see the full range of products.

If you're a fellow volunteer about to COS, and you're desperate for something below, please contact me before May! 2011 collection items should be available at upcoming events but quantity cannot be guaranteed. Everyone else should wait for my replacement to help fulfill your leather desires. Merci.

2010 Collection

Men's and Magic Wallets· Name: Magic Wallet· Bio: The commencement of my relationship with Demba occurred because my J.Crew magic wallet was the only thing of leather I had on me when I looked for something to recreate. It was a test subject, and Demba clearly passed. The item is a hit with PCVs and ex-pats alike.· Description: Our magic wallet works length wise, though the current J.Crew version is horizontal. Slightly larger than your standard ID or credit card, and less than a centimeter thick, this wallet boasts two card slots per side. Elastic bands trap your money on either side.· Price: 2,000 cfa

Sac Soda· Name: Sac Soda· Bio: An already chronicled story, this is an exact copy of a red pleather (plastic/ fake leather) H&M bag I brought with me from the States. When it died I gave it to Demba, who has since recreated it for many a fellow lady.· Description: Large women’s bag with magnetic clasp closure; cloth lining with small zippered interior pocket. Fits 8 ½ x 11 sized documents, Netbooks and quite a few more things- making you think Mary Poppins’ bag isn’t all that unrealistic.· Price: 20,000 cfa

· Name: Sac Alan (photo coming soon!)· Bio: This bag was designed at the request of a fellow volunteer as a gift for her visiting boyfriend, Alan, and was also our first product design based solely off photos downloaded from the web. It was a success that’s been ordered by both male and female volunteers looking for weekend bag.· Description: Carry-on sized bag that an experienced traveler could live out of for a week or more. A more intensive packer could fit all her shoes… A sturdy zipper runs across the top and 1/3 the way down each side; cloth lined with small zippered interior pocket; the bag currently has only two carrying handles but a shoulder strap could be discussed.· Price: 35,000 cfa

Sac Thomas· Name: Sac Thomas· Bio: Recreated for my fashion savvy friend and regional neighbor Thomas, this bag is a copy of a Lacrosse men’s bathroom bag. It was all the rage during the last Christmas gift giving season.· Description: I estimate this product to be 8 inches long, 4 wide, and 4 tall in dimension. The zipper closure runs the length of the top and about ¾ of the way down each side; cloth lined with small zippered interior pocket and two cloth unclosed pouches on the opposite wall; leather exterior loop for easy carrying.· Price: 10,000 cfa

Portfolio· Name: Portfolio· Bio: Word spread pretty quickly that Demba had creative vision; all the way across the country in fact. A gal I hardly knew got a hold of me with an idea for a document holder for her eminent return to the corporate world. The Portfolio is a one of a kind, special order, item that is not held in stock.· Description: 8 ½ x 11 documents have found their home. Cloth lined interior with card holders and pen loops; comes with locking metal clasp and key.· Price: 17,000 cfa

Envelope· Name: Envelope· Bio: If the magic wallet is too unisex for any girl taking stock of this catalog the solution is the Envelope! It was designed as something small and simple because no one wanted an over sized woman’s wallet.· Description: Lacking a tape measure, I estimated this product to be about 3 inches by 6 inches. It was made just like the envelope you'd mail me a letter in with cloth lined interior, small zippered pocket, and a magnetic metal clasp that lets you avoid licking this envelope closed.· Price: 4,000 cfa

Braided Belt· Name: Braided Belt· Bio: I’ve lost weight in my near two year stint in West Africa, and well, I needed a belt that could keep up with my waist line changes. So we created the breaded belt to provide an endless supply of belt holes, thus skirting the pesky deficiency problem all together.· Description: About 1 inch thick, made to your desired length, with a 6 piece braid. Each end is sealed with a leather tab finished with metal buckle and two leather loops.· Price: 3,500 cfa

2011 Collection

Magic WAX Wallet· Name: Magic Wax Wallet· Bio: Continuous product development... Even an old classic can be revamped into something new and unique. It could even be sold to clients who already have the old model! Admittedly I was also looking to design something simple and small that could be sold as “uniquely African.” You can’t get this one at J.Crew, folks!· Description: Same size and functionality as Demba's original, but the inside is now outfitted with color-coordinating African patterned cloth material curiously named 'wax.'· Price: 2,000 cfa

Sac Alys· Name: Sac Alys· Bio: By now, Demba has solidified his reputation as the “go-to guy” for any whimsical leather idea brought to life via pictures from the web, and that’s exactly what this bag represents. But because I was the first to formally order one I am once again a part of its namesake.· Description: Slight smaller than 8 ½ x 11, this is basically an over sized rectangle clutch. A zipper closes the top; cloth lined interior with small zippered pocket.· Price: 6,000 cfa

Sac Scott· Name: Sac Scott· Bio: Once upon a time, my dear friend Ms. Scott brought a canvas army backpack along for her PC service ride. It held up pretty darn well, and put up a big fight, before finally busting too many straps to continue on. And so, we created a leather version for her; she couldn’t be happier.· Description: Cloth lined interior with small zippered pocket; adjustable backpack and closure straps with metal belt buckle closures; fits 8 ½ x 11 and small to average sized computers.· Price: 22,000 cfa

Soda Sandals· Name: Soda Sandals· Bio: Arguments are unavoidable at the office, even if the office doesn’t look like my old cubical. When Demba and I got into our first major fight he sought to augment his apology with a surprise pair of sandals. I’ve only ever worn flip flops in his presence and so that’s what he views as my preference, I suppose. What a beautiful and thoughtful gift!· Description: A simple leather flip flop, made to your size, with braided leather on the outer strap.· Price: Unknown; I wasn’t allowed to pay him back. But if I had to guess, no more than 10,000 cfa.

Alex Shoes· Name: Alex’s Shoes· Bio: When an American foreign exchange student came to spend a week in my fair hamlet of Mboro, he couldn’t help but capitalize on the opportunity to design his own pair of shoes. Who can blame him, really? The shoes were expressly made to be less than office formal- a casual leather shoe for everyday wear.· Description: These couldn't be simpler, two pieces of leather coming together; rubber soles and lace ties; available in your size.· Price: 22,000 cfa

Computer Bag· Name: Computer Bag· Bio: Yet another volunteer returning to the fast pasted corporate world sought me out to create a professional piece for his future life. He asked for a suitable computer bag with a twist! Behold our first tests run at embedded name "engraving."· Description: Simple handle; metal lock and key closure; divided cloth interior for documents with pen loops; and lightly padded computer compartment with Velcro secure; embedding included. Even comes with leather key chain to safeguard your key!· Price: 30,000 cfa

Coming Soon:

· Name: Mary Belt· Bio: Last fall when a round of trainees came to Mboro to learn Wolof, they brought with them their accessories. It’s taken some time but Mary has agreed to loan me her amazing belt to copy.· Description: A 2 ½ inch thick belt that is meant to be worn around the mid-section and not the waist; It has a simple small metal buckle tied down by smaller pieces of leather, such that the belt overlaps itself before clasping.· Price: TBD

Unnamed Future Treasure· Name: TBD· Bio: Sadly the original Sac Soda is finally starting to show a sign of use… and besides no one has only one bag! So I’ve done a bit of research and I think I’ve found my next bag, via J.Crew. It still needs a name and price negotiated, but give it time. Or give me suggestions.· Description: I plan to recreate this bag to be large enough to fit documents and average sized computers. I’ll keep the two outside pockets and ask for the usual small zippered interior. I might even go all out and ask for traditional African patterned wax fabric for the inside.· Price: TBD

And so another recipe is recorded as Aida, Proprietor of the Resto Porokhane, and I move onto another business topic: Marketing. Today we sat down to learn another of my favorite dishes Thiou Yap (pronounced “chew yap”). This is a wonderful tomato based meat and vegetable dish served over white rice.

Aida’s current marketing strategies are nothing to be laughed at. Her establishment is located on our hamlet’s main street, and she boasts the daily special on a tripod stand outside the front door. She sells meals on credit allowing customers to pay their tabs at the end of each month. She hands out business cards to people who are new to town or who work in Mboro but live elsewhere, telling each of them that they can call any time to reserve a plate. Today I threw some new ideas on the table: a frequent eater’s card (with free meal after a designated number), a fixed lunch menu to be distributed around town on a small flyer, a menu in English (for my visiting friends and anyone else who may speak it), and a lunch special where one can get the daily plate, a soft drink, and a piece of fruit for dessert for one fixed price. She was very receptive and I couldn’t help but challenge her to draft her own list of promotional ideas.

Onions Make Everyone CryStep 1: Ingredients· 1 ½ kilos onion· ½ kilo potatoes· 1 small cabbage head· 3 medium carrots· 1 medium turnip· 750g beef· 1 cup dry vermicelli· 2 kilos white rice· ½ liter vegetable oil· Salt to taste· Bulb of garlic cloves· 2 tablespoons curry powder· 4 small hot peppers· 150g tomato paste· 75g tomato flavored bouillon powder· 1/8 cup vinegar· 2 tablespoons black pepper

Step 2: RiceYour rice is prepared started in much a similar way as the previous recipe (Thiebou Yap) describes: de-stone, wash, and soak the rice in water for 5 minutes. Steam it in a sealed colander/ pot set up for 10 minutes (assuming you still don’t have one of those handy rice cookers). Then pour the rice from the colander directly into the boiling water, adding salt, covering, and reducing the heat; you should have one liter of water for every kilo of rice in production.

Step 3: Meat SauceHeat your ½ liter of oil in a large chili sized pot. Toss in the tomato paste and a bit of salt, stir it briefly, and then add your pre-cut bite sized pieces meat. At this point you add some nokos, that delightful mixture of black pepper, hot pepper, garlic and salt. Maybe you want a tablespoon, maybe three, depends on your desired spice level. Throw in about 4 cups of water and cover the pot leaving it to cook for 20 to 30 minutes.

Mortar and Pestle NokosWash, peel, and cut into small pieces your onions, carrots and turnip. Throw them in the meat pot. Wash and peel your potatoes but cut them in to bite sized chunks about the same size as your meat pieces. Shred the cabbage and, along with the potatoes and one of your hot peppers), throw into the meat pot. If you add these items to early I’m told that they lose value. The veggies become total mush and the pepper loses kick. I have not tested this theory; but my crock pot experience tells me otherwise. Hmm. Now’s a good time to throw in more nokos. Aida could not give me a reason why she waited to add this second round. It just occurred to her, but my suspicions like in the loss of kick theory from above. After all, the first round was added nearly 40 minutes ago by now. Toss in the curry and tomato bouillon powders along with the vermicelli and enough water (½ a cup in our case) to make the mixture look like a pot of stew. Reduce the heat and after 10 minutes add the vinegar. Let your sauce stew another 20 minutes before serving.

David, Cody, Rob, Aida, and MeStep 4: PresentationThe white rice is heaped onto the plate first and then the sauce is spread generously across the top. Aida chose not to include garnishes on today’s meal, but I’m sure you could think of something. She did, however, offer a side dish of extra sauce for those who like a little rice in their stew. Some American friends came for their first go at a traditional meal today and they are hot sauce fanatics. Luckily, your third round of nokos is actually made into a hot sauce that can be served on the side. Add extra hot peppers to this batch and, once pounded, mix in a few tablespoons of mustard, a dash of bouillon spice, and a splash of vinegar. The raw hot pepper pieces give this a great kick that won a “don’t mess with Texas” approval!

Step 5: ModificationsAida's Thiou YapWhen I got back home from my exhausting morning, my host mother immediately asked me what I’d prepared; demanding a list of ingredients. The Senegalese adore talking about food. They compare recipes only when it comes to teaching others, but they will defend their own until their dying breath- or so I’ve learned. Recipes are passed down from generation to generation by word of mouth and through helping one’s mother for most of a childhood. So without prejudice I am obligated to share my mom’s take on the dish. She is adamant that one should never use tomato flavored bouillon. In fact she doesn’t like using bouillon at all, for any dish, because it’s full of MSG and absolutely terrible for your health in the mass quantities consumed on a regular basis here. But she claims simply to not like the taste, so instead my mother substitutes fresh cherry tomatoes. In addition she would “never” mix curry powder with the flavor tomatoes. The two just do not belong together. I’ve eat it both ways obviously and didn’t feel I noticed much of a difference.

From my former purchasing days, and a continuous effort to explain cost analysis to Aida, we once again tallied the total cost of preparing the dishes. The cost of raw materials was 310 cfa ($0.62) per dish sold at 750cfa ($1.50). We sold out at 15 ½ plates and shut the shop down nearly an hour earlier than normal (only after at least 3 people had come by looking for a meal we just couldn’t serve). In point of fact, this is the 2nd day in a row that Aida has sold out of capacity. I’d love to take credit for helping her, but it just wouldn’t be the truth. Aida makes a truly gourmet dish and has a number of everyday regular customers. Word is getting out that her establishment and hospitality are top notch.

Now that I’m nearing the end of my service quite a few people have asked me questions like “If you had it all to do over again, would you?” and “Have you become a better person through this experience?” And the answer to both is pretty easy: yes! If I had my own experience to do all over again, I would do it. I go through the training, the faux pas, the weight loss, the adjustments, the vacations, and the million and one colds all over again because of the person it’s made me.

I define stress as just about anything that makes a person uncomfortable, both physically and mentally. And a breaking point is that moment where, although you’ve held your cool until this point, all the stress put upon you causes you to snap. If it’s physical your body shuts down. If the breaking point is mental it’s that moment when you are full of rage, your brain (and rational thinking) have shutdown and you are no longer in control of your body and reactions (albeit this is probably only temporary- a maximum of one minute duration). The thing about my service is that, upon reflection, it’s been a field experiment in ‘what happens to Alys after she’s crossed her own breaking point.’

Every culture clash, language barrier, and amenity forgone has at some point rattled me like never before. I once went on an 8 hour bike trip that broke me when I literally collapsed falling off my bike. Or there’s the time a mouse was taunting me by pooping all over my things but staying invisible until finally running across my desk while I was working. I started screaming, running, and crying uncontrollably.

Can the decency of a person be measured by how they handle their breaking point? I believe so. During this time in Senegal, I’ve learned a lot about how I’m prone to react to various trying situations. When a little kid calls me a racial slur, and it’s the end of my rope so I break, how do I handle it? Do I yelling mean things back, run after the kid and beat him, find his mother and rat him out (ensuring that she’ll beat him worse than I would have), or tell him off in his own language? I’ve tried it all… and I’m not proud. And the question then became how to handle that breaking point?

Somewhere along the route I remembered a story. We all visit our predecessors for about a week before actually beginning our service; it’s called Volunteer Visit (or Demystification). A friend of mine got assigned to a particularly rough town already littered with foreigners and tourism. So when he visited and saw firsthand how the volunteer was treated- like every other stranger they assumed couldn’t understand the insults but would likely hand out money anyway- he was a bit shocked at her response. She simply ignored it. She said nothing and acted as if she didn’t even realize they were talking to or about her.

And as I look back on it, even my own predecessor reacted the same way. We would be walking the streets of Mboro when a group of people sitting outside of a house would yell and accuse us of being spies. He would translate it for me, and we’d talk about the lore that all PCVs are really CIA spies, but we acted as though our conversation wasn’t interrupted; which is basically ignoring it. These volunteers had a few experiences under their belts. They’ve probably reached their breaking points on countless occasions already before us newbies got a chance to observe them. Their learned reaction is no reaction at all; what does that mean?

I’ve reacted in every way possible and yet none of them felt truly satisfying. Clearly my snap judgments aren’t to be trusted when it comes to annoyances. Therefore, shortly after having this very same mental discussion with myself I figured I’d try it their way. I’d take what I would describe as the “high road,” which is to not react at all. Back to the slur slinging child example: It was hard the first few times; my blood would boil. I was angry anyway, and the only thing that had changed was my outlet. Deep breaths and walking away helped. Slowly I got to a point where I didn’t turn my head to glare. And eventually I didn’t even slow my pace- I’d just walk on by. I didn't even hear it. The words no longer seem to register in my conscious thoughts.

In a perfect world we are nice, cordial and respectful to everyone. Our breaking points would be the pin ultimate challenge of this. If I were a perfect person, I would take 5 minutes or more to stop and explain to the children how they were being disrespectful and that if they wanted to get my attention they should call me by my name. But in truth, t’s neither practical nor likely that a volunteer could be on-point every moment of a two year stint. So, in lieu of perfection or the opposite (an international incident) and also to save time- because this does happen multiple times per day- I don’t react. I had finally digested what matured PCVs had!

I’ve recently reread all of my stories and discovered a common story: an “incident” in which I completely lose my temper and act like a fool in response to any number of stimulants. It’s regrettable that there are so many of my ‘not finest’ moments on display. I can’t begin to defend the ways in which I’m simply not a perfect person. But I am trying. And never would I give up this experience that has opened my eyes to a number of different things, not the least of which is how I handle my breaking points.

My New Year’s Resolution was to write more; both in my blogs and in my own personal journal. I’ve been doing an excellent job of chronicling my seemingly random thoughts and emotions in my off line endeavors. I’ve been looking for a way to describe my troubles to family and friends and possibly ask them for advice, but I never seemed to find a way about it. And yet as I went back over the last month, where it seemed like I dealt with a lot of anger management, I decided to just bite the bullet and share. I've since mounted this mole hill and I no longer feel so angry, but maybe sharing it will provide some insight about the day to day life of a volunteer.

February 25

The Senegalese seem to be extra ordinarily good at pissing me off royally. I find myself cursing and screaming quite a lot these days. And no, it’s not like I need a break from them because I no longer think that helps. It may make things worse (revisit my non-confrontational issues and tendency to run away later). However, after a particularly annoying day I stop myself to wonder whether I’m being too harsh. No one is perfect; everyone screws up and hurts their friends or lets down their family members at some point. I know I’ve done my fair share. So what’s the difference?

Well, it’s that when I apologize to someone I mean it. Lying is beyond 2nd nature here- maybe 1st- and their apologies seem to roll off the tongue just as fluently as any other word, making me weary to trust them. It doesn’t help that no matter how big or small a scene I make, the odds that the same offense will occur again the next day are way too high for my comfort. It always happens again. So either the Senegalese never learn, they don’t respect me enough to bother, or their culture is such that they just do not value the emotions of the people close to or important to them. I can’t decide which of those I’m rooting for.

I’ve considered that there’s always something good to be learned from other cultures- but I just can’t apply that here. That would mean the Senegalese are practicing the art of never respecting their friends wishes in the name of (nay, favor of) not changing who they are for others. An admirable trait except that they take it too far. They hurt people. And a part of me doubts they do it on purpose, or consciously. So this whole theory is caput. Maybe they are this way not by choice but because they know no other way. That’s a rough one. A girl can only try so hard before I’m back to thinking they never learn. Or they don’t want to. My head may be spinning. In the near future I need to find a new coping mechanism or get out of this brand of culture. Maybe both.

March 1

I’m slowly getting back into yoga, not because I’m enjoying it (though I am) but because I’m using it as a stress reliever. I’ve been angry. More irritable, flying off the handle, acting like a total ass. I need a new coping mechanism for the things I’m not adequately handling and I’m hoping yoga will do it. Really hoping.

This morning the kids were screaming. They woke me up even though I had earplugs in. I got up to yell at Saliou. That’s not even rational. Kids don’t respond to that. I went back to bed until they all left and it wasn’t so chilly. When I got back up there was no bread left for my breakfast. Neither of these facts is more than annoying but I flew off the handle. I stormed to the boutique to buy bread but they were closed. I’m glad no one was around for me to be a jerk to. I slammed doors and swore. I sucked. I sent my mom my 2nd draft text asking if she’d left me bread (implying that she hadn’t) and it’s the worst I let out. This is an improvement from my days as a teen probably only because no one else was around.

I need to be quicker in catching myself, reeling it all back in. At least I’m catching myself at all… but it’s not enough. When things start to pile up I lose it quickly. I need to count to ten or something else for the immediate effects of me hulking into an ass. Long term my residual anger is helped by the yoga. I realize now as I write that it is helping. Probably the breathing. Breathing out and letting go of my air, steam, anger. And that’s good, but not enough.

Let’s go back a bit. I don’t mean to say reel it all in. Just my emotions. Just me losing my composure. I want to let go of my anger. I mean that’s probably why I scream and swear- to let it out- but that’s not working. So how do I let go, let it out in a quick and healthy way? A way that doesn’t turn me into a crappy angry (and ugly) person. Let go but control the emotions. Does this somehow connect to taking the high road? Am I back to this?

March 8

Yesterday I lost my anger/ temper for the millionth time. My family didn’t call me to lunch (because they thought I was sleeping) and didn’t leave a plate for me. Realizing I was getting overly upset without cause I thought calling Christine would make it better. But I just ended up yelling at her. She knew I was just blowing steam but I still felt the need to apologize. And the worst part is she wasn’t making me feel better. I kept exaggerating the problem to make my freak out seem less idiotic, which made me sick about not being honest with her about the situation. It was a loose- loose conversation. Awesome. I’m just on an anger slope rolling down hill and gaining speed and casualty victims. Go me.

It was until later that the Mefloquine paranoia crept into my thoughts. I used to do a better job of remembering that the drugs are affecting me… and act accordingly. But since some time before my trip home I’d let go of that. I don’t know if it’s a valid excuse or a scapegoat but I do know that I wasn’t so angry back then. Or maybe I was better at managing the same level of outrage by coping through remembrance of Mefloquine side effects? Who can say? But I will try this theory out for a while and see how it goes. I should also skip calling Christine until I calm down.

March 18

Leaving Dakar and the comforts of our home stay wasn’t easy… but was necessary. The trip back was bumpy and hot making me car sick all through the traffic of Rufisque. I tried to sleep and I took it easy once back in Mboro. Power was out so I went to the club for a St. Patty’s day beer. It seemed like the luck of the Irish wasn’t with me until today.

I was warned that the power and water might go out again, but I was able to get all my laundry done. Christine’s uncle called and came out to install my internet. It’s not completely up and running but Les has been all over Sonatel to get it done. For lunch I got to make egg salad (without bread) with veggies and mustard. In the afternoon I went to see Demba to give him money- and I used the motivation tactic of saying that I already had money for orders not yet completed and he stepped up and gave me a finish date. I told him I’d come back tomorrow with English lessons. Then back home I got help from the internet techs. I had good conversations with Samba about fixing my toilet, meeting with Talla next week, and maybe him paying the difference to upgrade to WiFi for the house. Somewhere in all this I was able to get info on avocado trees for Amar from a man who happened to stop by with a tree for Anna. In as best a way as Senegal could give me- luck was on my side.

Now Anna premade me beef and veggies for dinner and gave it to me before starting the family dinner… so I’ll enjoy my clean room, sheets, early dinner, pending internet, and season 4 of 24. I’m very relaxed. And I only hope my luck will continue. Although I’m fairly certain my period will start any day. And someone will undoubtedly annoy me shortly. But… until then I’m staying positive.

March 19

It seems to be continuing (this good luck) despite the start of my period and subsequent cramp pain. I had a great morning relaxing, visiting friends in town, and then at Demba’s shop. We went over a 1st English lesson, had some bissap, and then I got some great action shots of the guys working. For lunch mom cooked me veggies and I made a salad. The internet still isn’t up yet, but Les has called to assure me that the help hotline will be able to help (Hah!).

Ok, at that last point I got up to double check that the internet wasn’t up- except it was! So I grabbed some orange credit (and beignets) and set myself up. I checked mail, chatted online, and found some downloads… basically spending 2.5 hours in utter bliss.

While I was in Dakar I’d grabbed a copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul which I figured would help with my anger. Maybe a short story here or there would be able to calm me down during bouts of extreme frustration. Inshallah! But as of now, it’s like my luck has changed. Fingers crossed this is a long streak of good fortune vibes. Wouldn’t it be delightful if I didn’t have to crack open that book the rest of my time here? Yeah, but that’s not likely.

Maybe it’s pessimistic or just realistic (for Senegal?) but this will come to an end. Therefore it’s probably a good idea to continue exploring anger management options. But we’ll save that for tomorrow. Today, I’m just relaxing; enjoying the happiness.

Continuing with the recipes that I eat quite frequently and enjoy, I present you with Thiebou Yap (pronounced “cheb boo yah-p”) this is a traditional lunch meal translated to mean rice with meat. I recently had the occasion to formally learn to make this dish whilst spending quality time with one of my favorite students. Aida is the proprietor and chef of the Restaurant Porokhane opened last year in Mboro. At present, we are in the process of discovering financial planning and cost-versus-price evaluation concepts. When she asked me for the millionth time to stay for lunch after our usual morning session this week, I told her I would agree if we could make the meal together from the beginning. In this way, she would be teaching me her forte. Meanwhile, I could use the opportunity to capture all the costs of a meal- which would lead to a total cost that we’d later compare to the sales price. We both had a successful day!

Step 1: Ingredients· Bunch of garlic cloves· Salt· Pepper· 2 small green peppers· 6 cubes of bouillon· 1 kilo meat- including liver, heart, stomach, and testicle samplings!

· 1 kilo onions

· 1 small head of cabbage· 250g carrots· 250g turnip· 3 hot peppers· ¼ cup mustard· 1 splash vinegar· 1 splash lemon juice

· 1 liter oil· 3 kilos white rice· 1 ½ cups vermicelli· Parsley and or celery leaves· Tomato slices

Step 2: Meat & BrothCut the meat into small bite size pieces. The Senegalese don’t prefer to cut the fat off, in fact they cut around it- leaving its ribbons in the middle, but I suggest a slight modification in this regard. Wash the meat because you believe it might rid the meal of harmful bacteria or tiny bits of bone left by the butcher after his hacking. Put half the oil in a large chili sized pot over a medium fire. Grab a handful of diced onions and brown them in the pot of oil. Then throw in the meat and cook until browned on the outside. Add garlic, salt, pepper and hot pepper to your desired taste. Cook for 10 minutes covered. Then add one liter of water for every kilo of rice you’ll be making to the pot along with 2 bouillon cubes and some more salt. Recover.

At this point I need to interrupt your cooking for a quick lesson on nokos. This is equivalent to a Senegalese pesto made from a few cloves of garlic, a handful of chopped onion, chopped green pepper, black pepper, hot pepper, and 2 cubes of bouillon. Throw the lot in your wooden mortal and pestle and pound away until you’ve reached pesto consistency. It’s used in most- if not all- of my favorite dishes… the best of which is the injected into the grilled chicken variety. Take half of the batch you make now and throw it into the meat pot. Once absorbed in the broth, move the meat pieces into a small bowl with a few ladles of broth. Leave the rest of the broth in the pot for later.

Step 3: RiceThrow the vermicelli in hot oil (you can use the oil for the veggies or meat if you do it in advance) for 2 minutes- until brown- then remove and set aside. Remove bad grains and residual small stones from your rice, then wash and soak it in water for 5 minutes. Steam the rice by putting it in a metal colander over a pot of boiling water. Make sure to seal the rice by covering the top and tying fabric around the connection point between the colander and the pot of water; none of the holes of the colander should be exposed. Steaming in this way takes about 10 minutes. Or you could just use a rice cooker… Mix cooked rice and vermicelli into the broth created by the meat in the large pot. Cover and reduce heat. We reduced the heat by removing half of the charcoal under the pot; or you’d reduce the flame on your tank of gas.

Step 4: VeggiesWash all your vegetables. Prepare the veggies by peeling onions, carrots and turnips and cutting them into diced tiny pieces. Shred the cabbage using a cheese grater. In the remaining half liter of oil, sauté these vegetables for 10 minutes or so; once soft add in the remaining 2 cubes of bouillon, mustard, remaining nokos mixture, the whole (but washed) hot peppers, vinegar, salt, pepper, lemon juice, and a ½ cup of water. Mix well, cook for 2 to 4 minutes and then reduce to low heat.

Step 5: PresentationThe rice is laid out first covering the bottom of your plate/ bowl so as to give the impression that rice is the only thing on the menu. I’m talking about a heaping plate of rice. Next, sprinkle a ladle full of vegetables across the top of the rice. Then place a few pieces of meat in the center of the plate. A few sprigs of parsley and celery leaf are sprinkled around the plate, as well as a slice or two of tomato. The hot pepper is removed from the veggie pot and served on a separate saucer plate so that anyone looking for an extra kick may squeeze its juicy contents at their own risk. The burnt rice at the bottom of the pot is a sort of delicacy in this neck of the world, so it’s scraped up and passed amongst the guests via a small bowl. Additional condiments could include actual hot sauce and/ or ketchup.

Step 6: ModificationsMore common, and actually revered as THE dish of Senegal, is Thiebou Jen. This is the fish (jen) based version that I never eat due to my unofficial fish allergy. I’ve asked numerous people how the meal is prepared different between meat and fish varieties but they never have a clear answer. I’m fairly certain you could literally substitute the meats… but they say no when I ask. According to my mom, she only puts certain vegetables in the fish version that wouldn’t go in the meat and vice versa. For example, she would never put cabbage in the meat variety because- according to her gourmet pallet- the fish variety can be made with only items found naturally in Senegal. By contrast, the meat variety is therefore loaded down with imported delights such as olives, sausage, and hard boiled eggs; items or concepts brought in by the French once upon a time.

We planned to sell fifteen plates for lunch making the direct material cost of making the meal 410 cfa (or $0.88) while the selling price is 750 cfa (or $1.62). We haven’t gotten through the lessons on cost of labor or indirect costs… but I’m mildly confident that after having done so a profit margin will emerge. My batch of Thiebou Yap was a huge success with the fourteen plates sold while I was there. A few more had already been called in on reserve by the time I left. The above will lend you twenty generous helping plates of deliciousness. Enjoy!

My Western ToiletI’ve dealt with mice invasions, leaky roofs during rainy season, and getting screens put in my windows… but none of these has been more inconvenient than the near two week long incident that has come about with my toilet. Well longer, if you count my ignorance to the mild leakage of water from some unknown place in my bathroom cubby. It took me a while to figure out it wasn’t me being clumsy during my daily laundry. It took me a bit longer to realize that the problem was related to my toilet. But the whole situation compounded when I left Mboro for nearly a week. Upon my return, the bowl of my toilet was completely empty. Hmm.

Ok, so I flushed it… and within 30 seconds the contents of the bowl had disperse across my bathroom floor. Upon closer inspection I discover that the water is leaking out the base of the toilet, through a crack in the cement seal. Since the water’s out of the bowl and things can be seen a bit clearer, I decide to capitalize and hit up the inside bowl with some bleach and a scrub brush. While it makes me feel better to scrub up some of the gook down there, I may have jumped the gun. Apparently what I had been assuming was indefinable must-go growth in my toilet may have actually been a cement patch left by my predecessor, for as soon as I let up on the upper body workout scrubbing I realized I was left with an awful looking crack in the bottom of my bowl.

My bathroom, as I call it, is comprised of a four foot square nook in the corner of my bedroom; three complete walls plus one half close it off from my bedroom come office and the rest of the world. It contains a sink, a toilet, a short sprinkler-esque hose (ahem, portable bidet because I don’t use T.P.), and a shelf. The floor rests about one inch below the rest of my beautiful bedroom tile, so when it floods (and this isn’t the first time) I have a bit of a margin to rectify the problem.

Pape and the CementI started to address my latest problem by talking to my Mom, leader of the pack and most likely to get things accomplished in a reasonable time frame, who suggested talking to my father because he has a plumber cousin. Dad takes one look at the cracks and concludes that the exterior base of the unit needs a new ring of cement. He’ll get one of my brothers to do it. I should’ve have asked more detail, but he was out the door before I got the chance. The next day, I ask him how much the cement would cost and where I should buy it. “We have cement in the back yard, I’ll get your brother to take care of it” -and then he’s out the door again. I swear most of our conversations only take place because I manage to catch him before he runs out the door. Later that day I catch him once more and he tells me to hand my brother 100 cfa (or 20¢) so that he can get another type of cement to mix with what is on hand. Great, done.

Patch Work...Next day I set about catching my brother before he heads out to his afternoon schedule of soccer matches. “Can you please fix my toilet today? I have a guest coming.” Pape had already acquired the necessary materials and was able to get to work right away. He set about to spreading what I roughly calculate as three times as much cement than was needed around the base of my toilet. I resolve to let this hefty patch take a full forty-eight hours to dry and cross ‘fix toilet’ off my to-do list.

In the mean time, my guest arrives. He and I become a part of the consistent queue to use my family’s sole bathroom (toilet and shower) and there are now eleven people jockeying for time in there. It’s more than fun. Murphy’s Law gives me diarrhea. Thanks… I always wanted to fear shitting my pants AND dealing with it in front of everyone. Mother Nature sees fit to throw my period into the mix. Wasn’t that nice of her? Also (seriously, can you believe there’s an also?), my family doesn’t have the handy little spray bidet- because it’s broken- so we are left using a tea pot that no one seems to remember to refill. And speaking of no one, that’s who’s taught my brothers how to flush the toilet after each use. I don’t know how else to describe this picture- oh wait there is soap available only half the time- so that about covers the fun.

... Finished SealAnd about now you can image how forty-eight long hours later, when I pull the trigger to flush my newly repaired toilet and the water disappears from the bowl once more, I’m nearly in tears. I hold it together for the sake of my guest (who’s here for the week). But I’m not kidding you when I say I’m overly paranoid that this may never get resolved, so much so that I consider for the millionth time calling someone in the medical office about quitting Mefloquine (which heightens paranoia as a side effect). When my Dad takes a second look he concludes that the mystery local for the departing water is the foundation of the house, and that we’d probably have to change the whole toilet.

I know from that moment on, Peace Corps was going to have to get involved. I can’t finance the installation of a new toilet on my own, but that’s ok because PC can and does support volunteers in this regard. Then it occurs to me, who am I going to call? Normally, I’d call my APCD (Assistant Peace Corps Director) but mine recently left the post vacant. So then it became a guessing game… Do I call medical because no toilet equals increased sickness? Do I call the property manager because this is property that seriously needs to be managed?

Luckily, my training coordinator was scheduled to visit Mboro the next day. I capitalized on this situation by sharing my toilet woes and asking for his advice.” Yes, you will need a new toilet. Call this man,” and he gives me the number. The short version of this section of my story is that I made many phone calls that ended with a sigh and another number I should call. Feeling the paranoia creep back into my life, I took a deep breath and called the highest post in PC Senegal- the Country Director- and calmly explained my situation. “I have a quote and a toilet lined up, I know a guy who can install it, all I need is someone to tell me ‘It’s ok to replace your toilet; Peace Corps will reimburse you for it.’” And I kid you not, he repeated that exact phrase back to me “It’s ok to replace your toilet; Peace Corps will reimburse you for it.” Take that bathroom and paranoia!

New Toilet, Seat and Cover!I hike it down to the hardware store where my Mom has already negotiated the price of my new toilet at 35,000 cfa (or $70). I pay and get a receipt (that the Country Director has promised to personally sign off on!). I call my Dad to come pick up the new unit with his car and he says “sure, later.” Mom comes by the store and offers to take it back in a taxi with her. Later that evening my Dad’s cousin comes by to take a look at the job, we negotiate a price of 5,000 cfa (or $10) for labor, and he promises to come back the next afternoon. I set about clearing my agenda and accomplishing all that I need to the next morning. When I return to the house just before lunch, I find that my toilet has already been replaced and the plumber is packing up. As luck would have it, his morning job wasn’t ready so my mom used her key to let him into my room. I immediately feel paranoid that I need to double check nothing has been stolen from my unattended room- but as far as I can tell nothing was touched. He makes sure to demonstrate twice that my new model is a push button flush as opposed to the old model and its lever pull variety. He warns me to wait until the evening (for a smaller pile of base cement to dry) before I christen my new toilet. This model comes with the only ceramic toilet seat and cover I’ve seen in the country… and I couldn’t be happier.

There comes a time in every volunteer’s service when something goes wrong in your room, hut or house. The problem is nothing more than simple wear and tear can feel like mountain that must be crossed. In the beginning it always felt like I didn’t have a map. How do I tell my family about the problem without offending them and their house? Where can I buy a toilet? Who will install it? How do I say all those words in French or Wolof? And how do I navigate the Peace Corps maze? These are the occurrences that make for bonding moments as you turn to family or village members for comfort and help. And as you go along a map seems to magically develop. The next problem that comes along you’ll know where to start the convo, where to get the parts, and which estranged family member is going to come around to help you. And best of all, you learn how to say words like “flood” in different languages.

I’ve had a few people indicate interest in traditional African recipes, so I’ve started to collect a small database comprised of my most favorite or easily made dishes. Recently, I had a guest whose family back home was looking for the “how-to” on bissap juice. It happens to be one of my favorite drinks here in Senegal, so we made a batch and I promised to pass on the details. Bissap is known in English as Roselle, and is a close relative of the hibiscus flower. The plant is prevalent all over West and North Africa, but seems to be attainable throughout the world. It is either red or white- and while both are readily available red is most commonly transformed into juice. More information on can be found on Wikipedia.

Step 1: AcquisitionThe most difficult and critical ingredient is going to be the bissap itself. A coffee can sized bucket of dried petals can be purchased in most Senegalese markets for 300 cfa (still less than $1 on a bad currency exchange day) and can be used to make several batches of delightful concoction. A buyer can order either the dried flower or the tea online from international sellers such as Alibaba.com or Tradekey.com, though I personally have yet to attempt this option. So far, I’ve not been able to confirm if the dried flower is available in the US, but your best bet would be to check out health food such as Whole Foods Markets or Trader Joe’s or import stores.

Juice Ingredients:· Half a medium saucepan of dried bissap flower petals· Handful of mint leaves· 1 cup of sugar· 45 grams of powdered sweetened instant flavored drink (I used Foster Clark’s Pineapple Coconut, but Foster Clark’s is only available in Africa, Europe, and the Middle East)· Orange and/ or vanilla extracts- just a splash if you so choose· Water

Step 2: SteepingTo begin, rinse the petals and leaves. They are often a bit dirty or dusty and it couldn’t hurt to attempt to rid your life of potential bacteria. Actually, let’s be realistic… you aren’t going to get it all out, but at least you’ll feel better for having tried. Once they’re “clean” place the petals and leaves back in the medium sized pot and fill the pot with water. Let the mixture steep for about an hour; the water will turn red as the flavor of the mint and bissap are released. Strain the juice of solids into a large bowl or bucket (that can later be easily sealed and stored in the fridge). Replace the water in the saucepan and spend 5 minutes squeezing the petals and leaves to release another round of flavor. Strain the second pot into the same container.



Step 3: MixingOnce you’ve brewed the base of your juice, it’s time to add in the good stuff. Mix in sugar, brown sugar or honey to sweeten the taste. Leaving it unsweetened will resemble an iced tea which is still pretty tasty. A squeeze of lemon or lime can yield more of a julep flavor- and is my preference when I’m looking to cut my sugar intake. Stir in an instant flavored drink mix and extracts to enhance the taste. Bissap is similar to cranberry juice, so other berry or tropical flavor additives seem to work the best. Alternatively, the juice is often enjoyed with simply the extra kick provided by the mint.

Step 4: ConsumingA chilled glass is the preferred way to serve the juice! Senegalese families often consumed it as an after meal dessert and treat on holidays or special occasions. Peace Corps volunteers have been known to mix in gin to make a “gissap” drink, use with equal parts of sprite and a shot of whiskey for something only consumed when poor in college, or rum and an umbrella whilst hanging out on the beach. The bissap flower petals can also be steeped with hot water and consumed shortly after for a tea that is pretty decent at relieving any abdomen related cramp.

Step 5: ModerationAfter your first taste, I’m sure you’ll understand why bissap juice is ranked among Senegal’s highest assets in my opinion. But there are a few potholes on the way to bliss, so please, don’t make the same mistakes I have. Mostly, you need to steer clear of excessive consumption; bissap is a natural diuretic that will kick in around the 3rd glass. If that weren’t fun enough it will also keep you wide awake (whether or not you’re running to the bathroom) if consumed late at night. Of course, should this be your desired effect, I would recommend simply chewing on a rehydrated petal… which I’m told is tasty enough.

Here’s hoping this makes it to my friend’s inquisitive mom and all those looking to taste something new… Cheers!

Money in the MarketWhat is an investment? Where I live, it means spending all your money as soon as you get it so as to avoid the possibility of giving to someone else. For if someone was to ask you for money, and you had it, you would need to give it to them by rule of Senegalese (and West African?) culture. Instead, you should buy something for yourself or the house as soon as you receive the funds. This way you’ve bought the cement, for example, needed to build that wall you’ve always wanted. Granted the cement is only the first step because you also need sand delivered and the labor to make the blocks… but it’s a building block (pun intended). You’re now one step closer to having your dream wall thanks to the investment.

Now you can imagine how it can take more than ten years to build a new home. But how does a person buy a big ticket item like a car? There are loans available from formal banking institutions; the fees are outrageous but it’s doable. Or some women participate in a savings group called a tontine where each month the women bring a set amount and one of them gets to take the whole lot home. They take turns giving each other the big windfall until everyone’s had their chance… and suddenly they’ve all been able to save the same amount.

Given what I know about the investment system in Senegal, it’s been a bit hard to broach the subject of investments with my work partners (who happen to be small business entrepreneurs). We’re talking about people generally too small to have banking accounts or access to formal lending. There is no small business tontine available for sensible minded entrepreneurs (though I really should look into sparking one of those, huh??). And there are way too many incidents of successful businesses crippled by family members who stake claims to earnings for personal needs… as opposed to those funds going towards sustainability of the success or (gasp) future investments.

I realize it’s making us all uncomfortable to think of mixing business with friends and family. You’d never allow your sister to be the cashier and afternoon operator at your boutique. But the African lines can become so blurred… and it’s a shame that embezzlement isn’t even in the dictionary. Given all this, I need to work very hard to help my friends (I mean coworkers) overcome the challenges associated with investing in the profitability of their businesses.

Resto PorokhaneThe other day I was sitting in the shop of a friend, having just stopped to say hi, and a conversation sparked. It was a game changer. It started when I noticed a new set of plastic chairs around one of the tables.

Me: What other improvements have you made? Aida: See these new tables in the back? And those shelves were purchased last week and we’ll hang them on the wall as soon as the carpenter is free. Me: What other ideas do you have planned? Aida: Well eventually I want to get a refrigerator before the hot season and tile the floor before the end of the year. Next year we’ll repaint the walls. Also, my artistic son is in charge of the decorative artworks that we display.Me: Are you saving money? Aida: Yeah, I put some of what’s left over at the end of each month into buying new things. And I leave about $40 in my bank account for emergencies. Me: Is there a specific amount that you set aside for new things? Or does your investments depend on what profit you have left over? Aida: (After much clarification of the above question) I use whatever profit is available after I’ve made my gross purchases for the next month.

New Table and ChairsFrom this point on I launch into an “idea” I had about how to make sure she had enough money to lay tile in December. If we believe the project will cost $200 and there she saves $20 from March through December she will have enough for the project. Now she views the investment as a specific number rather than a residual of profit.

Aida: So I can make sure I will be able to lay the tile in December because I will try to always have $20.Me: Right. Otherwise you might $15 this month, $18 next, $21 the month after and so on… you might not have enough for the project if you aren’t aware of the goal. There was this smile coating her entire face and look in her eye that said she couldn’t wait to put her first $20 in the bank account. So this simple conversation was loaded with investment talk and I’m pretty sure it left a mark. I mentioned a book I had with relative African examples on the subject and she’s reminded me twice to bring the book next time. (Note: I purposely keep forgetting to gage her level of genuine interest. Third time will be the charm!)

I’ve got a few other tricks up my sleeve, too. You may recall my ranting about a certain creator of fine leather products and some of his recent business successes. Well, before this glorious artisan expo (monumental sales extravaganza- is what it should be referred to as) it occurred to me that a large windfall could and should be put to investment use. But, if I didn’t act fast to promote my cause I’d be out of luck when family came calling for their share of the pie. So I started the conversation like this:

BeforeMe: You know, if all goes well, you’ll have a lot of money from this expo. What do you think you’ll do with it all?Demba: Well, I want to change a few things around here.Me: Great. Like what?Demba: I want to build a stock of finished product and raw skins. That way I don’t have to keep asking for advances for each order. I can just make things for your friends and get the money from you after they are delivered.Me: Yes, that would make everything a lot simpler. What else?Demba: I want to rebuild the outside awning and trim… and then repaint our name and logo. I also want to put up a new sheet wall with a sturdy wood mounting to separate the stock in the back from the work area and shop in the front. Me: Those are awesome ideas. Do you know how much they’ll cost?Demba: No, but I could find out.

The next week I went back and he had made a list of all the materials needed and their costs, including labor for the things he couldn’t do himself. We had a quick discussion to confirm that he saw this bottom number as a goal to bring home from the upcoming expo and I crossed my fingers.

After: New Awning and WallAnd low and behold, a month later I returned from America to find a rather large pile of raw hides and a brand new front awning with fresh paint. The curtain/ wall assembly was under construction; to be revealed a few months later. In addition, Demba hired a 2nd apprentice and was able to attend the big religious pilgrimage this year. Best of all, and my proudest moment as volunteer (yes, I was recently asked) is that I no longer have to collect or front advances for orders placed by fellow PCVs. Demba ranks in a new class of entrepreneur: one who needs a bit of training on appropriate stocking and liquidity of assets.

The investments, and talk of these things, continue!

SaliouIt’s hard to stay positive every day of my Peace Corps service; some days are much harder than others. And so, I found myself taking a few moments each evening to review the best part of my day and sharing it with a fellow volunteer. Anything that makes me laugh or smile, diffuses frustration or anger, or generally lifts the spirit counts! It’s the one time when size doesn’t matter…

Fellow PCV1. Wind blowing away mosquitoes2. COS (close of service) conference posted on calendar3. No high point. L4. News from a grad school application to arrive in the future5. Finding a lost bag of gummi bears6. Feeling appreciated by study abroad kids hosts7. Creating the Ameri-list (arrival at home version of the bucket list).

N'ice CreamAlys1. Giant bag of fruit purchased2. Shower with pretty smelling soap3. Mardi Gras party with chicken, fries and salad4. Journaling through a problem5. Impromptu financial planning class6. N’ice Cream trip to get old delicious ice cream7. Dinner out with homestay family in Dakar

I share a week's worth with you now because it illustrates a few important points about what I assume is the average Peace Corps service. More than sometimes, roughly most of the time, it’s the littlest of things that make a difference. The smallest hint of appreciation from a Senegalese person can make an entire week. That’s because the culture here is founded on negative reinforcement, so that rare positive version is highly coveted. When you expect someone to berate you for your poor language skills, but instead they just smile and let it pass without incident… it can change a whole day in a way I’ll never be able to explain.

Stir Fry LunchFood is always important. A good meal can make a whole day better by being a) tasty, b) nutritious and c) plentiful. But most of us will take two out of three of those. Throw in some great American company and I’m happy as a clam. Having a variety of fruit available for breakfast or afternoon snack can give a girl something to look forward to and candy is the best kind of treat. But most thrilling are those times when I travel to the food filled glory that is Dakar; where you can find just about anything to satisfy your craving: Asian, Mexican, American, and desserts galore!

In the over weighted percentage of high points that involve a simple pleasure, one can occasionally find an “ah hah” moment or two that have potential. Perhaps it’s when your brother finally learns to use the word “please” (in English no less). Or maybe it’s when a business principle hits home with a work partner. And you know it because you see that idea in action a week after the conversation. There is no never ending bounty of these grand moments- and the entire incident will have lasted less than one hour. These facts are guaranteed. But they are happenings that I’ll remember five, ten, and fifteen years down the line. They will become the stories retold millions of times for friends and families that will over glorify my service. They will mean a lot to me, there is no doubt.

Women's GroupThe fixing of a future date makes this deadline-less world seem more manageable; if I know something will actually happen- on a day it is said to happen- then there is a degree of controllability found in that. It seems like every day I fight the feeling of despair that tells me I won’t be able to accomplish anything today. Things move slower, more politically, and less productively here in Senegal and I have no control over that. But every so often, something is fixed. A Peace Corps training, a rendezvous with fellow PCVs to work on a project, or even an open house hosted by a women’s group feels great to plan. I may miss my Franklin Covey super planner immensely, but I’m holding it down one fixed appointment at a time.

Me and SaliouAt the end of the day, avoiding an irritating mosquito bite should never be discounted. Big or small, this exercise of looking back and thinking about something that brought a smile to my face helps ease the stress of Peace Corps life. I can’t say I was ever the type to do this state-side. And I can’t promise that I’ll be able to continue this exercise after I’m gone- look at my life-long pile of failed New Year’s resolutions! But I can say right here and now, today, that this is one of the best coping mechanisms a volunteer can implement. I knew when I joined that I’d have the chance to get “back to basics,” as the over-played mantra says, but it means so much more than charcoal cooking and bucket baths. It’s about learning to appreciate what I do have and letting go of what I don’t; focusing on the high points!

When I was a kid, I remember my parents throwing murder mystery parties every year on New Year’s Eve. I remember our house being transformed into a high school reunion, a cruise line, a ‘speak easy,’ and so many more fun places. The idea of a murder mystery party is that someone dies, people are assigned characters and clues, and everyone guesses who done it. The way my parents used to play involved someone at the party taking another unsuspecting person aside and staging a death. The cops were once called after the neighbors heard a gunshot, and the party took a brief sabbatical while my parents explained the pile of blood-like ketchup in the snowy backyard. Hmm. Anyway, throughout the night the guests exchanged clues about one another which way or may not be true (false ones being called red-herrings). Anyone with a guess as to who the murder was and why he or she had done it, was to write their guesses down, time stamp them and turn them in. At midnight (after the usual ball dropping New Year activities) the box was opened, the guesses read, the truth proclaimed, and the winner awarded something I never thought to be awesome until I hit the legal drinking limit. I haven’t seen one of these since my parents got divorced, but I’ve been told that one can buy premade murder mystery story packages online to use at your own next party.

However, one ambitious (or bored) member of my exciting Dakar region took it upon herself to write a murder mystery party for one of our mildly frequent gatherings. Dressing up in any old theme wouldn’t have been possible; the availability of variety in this country is slim to zilch. So instead, we embraced our surroundings and dove into a Senegalese themed mystery.

Car RapideI assume you don’t know much about our “public” transportation systems, so I’ll start with a brief review. The cheapest method to get from point A to point B is to walk. But the cheapest motorized way is taking an Ndiage Ndiaye or large white conversion van outfitted with benches so as to squeeze uncomfortably upwards of thirty or forty people inside. PCVs usually refer to them as alhums because the front of each one reads alhumdulilah which means “thanks be to god” in Arabic. Thank you for not killing everyone in this death trap today… because these things are more prone to rolling than an SUV. However, these same vehicles in Dakar are yellow and blue and then called a car rapide. The operation of one van is run by two men: the driver and the apprentice. The driver’s job should be obvious. The apprentice is the man at the back of the van- usually standing on the bumper outside holding onto the door- that calls out destinations, collects money, and bangs loudly on the sides to alert the driver to stop or continue the voyage.

For the purposes of our murder mystery party, everyone is assigned a typical character found inside the back of that alhum. And someone has killed the apprentice... Dun, dun, dun!

My character was a traditional African medicine woman, aka a crazy mystic. After a simple Google images search to confirm my suspicions (yes, Shia LaBeuf does appear as a result), I dug out my comb and ratted my hair. Then I grabbed some hot blue tights and an old ratty Senegalese shirt from the closet. I tied a head rap around my waist and another in my hair, donned all the jewelry I had, and painted my face with a mint mask sent in a care package. I took permanent marker to my hands and forearms because nothing says loco like awkward symbol tattoos. The final touch was to grab a couple of sticks and a creepy looking bottle of cough syrup as props. I, to put it bluntly, nailed it.

Beer Pong ChampsThe party was held in Popenguine, a now usual vacation spot, because really where else would we have it? I arrived just before the lunch hour and enjoyed a cold beer and quality time with a volunteer about to finish his service. Then it was off to the rental house on the beach where I spent most of the afternoon commandeering the beer pong table on the front porch with an ocean view. By dusk, dinner was prepared, costumes were changed into, and the drinking had long gotten under way.

Women with NewbornsEveryone had been given a few clues pertinent to their character or perhaps gossip about another. Mine, for example, were that the dead apprentice was the father of a newborn baby and also that I hated him. Or something like that. We mingled for a few hours exchanging clues and theories, but mostly playing around with our characters and taking pictures. Periodically, new clues would be announced to the entire group. The apprentice was strangled! A little while later: The killer is a man! And after that a blackmail note was found on the body. And then all the clues were out and it was time to stake a claim to our hypothesis. A few stellar ones were presented, but in the end it was the young university professor who’d done it. Why? Because he’d slept with one of his students and the apprentice found out and tried to blackmail him.

The Maribou, The Student,

and a Bi-FallThe next morning, I spent a good ten hung over minutes listening to a friend explain why his hypothesis was better. He figured the Maribou (religious leader) had ordered his Talibe (small beggar child under influence of the Maribou) to do it because the apprentice had recently killed the daughter of the Maribou’s best friend. And, after all, he’s the only one with the power to command a hit like that, right? Not to mention, the apprentice was demanding such a small blackmail payment from the professor that it wasn’t even believable. In any case, the game was fun. But dressing up and acting out the roles of the people we interact with every day was even more entertaining.

These are little tid-bits, specific to Senegal’s people or culture, which should be shared. However they are too short to be described in their own individual postings so I’ve compiled them here. Their briefness doesn’t somehow make them less interesting, though, so pay attention:

1. Senegal is translated from the Wolof sunu gal to mean “our boat” because when the colonists came that’s what the people kept saying… Hey, that’s our boat. Only the colonists thought they were learning the name of the country. Well, that’s the lore anyway. Lost in translation, what?

2. The night club in Mboro throws a party every month or so. This basically means the older grades of high school- and those who’ve just graduated- have an event that equates to a school dance. Alcohol is for sale, cover charge applies to men only ($3) and any of the private school kids are welcome to attend. Unfortunately, every song is a slow song and there are no chaperons. Get a room! The night club is not available for any other occasions, but the bar next door is sometimes open for business.

3. The Post (office) may say they’re open on Saturday mornings, but I’ve yet to see it be true. Whether there’s a sign saying their closed for a particular reason, or no, I’ve never successfully wandered by or purposely showed up to an open Post on a Saturday morning. Ever. Yet, they still keep advertising it as a provided service for their valued customers. Maybe valued customers are not found in Mboro.

4. The African Renaissance Monument is not appreciated by the Senegalese people for the following reasons (in no particular order): the figures are scantily clad, the power will go out everywhere else in the city- but never at the statue, it cost millions upon millions to build (which couldn’t gone to helping the aforementioned power issue- just saying), the proceeds of the attracted tourism goes to directly to the president’s pockets (not the country’s) because he “thought of it,” and the child is pointing away from Africa towards the Americans as though to represent the burning desire of every African to leave the continent. Hmm, I get the animosity.

5. Senegalese people, whether Christian or Muslim, enjoying using Christmas music as ring tones all year round. They also like other English songs such as “Happy Birthday” or any top 40’s hit sung by a black artist- but not nearly as much as the Christmas classics. Oh, holy night… Weird.

6. This culture is huge on sketches; they absolutely adore watching and participating in them. They are always educational. Always. Ninety percent of the time they are humorous (the remaining ten being at some schools) so they’ll be informative and funny at the same time. Even when we organized a talent show at our girls’ summer camp, and encouraged the girls to choreograph their favorite dances, more than half of them choose to animate an important life lesson. Examples include not getting married too young or making sure to wash your hands before eating out of communal food bowls.

7. Senegal may not celebrate St. Patty’s Day, but Catholics do celebrate Mardi Gras (Fat Tuesday). This makes explaining the crazy drunken partying that is St. Patty’s Day a whole lot easier when in a country of predominately non-drinking Muslims. The kids all paint their faces and dress up while the adults get drunk. Sounds pretty similar, right?

8. The Senegalese tend to be very superstitious people. The Muslim population (and even some Catholics) will get gris gris (good luck charms) made from leather and string. Inside the leather square is a piece of paper with the purpose of the charm- such as safe travels or ability to learn- that is blessed by a local Maribou (religious leader specific to West Africa and Sufi-Islam). Once ready, the gris gris is most commonly worn on the body as a bracelet, arm band, or waist band. Another example is the metal bracelets for infants that are worn until the child’s wrist grows too big for the piece. I have often asked for a charm against getting sick, but have yet to receive one. Bummer.

9. Having domestic help is very common in the wealthier households of Senegal. I suspect it’s because there are typically fewer off-spring available to do the work (but subsequently additional funds available to pay for the help). A good maid is hard to come by, so we’ve gone through almost a dozen in my 1.5 years at Chez Ndaw. Her (always a she, never a he) tasks include sweeping the sand in front of the house and in the back courtyard, sweeping and moping the entire house, scrubbing the bathroom with bleach, doing the dishes from the night before, making lunch, cleaning dishes after lunch, sweeping and moping once more in the afternoon, ironing the laundry, and doing prep work for dinner (such as precutting veggies). In return she gets a meager salary, breakfast and lunch daily, and no vacation days (unless she calls in “sick”). You know a maid is about to or wants to quit when she’s sick a lot.

10. Shea butter is huge in Africa. Shea is prevalent in our corner of the continent and transforming it into a marketable lotion for export can be done relatively cheap. This was discovered decades ago thus many an organization has already jumped on the economies of scale and mass production, so now I can buy a large bottle of the vitamin D rich lotion for about $2. What’s the price back home? Think about it and let me know if you want a bottle brought back...

The beans have already been spilled that I moonlight as an English teacher once a week. It’s a secondary project by Peace Corps standards; meaning it’s a method to occupy time that has nothing to do with small enterprise development. Last year, I started teaching an unruly class of CM1 level kids. I’d tried the grade level up as well, but they just didn’t have the heart and I dropped them after a few weeks. As much as I hate to admit it, and hate kids, these classes became a staple in my service. Teaching each week was the only appointment that wasn’t broken (baring national holidays that is). As I’m a person who flourishes in routines, I gravitated back to this project when the school year started up again last October. This school year, I’m with the same group of kids who’ve moved up a grade level CM2 level- which is the equivalent of about 5th grade.

Young Boys TeamIn addition, I’ve joined the World Wise School program. This is a cross cultural matching program between a volunteer and a school teacher in the US. A volunteer and a teacher can apply separately to the program, or (like I did) together. I am matched with the teacher of my cousin’s daughter in Livonia, Michigan. We stumbled a bit trying to figure out how to utilize our match. The purpose of program is for me to have a structured outlet to share my experiences and findings regarding Peace Corps life, Senegal, and anything else not mainstream American with inquiring minds back home. In the end, my partnership with the English class provided the perfect mechanism. My 31 students were matched with the 31 students of my partner’s class back home and a pen-pal exchange was created. Back in the states, the kids had to get permission slips signed by parents and aren’t allowed to give out any contact information (much to the disappointment of their emailing and facebooking Senegalese pals). I have to translate every letter coming and going because the English level is still so rudimentary, but we’re having fun none-the-less. I also send home a multipage letter with each package with which I hope to explain the many oddities found in the letters generated by my side of the exchange; like multiple wives or cooking with a gas tank.

Anyway, now that we’re in our second year, it’s time to up the level of intensity in another way. I can’t help but feel that occasionally some sort of review is in order. There is just no justifying paying to print the pages in order to give an exam, since there’s no way in hell the kids will take it seriously. I mean, come on, it counts for nothing and there’s just no changing that. This is an elective, as I’ve been telling them all year. Not to mention I’ve given them my full blessing to walk out of my class at any time and never come back- no strings attached, no hard feelings. I don’t want to learn Chinese and if that’s how they feel about English, well, who am I to judge? So, in an attempt to circumvent the examination process, I started creating a Jeopardy style game to challenge their memory recall and critical thinking skills with their new English vocabulary.

The Jeopardy Board of QuestionsI build the game like a multiplication chart with subjects across the top and style of questioning down the side. This round’s subjects were: weather, colors, prepositions, house, vacation, and class phrases and vocabulary. The bonus round was America. To add depth to my game, there are five styles of questions and each category has only one type… this is the fun part. A spelling style question gives a multiple choice guess of which combination correctly spells a word. For example, if a team chooses “Class Phrases: Spelling,” I give them the word “Presqu’á” in French. Then I write the following options on the board: almost, amongst, amust, and ulmost. Other categories include: drawing (I give the word in English only and they have to draw what it is), fill in the blank (I give a sentence in English and they need to fill in the English word that is missing), pronunciation (I give write the word in both French and English and they have to correctly pronounce the word out loud), and translate (I write a sentence in French and they have to translate it into English).

Score BoardThe most popular categories are spelling, drawing, and pronunciation. Obviously some categories and styles of questioning are easier than others; however, in my world all the questions are worth 5 points. The entertaining part is that for every incorrect answer a team gives me I deduct one point. Most common problem amongst my gaggle of kids is that they never listen to each other. They frequently guess something already guessed by another student- even if it was the kid sitting 3 inches away who said it 5 seconds ago. Seriously; it’s that bad! So my deduction system is my attempt to cure this. I also force each team to have a one team captain, who serves as the sole representative able to answer any question. And this time, I finally had success. No repeats!

During normal school lessons the kids sit in four groups of half circles. Last year, I split the teams up according to their assigned seating and it proved unentertaining. These were the people who were used to sitting next to each other, with their recurring group dynamics, and people inevitably attempted to switch groups anyway. So this time around, I decided to go guys against girls, but I still needed four teams so I upped the ante with an older half and younger half of both groups. We had a lot of fun lining up based on birthday and splitting off into teams.

Winners: Older Girls TeamWhat is the incentive to win you ask? Besides bragging rights, of course, I dole out prizes, such as Jolly Ranchers (thanks to a care package) for the before Christmas break pop quiz. Just a few weeks ago a stellar three-some won new graphing paper notebooks for their ingenuity in a word search; I’d turned the class loose to find weather vocabulary. Without mass funding, or excessive goodies in care packages, I try to keep the prizes educationally related. Just like in the US, the kids have to bring their own supplies to class. Supplies are admittedly cheaper on this continent, but aren’t all together completely affordable especially when added to the tab of mandatory tuition fees and school uniform purchases. Ouch.

In any case, on this occasion the winning team (the older half of the girls) earned themselves new notebooks and blue pens. Doesn’t sound too exciting, I’m sure, but they get a real sense of pride. A woman stopped me on the street once to tell me her son wouldn’t shut up after winning a new set of pens… so you know it’s a big deal for them. Anyone reading my page on care packages will notice the mention of prizes and other gifts for the kids. Think about it. In the mean time, there are four months left in the school year and therefore plenty of time to write pen-pals and expand vocabulary topics. And with any luck the end of the year game will be epic and draw a larger crowd than this last one did!

Peace Corps Volunteers in Senegal are assigned to live in host families as a means of protection, integration, and cultural experience. All gripes aside, my family is pretty great and I’d like to tell you a bit about each one of them.

Samba (Badji) Ndaw Birthday 21 May 1962. My host father’s family hails from Touba, one of the holiest cities in Islamic Senegal. He’s a typical Wolof. For work, he’s a quality control manager at the chemical processing plant at the mining factory of Mboro. He’s high enough in the food chain to secure our family a house in the manager’s neighborhood where water and power are supplied free from the factory. Thanks, Dad. His lifelong dream of owning his own car came true in the fall of 2009. He bought a used car, that broke down shortly after, and we are now on our 3rd family car: a 1999 BMW. He also loves computers and when can’t surf the internet, he enjoys playing solitaire while watching soccer on TV. He dreams of owning farming land with drip irrigation and a small house so that he can spend time there to “get away from the noise of the kids.” He already has the land, but the rest is forever in progress.

Ndiaye Anna Ba Birthday 16 January 1972. My host mother was born in Mboro. She went to school in Thies, then University in Dakar, but moved back to become a director and teacher at a private preschool in Mboro. A decent of Pulaars (with a Catholic name-sake grandmother in the mix), her ancestors hail from the north of Senegal. She’s overweight, but on a diet that’s working (or else Dad will get a 2nd wife). She’s recently taken up walking for exercise and has just learned how to drive… so that she can drive herself to the track. Her voice and personality are bigger than she is, but I suspect her heart is too. She’s rarely needs to leave the house to be social because everyone seems to come to her! Appliances are her passion. If it can cook, fry, cool, juice, cut or otherwise use electricity to make life easier she’ll try it. She once bought a microwave because she learned how fast it could heat/ cook things only to hide it in my room for months before talking Samba into giving her the money to buy it. Her second passion is ornamental plants and trees… our backyard is beautiful.

Insa (Ma’Issa) Badji Birthday 21 March 1992. The first son born to Anna, adapted as a member of the family by Samba before his first birthday. He spent the first years of his life at Grandma’s while mom finished studying at University. His father lives elsewhere in Mboro, they have a minimal relationship. He dreams of joining the Senegalese Army where he can receive medical training so that after his service he can be a doctor. Once, he tried to explain menstrual cycles to me but I had flash backs of health class and left. For his birthday, he asks me for condoms. Its emotional things make Issa uncomfortable, and the need for a hug straight up boggles his mind. He speaks enough English to understand me when I go slowly.

Chiek (Pape) Ba Birthday 30 September 1994. The nephew of my mom, he was kicked out of school in Thies for being a “bad boy,” and is most likely to ask you for something, whine when you don’t give it to him, and act hurt when call him out on his behavior. He’s known for asking his mother for something Anna is already in the process of acquiring for him… so that he can have two. His mother lives and works in Mauritania. Pape is frequently in charge of making Senegalese tea for the household at night and feeding the sheep. To continue his bad boy image, he sings American rap songs which have prompted numerous discussions of why the “n” word shouldn’t be used. He’s the only member of the family that doesn’t seem to mind giving me a daily hug or ask about “weird” American things. He loves to be photo graphed just as much as he wants to be your friend on Facebook.

Ibrahima (Seidene) Ndaw Birthday 19 December 1998. The first son of Samba and second of Anna, he is always getting in trouble for his grades. Though he isn’t dumb by any means, he’d just rather be doing something else… like watch TV. Seidene loves music videos. His favorite channel is the MTV-esque station playing a constant stream of French, Senegalese, and American top videos. He’s always singing the hottest song where the words are correct or no (it’s time of my life, not wife! Geez, have you even seen Dirty Dancing???). He acts like I have cooties (I probably do) when I try to give him a hug after long trips away and his friends will seriously make fun of him when I say hi passing them on the street. He’s the only member of the family that calls me “Alys.”

Alioune (Pa) Ndaw Birthday 22 September 2002. The youngest in his class and considered the smartest offspring by my mother, I initially thought of Pa as suffering from middle child syndrome. Now days he doesn’t have trouble making his own headlines in our household. He spent most of last summer in Dakar with an uncle whilst undergoing major orthodontic surgery to correct his awkward teeth. Luckily his goofy smile remains. He uses his own small learning computer to play games and takes Karate classes. His French isn’t all that good, so we don’t have much to talk about.

Ababacar (Baba) Ndaw Birthday 2 April 2006. The favorite of my predecessor. I’m sure he was cute when younger but now that I’m here he’s solidly immersed himself in a terrible post-toddler stage. His hobbies include getting the youngest brother to say inappropriate or bad words, teaching him how to spit, and generally testing the boundaries and limits of every other member of the house hold. “Scapegoat” may not be a part of his vocabulary just yet, but that doesn’t mean he’s unfamiliar with the concept. He’s a brilliant blame passer. He also enjoys Karate class and fake boxing. Baba is a devil in the making with an adorable smile.

Saliou Ndaw Birthday April 20 2008. The youngest and my favorite… for the time being. Saliou is learning Wolof, French and potty training at the same time. I’m slowly adding to his English vocabulary. He enjoys exactly all the same activities as his brother Baba, but especially enjoys riding a bike, rolling a ball or tire, or playing learning games on the computer. He does not like sharing. He’s fully aware that screaming annoys everyone in the house so he’s in a phase of doing so to get what he wants. Aside from the normal kid stuff, he has an unusual calm about him. He can be content to listen to soothing music on my mp3 player or attempting a yoga position or two with me. If he doesn’t understand what you’re saying, he’ll stare at you with the blankest look you’ve ever seen. What? He’s got a knack for blocking out pain as he got circumcised and 2nd degree burns on this foot from boiling porridge- all the in the same day!- yet doesn’t remember any of it.

Magic Wallet & MoreI was introduced to my “leather guy,” as most PCVs call the artisan Demba Mbow, when I formally visited Mboro on a 5 day tour with my predecessor in September of 2009. The guy had made a couple of quality items for my predecessor: new wallet, a belt, and a few items for his female family members back home. At the time, I’d tossed him my magic wallet from J. Crew to see if he could recreate it. A few weeks later, I went back. He’d completed the magic wallet and sold it to a French guy that lives in town. I remember being bummed and frustrated that I didn’t even get to see my own product, but he quickly made me another one and I loved it. My friends did too. And shortly after, Demba had orders for wallets from what felt like every volunteer in Senegal. That’s an exaggeration, but I did feel like I was spending a lot of time in his shop.

A few months later, the accessory incident occurred- better known as the time Demba recreated a purse for me that I have used every single day since I received it. This purse has also become popular amongst PCVs and today the only way to distinguish the original is the little Peace Corps patch that was applied to mine. That and it’s obvious over wear in comparison to the newer ones. None the less, what has been named the Sac Soda is marked as my second success at product development with leather. And by the fall of 2010, those volunteers who were finishing their service or had already purchased their tickets home for Christmas had come to me with ideas of their own for recreation. Four more items were born: the Sac Alan (a weekend or overnight back), the Sac Thomas (a men’s bathroom bag), the Portfolio (a document protector for the office), and the Envelope (a woman’s clutch resembling the size and shape of an envelope). Three out of four of them have gone on to large scale success among the PCVs of Senegal.

A few years back Peace Corps volunteers of Senegal decided the artisans they were coaching could benefit from increased vending outlets, so a selling forum was created: the artisan expo. I went to my first one in December of 2009, just a few months after starting my service. I hadn’t begun working with my Demba on a full time basis at that point (he’d just delivered the first magic wallet) but I knew he was interested in joining. I used research for his benefit as my excuse to conduct some souvenir shopping and got an idea for the amount of preparation in store before the 2010 expo.

Demba and Djibi's ShopThroughout the year, we talked about basic business concepts like having a unique product, a target market, a catalog, and business cards. I invited him to a two day training I gave on marketing and interviewed him for one I had planned on pricing. Demba formalized a logo for his business Taibatoise Cuirs et Peaux and redesigned and printed business cards with the help of some other contacts in town and a volunteer (cough, me) pushing him to get things done. By the time my friends started placing their large orders for Christmas, he was able to use the proceeds to start building stock for the December 2010 expo.

I’ve heard a number of horror stories from PCVs who’d had to all but beat business concepts into their work partners, but somehow I lucked out. All I had to do was suggest things and Demba would immediately jump on board. “It’d be a good idea to pass out business cards at the expo just in case someone wants to order a custom item or something you’ve already run out of stock in.” The next visit a stack of cards had been printed special for the occasion. “The more stock you bring to the expo, the more you can sell.” The next visit I see the profits from a friends order transformed into a large pile of raw materials: untreated cow hide. “What do you think you’ll do with all the profits you’ll receive from the expo?” I’ll build more finished product stock. “What else?” I’ll redo the thatched awning and replace the drape wall with a formal wood version. “How much does that cost?” The next visit he’s made a cost of materials list for each of his planned investments. “Do you know much about accounting?” The next visit a ledger has been purchased and a friend is helping him set up a rudimentary credit and debit sheet. I start to feel like I’m dreaming. It’s as though everything that comes out of my mouth is a nugget of gold- to be valued and implemented as soon as possible to realize enormous profits. That may not have been true, but all I had to do was subtly suggest something and it got done. Pinch me.

And then the weekend of the expo arrives. We sold a record amount of product: 500,000 cfa or about $1,000 in 2 days. This is more money than we could’ve hoped for, covers all the investments planned, and affords Demba the means to recruit an apprentice- what was once a two brother shop is now a three man operation. Even the items we didn’t sell taught Demba valuable lessons; clients prefer a different variation of his red dye and a simple over-the-shoulder bag loved by the locals could be made into an attractive backpack for Westerners with the attachment of a clip. The event proved to be a good excuse to bone-up on English greeting vocabulary and to pump potential clients about their preferences.

In an expression of gratitude, Demba sent presents to America for my parents. In return, my family sent back a photo album to help Demba professionalize his catalog (which until that point was a small beat up Hello Kitty girl’s photo album- not very classy). The new album is large enough to fit photos of his best creations, write descriptions next to each of them, and house magazine clippings in pockets for storage of his own future ideas. I’ve been bringing him tidbits for months and the habit is starting to catch on.

R.A.Co.PTwo and a half months after the expo, the group of artisans reconvened in Thies. Peace Corps hosted a one day training designed to help the group create a formal network of artisans working together to improve their businesses. The event had an aura more resembling of a secret society (with a professional coordinator0 than a training provided by PC, but either way some good came of it. The 8 artisans in attendance decided on an official name: Réseau des Artisans affilée au Corps de la Paix (The Network of Artisans affiliated with the Peace Corps); established cabinet positions and elected the representatives (Demba became Vice Secretary- I have no idea what that means); and established by-laws including membership entrance fees, monthly dues, and frequency of meetings. Demba was the first to step up and pay his entrance fees (around $10).

We’ve come a long way from the guy in a rundown shop molding leather into a trial magic wallet to sell to white girl who barely speaks French. But it’s not all glory. Any avid reader of this blog knows that Demba and I have recently had a fairly large disagreement regarding his order delivery timing. My ego is still a bit bruised and I’m pondering the best way to broach an informal training on the subject. If my words are in fact gold, I’ll only have to describe a production control mechanism once before he’ll start implementing one, but I’m starting to doubt my Midas tongue. A big sigh goes out for my days touring Toyota plants evaluating their kan-ban systems. Suggestions are welcome...

As my service draws to a close, I’m in the process of assembling my best ideas for “the 2011 collection” of new leather products. Stay tuned for a new purse, a pair of strappy sandals, and who knows what else? I can only hope my replacement has a passion for fashion and the patience to pick up where I left off with Demba. In the mean time, I’ll be all over his customer service skills. I’ll be encouraging him to use that new camera and memory chip to complete his catalog. And I’ll try to teach him a few tricks with his website. So, please, wish us luck.

Well, I’ve done it again. A friend of Christine’s came to visit and we just couldn’t resist another great kayaking experience. But this story has so much more to it. I got myself to Dakar the night before the trip began just in time to enjoy dinner at an amazing Ethiopian restaurant; the type of place with beautiful fabrics covering every inch of the rooftop patio where you eat large piles of flavorful crock-potted meats and veggies by candle light. This was followed by facials at a friend’s downtown apartment. The next morning Christine’s friend rented a taxi to take himself, Christine, and myself all the way to Palmarin where we met up with a fellow PCV and two more volunteers serving in Cape Verde who’d come for vacation. The adventure started when we ate lunch at a local campement and got ourselves acquainted over shots of whiskey.

Fun times continued on a hyena viewing trip through the Palmarin Reserve. We took carts pulled by horses (charrettes in French) along a dusty road towards the edge of the delta and mangroves. There we waited behind a few bushes with a number of other parties and some binoculars for an hour or so. As dusk approached, we worried that the hyena’s would not be viewed crossing for their nightly hunt. And then suddenly, we saw one. He was a tiny black dot visible only with aid of device. He was alone on the waters, but he was there. However, speculation ensued that a friend of the eco-guides had been called to quickly don some dark clothing and run around to appease the tourists. Jury’s still out on that one. The moonlight charrette ride back to town, coupled with the runaway cart kidnapping our Cape Verdean friend, made this excursion worth it.

For dinner we travelled one village over to a lodge owned by an Italian/ Senegalese man. A full scale Italian meal afforded us appetizers, salad course, main dish, and a dessert course which were paired with cocktails, bottles of wine, and after dinner aperitifs (or more whiskey for the men). As the only patrons of the establishment we had the full attention of the owner and kitchen staff, and enjoyment of the ocean side candlelit patio. The evening continued back at our lodge with drinks on the beach until the wee hours of the morning before catching a few Zzz’s in a tent.

The next morning was the beginning of the main event: a kayaking trip through the depths of the delta from Palmarin to the island of Mar Lodj. After packing, delivery our luggage to a boat (for transport to Mar Lodj so we wouldn’t get it wet), and a quick dip in the water, we broke off into pairs for kayaking such that the strongest rowers were in the back and the weakest in the front of each unit. And we’re off.

We plotted a route through the mangroves for a bit before hitting the open waters. As with the last kayaking trip, a bit of trial and error regarding steering was in order between my partner and me. We crashed a few times, but only one incident provided comedy. We managed to break an ore in half over my head in a detangling attempt and spent a subsequent 5 minutes recovering; me attempting to clear the stars in my eyes and my partner searching the groves for my sunglasses, which had been knocked off in the commotion. Needless to say, we got our act together in the steering department after that.

We spent a majority of our trip on the vastly open waters of the delta. Unfortunately, we were also paddling up river and against a fairly strong wind. My weathered twosome figured we’d have to work extra hard to battle our hangovers, headaches, and ineffective half a paddle… but as it turned out we spent most of the day leading the pack. Along the way we spotted crabs and other fish floating in the waters. We admired the clam habitats both in the mangroves and farmed by the local villages. Paddling breaks were had on the sand bars and along the shallow mangrove banks.

We’d packed 10 liters of water, which lasted the duration of the trip. But no one had thought to bring food beyond breakfast bread and a small sack of peanut butter. The trip was estimated at three hours for an arrival on Mar Lodj just around Senegalese lunch time. Three hours turned into five as many factors contributed to our delay: a late start, accident, hangover, wind, fatigue, hunger, current, and eventual lack of motivation. The sun was high and we also did a fairly good job of attracting painful sunburns. Our guide, Phillip, did a terrible job of motivating us with his poorly delivered lies that we were “almost there” and our destination was “just around the corner.”

Several hours late, we arrived on the island of Mar Lodj, which is truly beautiful even if I had zero energy to enjoy it or take photos. We walked a short distance along the coast to the home of a fellow volunteer (who wasn’t home) for a lunch of traditional ceebu jen (rice and fish) or omelets for those of us who don’t eat fish. We sat on the patio enjoying cold cokes and a view of the delta waters. It was all too easy to grasp why the island is home to more than half a dozen lodging accommodations and plenty of ex-pats and tourists. Had we arrived earlier, we would’ve explored more of the island and it’s charming Sereer Catholic population.

Shortly before dusk, we caught the last boat back to the mainland. It was a large fishing boat with enough holes in it to create a full time job bailing water out. Back on the mainland we met up with the van we’d rented to drive our crew back to Dakar. Beaten and tired, we spent the car ride cracking jokes and massaging our muscles. In Dakar we took hot showers and went to bed as quickly as possible. Although I refer to this as the “kayaking trip from hell,” I firmly believe it was a once in a lifetime bonding experience that I’m sure I’ll be willing laugh about in the near future.

I had a perfect Sunday. I slept in late and read a book in bed under the covers. I got up midmorning and ate breakfast while doing some writing. I greeted my family, but they left me alone to work. Then I walked over to the school to connect to the internet, wrote a friend a letter and had spare time to browse some articles on the web. After some friendly banter with a few kids and a call from Kenny, I went home change and get ready for the day. I met him and two other friends at the corner watering hole for a beer. Then we drove to our favorite pork house for more beers and a huge lunch. I ate two plates of pork, fries, and fresh veggie slices and even persuaded the waitress to seek out some fataya snacks for us. Fatayas are little meat (in this case fish) filled fried pastries… that Kenny had never tried before. Many other fellow patrons arrived and were acquaintances from either Kenny’s job or events in my service. We had a great time seeing and catching up with them.

In the evening, the four of us piled into the car and headed to the beach. We took pictures of the boats, landscape, and ourselves. We relaxed in the sand. Kenny played with some of the kids. Then I was driven back to my house and I said my goodbyes to Kenny. His work in Mboro is done and they were sending him home. He sent me off with some extra toilet paper and spam he hadn’t used, as well as a promise to visit me wherever I landed in the US after my service was completed.

For the rest of the evening I relaxed in my room. I read a book, watched a new TV show (Community) recommended by a friend, and generally relaxed. For dinner we ate individual bowls of Ngallah (chocolate and peanut butter sauce over millet balls with raisons and banana slices)… and I eventually climbed into bed after writing a bit in my journal. It couldn’t have been a better day with my Mboro friends, beers, good times, and lots of relaxation.

And then came an imperfect Monday. I woke up in the middle of the night with diarrhea and stomach aches. I spent nearly an hour in the bathroom. My dad woke the whole house up getting ready for work at 5a, only to start the car next to my window and nearly choke me with exhaust fumes. I put my ear plugs in and went back to sleep for a few hours.

No one was ready to work. I went to the tailor shop where I’d given our family’s tailor pictures, fabric and an advance on a dress I was having made for a big party weekend coming up. I was to pick up the final product on Monday. He wasn’t finished yet due to a “cut in the electricity.” Since he uses a foot pedal powered machine, I assume this means he had procrastinated and put off my dress until last minute in the evening hours, but without electricity he didn’t want to use candle light to actually work. So he just didn’t do it. This wouldn’t bother me so much if I hadn’t seen him hanging around my house yesterday watching a football game all afternoon.

Moving on through town, I got to the post office. About a million people were there to collect money from the Western Union division of our post for an upcoming holiday. I had to climb over piles of grumpy people waiting around in order to check my mailbox, but there was no reprieve. I do not have mail. No pen-pal letter for my class.

Further down the road I got to the shop of my prized accomplishment as a volunteer: the successful leather worker. In the past year, we’ve designed new products that have proven to be very popular with the expat community. We’ve gone over many marketing strategies, created business cards, and I’ve helped him present at a few sales expos. He’s become so successful that we started having financial investment conversations. His 2 man operation has taken on a 3rd and he’s made numerous improvements to the shop. But on this day, he let me down.

Four weeks earlier I placed an order for some fellow volunteers; nothing major- just a few men’s wallets that would take maybe a day and a half to make. Two weeks earlier, I’d confirmed the order and the due date. Then I’d gotten really sick and had to remove myself from my usual routine of constantly hounding him so that I could get better in Dakar. While I was gone I talked to him a few times via phone. When I got back, I tried to find him to bring money for some sales that I’d been able to make him in Dakar. He was unreachable. When I finally got a hold of him, he was sick but his other workers would be around. Thus I ended my dismal walk across town with a visit to the half staffed shop.

Only, I find out that after I’d been away (making sales and getting better at the same time) they had not done a single minute worth of work on my order. It was due in two days. They wouldn’t be able to finish because of the aforementioned upcoming holiday on Tuesday. Ok, use the rest of today and Wednesday. They couldn’t work on it on Monday because they were working on another order. When did this order come in? Last week. Why wasn’t an order placed 3 weeks ago finished first? I don’t know. Why can’t you put the other order aside and finish mine now? Because he’s coming in today to pick it up. So that client is more important than me?

What it comes down to is demographics. The other order is a pair of shoes, which costs more than a wallets, and is being made for a passing tourist. If the shoes aren’t done, the tourist leaves, the sale isn’t made and money is lost. But if my order isn’t done it’s me that has to work extra hard. My deadlines are usually for people leaving the country too. They’re leaving on X day and I have to get the product to Dakar by then. I give the shop deadlines based on when I’m leaving town. But they push them, and me. On quite a few occasions I’ve had to make extra trips to Dakar to deliver product. I’ve had to push deadlines for friends. I’ve had to run around to make things work out. And the leather shop takes this for granted.

And wouldn’t you know it, today’s message is: this person is paying for something more expensive, so he is more important. And anyway, we know you’ll figure it out. You, who has helped this business so much. You, who donated 2 years of your life to helping us. You, who also deals with roving tourists like clients. You are not as important as this guy who will be here for a week and pay us more money today than you would have. I spent an hour venting to fellow volunteers. I’ve never been so upset or disappointed with anyone in this town.

Why am I telling this tale of rollercoaster emotions? Yes, all of this took place in the span of 24 hours. Sunday was my one and a half year anniversary in Senegal and couldn’t have been a more perfect day with friends. On the contrary, Monday was Valentine’s Day and it couldn’t have been more Hollywood-esque that my favorite work partner managed to insult me completely. All of this is very typical of Peace Corps life. Any volunteer will tell you that their service is the birth place of some of the highest highs in life, as well as some of the lowest lows they’ve ever been through. It’s a roller coaster unlike any other you’ve been on. I probably have a million stories like those I’ve described above, and I’ll have quite a few more before I leave. They don’t always happen in the same 24 hour time span, but they are inevitable and they are collectively making this experience one of the best things I’ve done with my life.

Peace Corps isn’t glorious. It isn’t a few bad days wrapped in handfuls of great ones. It isn’t courageous, valiant, or honorable. But it is a job. It is helping someone understand one thing that has the potential to change quite a lot. This could mean sharing the taste and culture of fatayas with Kenny, or the art of production management with the leather shop. It sometimes feels as mountainous as explaining the world as round. It’s a constant string of failures followed by 5 minutes of glory. And yet, I have no regrets. Well, maybe storming out of my friend’s shop. But I’m sure he’ll forgive me before the next roller coaster ride starts up.

One of my new year’s resolutions was to improve the quality of this blog. There’s really no point in doing something half-assed, right? Thanks to the tutoring savvy of my gorgeous sister, you may have noticed additional navigational options, the addition of pictures, or the newly created pages… and I hope you enjoy them.

View from Dinner in DakarThe continuous film strip of photos in the headline has been updated with my most recent escapades. Hovering over a photo will make the stream stop so you can read the caption. If you click on a photo it will take you directly to my photobucket.com account where you can catch all the fun photos that I’ve uploaded throughout my service.

New static pages have also been added! The Care Packages page has useful information all about sending a package. I don’t need anything, but occasionally people feel the need to send stuff. I couldn’t be more grateful. You can visit this page to learn the tricks to ensuring I get a package, copy down my mailing address, and get a few ideas from my wish list. The Mboro page is all about my great town. The history, the oddities, the cultural blends are all outlined. There are also links to other pages with additional about Mboro. I plan to create more pages in the future, so stay tuned!

To the right, you’ll notice Popular Posts have been selected via readership. Your top 5 favorite stories, along with a few of the opening lines, enable a site newbie to get caught up on the best of the best quickly. Of course you can go back to your favs that much easier as well.

Me and JFKThe Peace Corps advertisements are not only interesting graphics, but links to a Peace Corps site where you can hear from volunteers around the world. Just little clips and pictures, but from there one can gateway into the rest of the Peace Corps site content. If you’re looking for more stories from Senegal, or any other country of service, you can check out peacecorpsjournals.com, which is an easily navigateable database of volunteer blogs. A link to this site can be found at the bottom of my content page in a list of some of my favorite sites.

Transportation

Who could describe this?With each new story I try to add pictures (thanks to my new camera) to further explain the adventures and their surroundings. I’m conscious of those who’ve complained about lack of visualization with regards to skinny me, what my house looks like, or some of the oddities of Mboro. I’ll fix that soon, fingers crossed. On that note, I’m very open to content suggestions. People have asked about my work, my family, and how to prepare popular dishes so I’ll be jumping on that shortly. Theoretically 1/3 of my job is explaining Senegalese culture and life to Americans. So, if you’re reading this and have questions about ANYTHING, please do contact me.

Should a particular concept strike your fancy, the bottom of each posting will list some labels, or key words, mentioned in the blog. Often these words are repeated, so if you click on one- say “Peace Corps”- all the stories with this word identified will load onto one convenient page for your perusing pleasure. The “Peace Corps” label will pop up all listings related to life in Peace Corps: rules, trainings, servicing, projects, programs, etc. I’m still working my way backwards to update old postings to incorporate these labels, so please be a little patient for those. A group of most popular labels can also be found at the bottom of the webpage.

My Work StationThat’s about it for the new stuff. If you’re seriously enjoying what you’ve been reading, subscribe to the blog so that you can be updated about postings. And of course, you’re welcome to leave comments at any time. I write offline and seek out an internet connection to upload my content semi-weekly, so I’m never more than a few days away from a response (fingers crossed).

I leave you with a special thank you to my loyal following. You’re helping me accomplish that goal of sharing Senegal and my adventures therein, and I couldn’t be more thrilled that you’re enjoying my method of doing so. Lots of love, Alys.

As soon as I got home from a trip to Dakar, I knew I was at risk for getting sick (for the millionth time!) when I spotted mom stumbling around with an achy body and coughing up a storm. Awesome. The two people I can’t avoid catching a cold from are my mom and youngest brother, Saliou. I spend too much time with these two. So a few days later I woke up feeling off. As the day wore on I compiled a list of symptoms: body aches, headache, fever, sore throat… the works. Two days in my fever spiked. Three days in my throat was hurting more than a normal cold. Four days in my throat was swelling closed.

Med Hut LibraryTo mitigate hypochondriacs, the Peace Corps Medical Officer (PCMO for short) gives each volunteer a guide book. It’s just a few pages with some notes about common problems including methods of contraction, symptoms, and treatment options. They ask that we always consult the book before calling the PCMO. According to said book, a volunteer should have a low grade fever for over 3 days (I had one just under 3) or a high fever over 100 degrees for over 24 hours (and I only had about 8 hours). A sore throat is listed under common cold as well as half a dozen other options. I had no reason to think anything serious was going on until my throat actually started closing. Eating came to a halt, followed by talking, and the practice of breathing was become a continuous conscious thought. Hmm.

Med Hut KitchenOnce a volunteer has consulted the book and decided to call in reinforcements, there are two options. If your problems aren’t that serious, wait until the office is open to call the PCMO. This is what I normally do. Wait until the next day to call about my creeping eruption or other mildly annoying rash symptoms. I give them my stats, explain what I think is going on based on the book information, and ask them to confirm. They then tell me which medications to dig out of my enormous stock pile… or if it’s something a little more heavy they’ll give me French names and doses and send me off the pharmacy of Mboro (and reimburse me for the costs later). But if the problem is more serious (broken limbs or malaria), there is an emergency 24 hours hotline. I have never wanted to call this number. I find it intimidating and I’ve always been able to wait until the next business day.

Med Hut BathroomBut, by the morning of day 5 I couldn’t sleep and my throat cavity was the smallest I’ve ever seen it. I got the cell phone number for the PCMO and sent her a text message, before I knew she was in the office, with my symptoms and asked for her advice. She called, but I could barely get a few words out. “How far are you from Dakar?” About 3 hours by car. “Get here. Now.” Ok. I packed a bag, included the lunch my mom had already made for me, called an uncle to come watch my empty house, and took a cab to the garage. On the road, I confirmed with the doctor that I’d arrive just around lunch time and that she’d wait for me before leaving. The ride was exactly 3 hours.

We suspected, and later confirmed via blood test, that I have strep throat. Awesome. For more information about it, go look at Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Streptococcal_pharyngitis.

Med Hut Living RoomThe thing about Peace Corps is the PCMO is generally really far away. So to help patients recover faster they’ll give out basic medications so that a volunteer can treat him or herself without having been examined by the doctor. Then later one has to request that medications be refilled for the next quarterly shipment. I can get to the doctor within half a day, and, of course, that’s totally abnormal. But, since I’m here, and the illness is a bit more complicated than the standard provision can handle, the PCMO simply stepped into an enlarged closed and brought bag a bag of steroids, antibiotics, decongestant, pain killers, and throat lozenges. Stop and think about this same scenario in the US. You visit the doc, he writes you some prescriptions and then you have to drag your sick ass to the pharmacy, deal with insurance issues, wait around for them to get filled, and then pay ridiculous prices. I skipped all that.

Med Hut BedroomWithin an hour of my arrival at the office I’d seen the doctor, had blood drawn and sent out for testing, received a bag of meds, checked into the living facilities for sick volunteers only (affectionately called Med Hut), eaten my packed lunch, and logged on to Skype my Dad about the situation. The efficiency of the staff and lack of bureaucracy astounds me. Sick days will never again be this simple, no matter where life takes me after Peace Corps. It should be mentioned, however, that problems involving major surgeries and the need for evacuation back to the USA for treatment are not this simple. In fact, a lot of bureaucracy is reportedly returned to these instances. Good luck to anyone going through that.

On to the recovery… The Med Hut is a glorious place. 4 dormers (each with 2 sets of bunk beds), 2 bathrooms with toilets, toilet paper, and tub-over-showers (not that I have the guts to take a bath here), 2 living rooms (one with a library and one with a TV, DVD player, and stock pile of DVDs) each with very comfy couches, a dining room with beautiful wooden table, and a kitchen full of all the utensils needed to make a great home cooked meal. Every room has air condition. A phone is even available to make free calls to the USA. Only sick volunteers are allowed to stay there, so it’s quite the relaxing oasis.

Med Hut Dining RoomAdding to the thrill of Med Hut is Senegal’s unique status of being THE locale for any volunteer in West Africa needing advanced medical treatment. Volunteers service in surrounding countries will get flown in, picked up, checked out, and treated by our staff or a qualified professional found only in Dakar. Which means, during my stay I have the pleasure to exchange stories and stats with volunteers from The Gambia and Cape Verde.

So while I’m enjoying a bit of comfort and new friendships, I’m coughing up my lungs at the same time. I’m keeping myself well medicated and grounded to the couch. I’ve send messages back to my host mom about getting tested for strep, but I don’t know how stubborn she’ll be about it. Meanwhile, word has gotten around about my urgent exodus from Mboro, so Senegalese friends have all started to calling. They want to know that I’m ok, that I’m coming back; they wish me a speedy recovery. Merci beaucoup, mes amis!

Soap Packaging Redesign ProjectSo if I’ve created a bucket list, you better believe the thought has crossed my mind once, or several hundred times, what I’ll be doing once my service with Peace Corps is up. It’s not unusual that I have no idea- that hasn’t changed much since people started asking in high school. However, there are a few things I’ve figured out. I’m not boarding a plane from Dakar directly to the US. Wherever I land will give me reliable internet access. At some point I’ll force my Dad to sit through another graduation ceremony (for my master’s degree), but I don’t know that that will be this year or the next. I’m also certain that I’ll have to determine a permanent address in the USA to maintain voting privileges, but I couldn’t tell you where that will be. Basically, I still use the phrases “when I grow up” and “I’ll tell you when I’m done.”

Starting A Business ClassHowever, I’m not opposed to outlaying some of the options I’ve kicked around: grad school full time, apply to the state department, return to the auto industry, teach English somewhere, become a full time travel bum, or even do a 3rd year of Peace Corps service. Most of those pretty much describe themselves (no, not a real bum but a wonderer of sorts), save the last which is the awe inspiring 3rd year of service. In short, I mean extending to stay here in Senegal. But let’s go deeper…

Scholarship Program WinnerA volunteer has the option to leave any time he or she pleases. The only thing that changes is the paperwork. Leaving before the end of service is called “early termination.” Leaving on time (within 90 days before or after the date 2 years following swearing in) is called “COS-ing,” where COS stands for close of service. Leaving any time after that is called an “extension” of service. A volunteer has the option to stay after for anywhere between a few months and a full year. Technically, a volunteer can stay for a 4th year, but its rear and comes with extenuating circumstances. Back on point, the volunteer that commits to full additional year will then receive a month vacation along with plane faire to return home for the month. Essentially, they are in the PC lifestyle an additional 13 months. Anything less than a year commitment doesn’t warrant the trip… but that doesn’t mean it can’t be granted if you end up changing your mind months into your extension.

According to the PC Manual, the criteria for extensions are as follows. “Volunteers should speak to their program managers in advance and extension requests should be made at least two months before a Volunteer’s established COS date. A country director will consider the following factors in determining whether to grand an extension request:Teaching Yoga at Girls' Camp- 1. A Volunteer’s unique importance to the total program and the overall benefit to the host country.- 2. The degree to which the Volunteer’s supervisor and other host country officials support the extension.- 3. The Volunteer’s motivation in seeking the extension.- 4. Medical approval from the Peace Corps medical officer.- 5. The conduct of the Volunteer.- 6. The quality of the Volunteer’s service to date.”

Tie-dye Products with Women's GroupIn my opinion, regardless of why one decides to stay, there are two types of extending volunteers; those that move to Dakar and those who stay in their village or regions. People staying in their village generally have some great project they’re working on and just can’t be torn away. They’re building a wireless network and giving laptop computers to all the kids in their schools. Or they’re helping build a remote lodge so tourists can spend the night next to waterfalls. These are actual stories. If not that, then they’ll stay in their regions guiding other volunteers or working with NGOs. But, equally popular is the migration to Dakar where they’ll become assistants to program directors, work on the Peace Corps websites and various publicity projects, collaborate with NGOs, or help organize events and trainings for volunteers.

Attraction to staying in the previously assigned village can include familiarity with area, already learned language skills and built-in friends. For me, the draws are my family, social network here in Mboro, and constant electricity. On the contrary, Dakar affords volunteers with increased availability of conveniences from the western world, anonymity in the large city, and a community of fellow ex-patriots. These attractions could be seriously expanded upon, but isn’t the point I’m trying to make.

English ClassAlthough most of the PC world lives a glorious life of freedom in their own apartment or homes, Senegalese Volunteers get the unique experience of literally joining a family and home. While the pitfalls and merits to this are not up for discussion at the moment, it’s worth mentioning that an extending volunteer has the option to live how he or she chooses for that 3rd year. Unless someone is staying in their original village of service, most choose to live on his or her own. With this comes the freedom of eating whatever you like whenever you like, coming and going as you please, and no longer dealing with my 6 host brothers and the noise they bring with them at all hours of the day (or some variant of this familiar distraction). Oh, to feel like a real independent adult again…

It’s unclear if this is the path for me. I’ve pondered options both in Dakar and here in Mboro that are feasible. I’ve had conversations with people. But some of those other after-service ideas are calling my name, too.

New Leather Product Designs

What seemed like an unthinkable option when I first got here, isn’t all that crazy anymore. When the time came for my friends to start their 3rd year of PC service, and move to Dakar, I found myself hauling a bag or two. But it’s not all that easy watching your friends say goodbye to the kind of life you’re leading now to move to a better one in Dakar. They’re still a Volunteer, but now they’ve moved up in the world (and don’t they know it). I think about how they wake up at the same time every morning, eat breakfast, and take a car to the office. They have an office, or a desk in the Peace Corps office, with air conditioning. They have to be there by a certain time (supposedly). They have lunch with fellow coworkers, and though it’s at a Senegalese rice shack (possibly equated to a 3rd world Coney Island Diner) it’s something I surely miss. From where I’m sitting it’s as though a 3rd year can act like a nicotine patch that slowly wanes one off PC life and back into the world of corporate America.

Travelling in under-developed countries can be scary for many a reason, but when my family came to visit clean water was my most pressing concern for them. A trifecta of parasites, bacteria and viruses (caused by human waste) are waiting at every turn to render even the most enthusiastic traveler incapacitated and glued to a bathroom. Being in the know myself, I stocked up on bottled water and we carried it everywhere we went. However, this doesn’t mean there’s a lack of other options. The most important thing to know, If you’re in the market to skip all three pathogens on your next trip, is to look for a water treatment option labeled “purifier” as this seems to be standard lingo for something that is a proven combater. And it’s a must for the unaccustomed visitors to Senegal.

Filters are the best option for cloudy waters. Portable filtering devices are available to travelers via outdoors and camping suppliers, but one should be warned that they are most effective for parasites and bacteria leaving drinkers vulnerable to viruses that might be (and probably are) present. Most travel guides recommend augmenting this option with iodine treatments to kill off residual problems. The Peace Corps equivalent is to mix in small amounts of chlorine bleach with the use of a dropper, as bleach is a readily available option in most corners of Senegal. Mix 2 drops per liter of pre-filtered water or 4 drops per liter of unfiltered water. And pack drink mix packets.

Iodine or chlorine based water treatment drops or tablets are available at outdoor stores or pharmacies. They kill most mini-critters but skip a few parasites. Carrying a small stock to remote locations is probably a safe bet, but don’t expect the water to taste decent in any way, shape or form after using them. My advice would be to pack some Gatorade mix, which also helps combat dehydration, along with this option and be sure to let water sit for 30 minutes before drinking. Also, these products are not available on the ground in Senegal, they’d have to be brought or shipped here from the Western world… so no, I don’t use them.

Steri-pens are light-saber-esque cootie zappers! We’re talking about a device that literally sterilizes microbes making them unable to reproduce and therefore harm you. This is a Volunteer favorite because it takes up as much room as your hairbrush in a backpack and kills the trifecta with a dip of the quartz based ultra violet tip into your glass or bottle of water. And if it’s small-size-versus-effectiveness ratio didn’t grab your attention then consider that after treatment wait time is non-existent and the flavor of the water won’t be tampered with. To be fair, you will have to pack batteries (something not easily come by in Senegal) and be conscious of breaking the light bulb… but I would still put it as the best option for anyone looking to cross Senegal off of their travel map.

Ok, in reality, barring a cost benefit analysis on steri-pens versus buying water, I can’t make a judgment call about which is the best option because they are both great ideas. At least two trustworthy bottling brands come to mind for a thirsty person in Senegal: Kirene and Fontaine. Standard sized carrying bottles, 1.5L large bottles, and even 10L jugs are sold around the country. Still more producers exist that offer up serving-sized plastic bags of water sold virtually anywhere for pennies- five of them to be exact. Just be weary that although the water inside is safe there’s no telling where the plastic bag itself has been; wipe it down, clean it off, or pour the water into a glass before consuming it. And while we’re on the subject, don’t expect a cold bottle, without a label or intact seal, that’s sold at a discount to be a good deal. It’s a reused bottle filled with tap water. Walk- no, run- away.

Experts may say that boiling water is the best method to kill your bacteria, parasite, and viral infected waters if done for 3 minutes or more because it is always 100% effective. But who has the utensils, time, or patience to wait for water to cool in Senegal? Even as a volunteer who’s got all the time in the world on her hands, I never find myself that bored. I don’t recommend this to fellow travelers coming to Senegal, unless your bottled stash has been depleted, steri-pen is broken, and iodine tablets are all used. Even then, I’d figure something else out. Don’t waste your precious exploration time building a heat source, boiling, and then waiting for water to cool. You’ll probably be for water by the time all that is done… and probably sick by then anyway.

And this brings me to another comparative analysis conversation. I’ll reiterate a point I’ve taken to heart since my days of Breast Cancer 3-Days (or 60 miles) of walking: when it comes to dehydration versus diarrhea, choose diarrhea! I kid you not, friend. Any medical professional will tell you it’s easier to treat yourself for diarrhea than to be treated for dehydration. In the land of sand, I can become dehydrated quickly; often times faster than I can get back to safe water essentially putting myself at risk of passing out. Diarrhea may keep me constantly very aware of the nearest toilet but at least I’m conscious. And finding treatment can wait until I back in a populated area, where as dehydrated individuals need immediate attention- not easy to come by in West Africa. So always choose to drink the sketchy water before going thirsty. Always.

If you’re eating out, remember that the untreated waters of Senegal are used to make various delicious dishes. Items such as boiled veggies, or hot teas and coffees are safe, but unless you’re at a high-end restaurant you’d be best advised to skip the fresh salad, ice water and local juices. Restaurants in Dakar will be familiar with techniques for cleaning vegetables or preparing other items with clean water, but the same can’t be said for every remote destinations spot. Local juice flavors are best consumed from syrups and cartons bought at western stores where the producer is a trusted source.

As for me, I’ve had my fair share of water related stories. From accidentally drinking a larger quantity than necessary of bleach to running behind the bushes with diarrhea, I’ve gained experience in it all. For my first 8 months or so I carried a water bottle with me like I’d die without it. And when that stock ran out, but I was too far away from a refill, I’d buy some. If there wasn’t any to buy, take a deep breath, I’d just drink what was available. Sometimes I’d get sick, sometimes I wouldn’t. Sometimes it’d be 3 days later, sometimes 30 minutes. It’s Mboro’s version of Russian roulette.

People always told me my neighborhood’s water (pumped in from the factory) was filtered, yet I was hesitant to trust them. My family and I share a refrigerator and thus a place to chill our bottles of water. Some of my youngest family members have yet to grasp the idea that my water bottle is off limits (as its treated water) and so they’d drink from it, replace with normal tap water, and throw it back in the fridge. By the time I caught on I’d been drinking the tap water from my house without issue for months. The water in my neighborhood is in fact filtered or I’m already hardened to it.

Peace Corps Senegal issues every incoming volunteer a water filter with charcoal “candles” to filter tap or well-drawn water. In addition we’re given droppers to help us measure the bleach-to-water ratios. It was about a year into my service when I packed up my water filter for good, around the same time my third water bottle rendered itself useless. I just found it easier to share bottles with the family. Since Peace Corps Medical Staff also equips us with appropriate and sufficient quantities of meds to cure most of the common G.I. track issues, I don’t worry about it too much. I’ve learned how to read my digestive system and can now safely anticipate its next move… meaning I can tell when a problem is in the works and I will simply stay home until it passes.

As the end of my service draws near (only 1 year left?) I decided to make a “bucket list” of all the things I want to do, visit and see in Senegal before I kick my African bucket. A list was born. I won’t be divulging its contents, because I’m no spoiler, but I look forward to sharing the exploits one by one with friends and family.

With that said, I crossed something off my list recently. I and a few friends set out to find us some camels. We got in a car headed north from Mboro, picked up Christine on the way, and started to look for an ATM to withdrawal some cash. I should’ve directed us down the road to Thies for this, I have no problem admitting that, but I honestly wasn’t thinking about the easiest option. Honestly. So we went north to Kebemere; the last town before we needed to turn off for our excursion. No ATM and the tellers were closed on a Saturday. The next town up was Louga… and it’s a bit messy to navigate. We asked for directions to a bank (any bank) no less than 6 times. While the driver made comments about our “tour of the world,” I kept telling everyone that this is how great adventures started: lost! But success was had shortly after and we made our way back to Kebemere and then west toward the coast.

Let’s pause. At this same point in time a Senegalese Islamic holiday called Magal was underway. Basically all the Senegalese who belong to a specific brotherhood of worship, and who have the means, make a pilgrimage to a town not too far away called Touba. This is the birth place of Café Touba (chai-like coffee drink) and one of the most famed mosques in western Africa. So here we are, sharing the same road with the millions of people attempting this year’s pilgrimage. To better explain the chaos endured I will say that at some point we passed a semi whose container box had been filled with scaffolding, which was then layered with people. And even more people were sitting on top of the container. I was never good at those ‘count the jelly beans in the jar’ games, but there had to be 50 to 75 people there. I wish that a) I was kidding and b) I had gotten my camera out fast enough for that picture. In addition, the number of near accidents forces me to use more than my fingers and toes to count. Adventure.

In the later hours of the morning we reached the town of Lompoul. This quaint village has nothing uniquely remarkable about it except for its proximity to something quite amazing. After parking the car near the “gift shop” row (read: 5 stands of identical product) we made a few calls, hung out with local children, and were then picked up by our transportation to the lodge. A pickup truck had been converted to a dune buggy with two benches in the middle and a surrounding of roll-cage-esque supports. We hopped in the back and within seconds were off-roading through the landscapes of the northern coastal region of Senegal.

The area is considered a nearly Saharan part of the sub-Saharan region; which is a tongue twisting way of saying the Saharan desert is spreading south at a slow and continuous rate and northern Senegal is transforming. So the further we drove the more vegetation died off and sand became prevalent. Next to a small village of a few huts we stopped the car to let some air out of the tires. This was apparently how we would make it through all the sand without toppling over. Adventure.

A 10 minute ride later, we pulled to a halt near some huts (that we later learned were showers) and disembarked to discover the lodge we had scheduled our excursion with. Past the shower stalls we stumbled into sand dunes. Rolling golden sand as far as the eye could see. On top of small hills or dug into valleys were little camps of 6 to 10 white tents. Large squares, the edges of which were buried under the sand, peaked in the middle at 4 feet high. Inside were straw mats for flooring and foam mattresses for overnight guests. We spotted at least 3 groupings of tent villages. Each one of them seemed to have an area of toilets… which were actually real shining white western toilets cemented into the sand and surrounded with thatched leaf walls. Bizzare. At the top of a larger hill were a set of more permanent buildings, one of which was marked “bar”- a promising sign. We were greeted, shown to a matted sitting area and offered cool beverages. Yes, it was astonishing to us that the beers were cold in the middle of this dessert. We sat back and enjoyed the view.

And though that never really got boring, we found ourselves ready to embark on the adventure that is dune surfing. Grabbing an old boogie board and a snowboard without its bindings, we headed for the largest dune in sight. I’d like to tell you that my years of skiing and minimalist attempts at snowboarding were helpful in this scenario, but that’d be a lie. Without bindings I lacked the guts to stand on the downward moving board. In fact, no one had ‘em. But using the boards as sleds on those dunes was a lot of fun too. Mildly less fun was falling off the boards, crashing into the sand, and eating it. But it did make things oh-so-funny. Unfortunately, there was no lift back to the top, so we only made it down a few times each before the mid-day sun roasted the sand dissuading us from additional climbs of the dune.

Back at the bar hut and seating area, we had yet another cold drink until lunch was served. Inside a nearby longer tent were some low rise reed tables and wooden step stools used as seats. We sat down to bread and a plate of shredded cabbage and carrots with boiled potatoes and hard boiled eggs drizzled with vinaigrette. For the main course we had beef yassa, or better known as sautéed onions in bouillon and vinegar sauce with large chunks of pot roast style beef poured over white rice. For dessert we had chilled clementines.

After a quick cat nap back on the mats, it was time for the main event. We hiked out to another dune and got ourselves acquainted with camels. The saddles were oddly shaped metal boxes with cloth linings strapped down to the camel just before his hump thanks to the use of some boating line. Just after the hump a rice sac refilled with who knows what (sand?) was also tied down. As there were 3 camels and 4 potential riders, Christine and I opted to share one of these lethargic animals. I sat in the box and she on the sac a dos. We mounted up while the camel was still resting in the sand. The most harrowing part of the excursion was the rise of the camel. Pushing his back legs up first, we were pitched forward as though on a bucking bull until the camel stabilized and lifted his front legs up, reorienting all 3 of us. Adventure.

And off we went, walking along the ridgeline of the dunes. All three camels were tied together with our guide leading the first one by a rope. Our friend Kenny rode backwards until the guide got angry and made him promise to stop shifting in his seat. Christine kept humming “Mr. Sandman.” We took a plethora of pictures and laughed the entire time. It was amazing. Back at camp we got another cold drink and made a few sand angels. Kenny bought a pillow (insert joke about the “real” Bed, Bath, and Beyond) and we humbly made our trip back to Mboro. “Once in a lifetime” is probably the only phrase that adequately explains this experience. What I’m sure was only a few hours in real time will last a lifetime in my memory as one of the best things I’ve ever done!

Some things never change. But seeing as I was only gone a few weeks, I never expected them too. As a shout out to my fellow volunteers, here are some things that have happened to remind me about my African life. As if one could ever forget…1. You’ve greeted Steve, or whatever you call your roommate.2. People sit around talking about how much weight you’ve gained.3. You see a sheep tied to a tree and no one around it for meters.4. A child begs you for money and you tell them to go away.5. Someone has demanded (in a very accusatory voice) where their gift is.6. You’re hungry 2 hours after eating and realize it’s because you ate mostly rice.7. You look forward to a cold glass of water. 8. The ATM is out of money and the bank won’t let you into line because it’s less than an hour until closing time (and there are already 5 people waiting).9. There is no toilet paper in the bathroom. 10. You consider skipping going to another location solely because of the stress of the garage.11. Your possessions have mysteriously disappeared from the regional house.12. The DVD player is broken so you and your friends rig up the speakers to someone’s laptop because you know there’s no point is trying to fix/ replace the player.13. Someone points out the color of your skin, as if you didn’t already know it, as a form of greeting that they actually expect you respond to.14. The power goes out. Every day.15. You climb in and out of a mosquito net, or bed… whatever you want to call it.16. You set a meeting with someone and they aren’t actually there when they say they would be.17. Everything seems to be going at snail’s pace, but the drivers still honk when you don’t drive or move out of the way fast enough.18. You’re back to downloading your favorite TV shows instead of catching reruns on the actual TV.19. You go to the store for one egg, one potato, one onion, one green pepper, a few tomatoes, and a serving size packet of oil. Its’ called breakfast, and no, it’s not easier to buy in bulk.20. You wake up 5 am to the alarm you didn’t set- the mosque!21. People are calling you by some African name. Bonjour, Soda.22. The driver’s music is so loud you can’t hear yourself think.23. You change flip flops before taking a shower.24. You eat a Clementine and a cliff bar and call it lunch.25. You do laundry to pass time; not in your free time.26. Dinner’s served at 10:30pm.27. You have to re-teach yourself to fall asleep to opera of crickets versus the fan.28. You walk away from a conversation only 90% confident of what exactly was said.29. You have to reorganize your purse to once again include sunglasses, sun block, and mosquito repellent.30. You miss berries once more.31. You keep a mental note of how much protein you’ve consumed throughout the day.32. At some point the person you’re talking makes you feel like you’ve grown a 2nd head.33. Your new year’s resolution is to make it to next year with your sanity only mildly bruised.34. You walk large circles around sick children in order to avoid getting sick. Hopefully.35. Your second new year’s resolution is to do a better job of remembering to take your anti-malarial prophylaxis on time.36. Once again, you’re showering multiple times as day.

37. You’ve consciously ordered the cheapest thing on the menu.38. You have to once again get over the lack of mass waste removal systems and accept merely throwing your trash on the ground.39. You’ve made a list of all the things you forgot to bring back from the 1st world.40. You look in the mirror, but are significantly less motivated to change what you see… because you couldn’t even if you wanted to. You just don’t have the supplies to look as great as you did "over there."

Aside from everything mentioned in the last entry, one last important point I’d like to make before we get to the details of this food diary is that my family is not like “normal” Senegalese families. I can’t say this enough; my experience is completely different from just about every other volunteer in this country. I am the exception, not the rule. My family is pretty wealthy and we therefore have the ability to buy more variety. They are health conscious (as my Mom is actually on a diet- and losing weight) and so we are always talking about ways to prepare and eat better food. By contrast, I’ve had conversations with volunteers who’ve never even seen chocolate in their villages, who live in desert places where fresh veggies don’t grow in- nor get delivered to- their town, and who are always eating lunch’s leftovers for dinner (and sometimes breakfast the next day, too). Remember: exception, not rule.

And now, a recap of all the things I ate for a week:

Monday Lunch: Beef Maffee. This is a tomato paste based sauce with peanut butter added for flavor. Veggies cooked whole and then broken into pieces during the meal include potato, sweet potato, cabbage, manioc, carrot, onion and hot pepper. All of this poured over white rice. A soy sauce substitute is sprinkled on top and a wedge of lemon is available to cut the spice.

Monday Dinner: Beef with Veggies. The meat is braised in oil and garlic before the water and veggies are added to the pot and thoroughly cooked (i.e. water has evaporated). Veggies are green bean, onion, and potato quarters. Pieces of bread accompany the dish.

Tuesday Lunch: Beef Curry. Beef is cooked in oil. Small pieces of carrot, onion, tomato, cabbage, and white radish are cooked in the traditional yellow Indian curry sauce… while whole pieces of manioc, potato and hot pepper are also added and then poured over white rice.

Tuesday Dinner: Beef Spaghetti. Yes, we have pasta here… which, after cooked, is covered in copious amounts of oil, onions and a few pieces of beef. Bread is served on the side. Side note: they break the pasta strands into thirds, even though the entire long piece will fit in the pot for boiling, just to make it bite sized.

Wednesday Lunch: Fish and Rice. The dish of Senegal! Pieces of fish are fried in oil, sauce is made from bouillon cube in which cabbage, potato, carrot, bitter tomato, and sweet potato are cooked. After, the cooked veggies are removed and a portion of the sauce is mixed with the cooked rice. The whole thing is pour back over the now red rice and eaten.

Wednesday Dinner: Salad. The outer circle of the bowl is lined with unbroken pieces of lettuce that have been tossed in vinaigrette. The inner circle is filled with boiled potatoes, carrots, onions, and green beans. Fresh cucumber, green pepper, and tomato slices are dispersed around the entire bowl, along with spam, hardboiled egg, and sausage slices. The entire dish is then drizzled with ketchup, herbed mayonnaise, and hot sauce. And of course there is bread.

Thursday Lunch: Beef Yassa. Picture long slices of white onion sautéed in oil and vinegar. Add beef pieces and pour over white rice. Variations sometimes include additional vegetables or green olives, but generally not. It’s a pretty bland and nutrition less meal.

Thursday Dinner: Mouhamza. The tiniest dot pasta balls cooked then mixed with water, powdered milk, and sugar. No bread comes with this one (did you really want it?). My host mom wishes all to know that normally this meal is reserved for Sunday dinner (light meal rotation)… but as she was very busy during this afternoon she had little time to prepare a “proper” meal.

Friday Lunch: Beef Domada. Tomato based sauce mixed with flour, to make it thick and goopy, and bay leaves. Whole cooked potato, carrot, cabbage head, manioc, and sweet potato are divided amongst the participants during the meal. Bite sized beef and white rice round out the dish.

Friday Dinner: Beef and Potatoes with Salad. This dish comes with “Irish style” stewed meat and potatoes in an onion sauce. A salad lines the outer circle and consists of vinaigrette soaked lettuce, tomato, green pepper and mustard and hot sauce sprinkled on top. Bread, as always, is served on the side.

Saturday Lunch: Fish and Fish Balls with Rice. This is a fancier version of the same meal eaten earlier in the week. One large fish is substituted for the pieces used in the last version. Same veggies are cooked in sauce, but egg plant and red beans have been added. Smaller pieces of green beans, white radish, and onions have also been incorporated into the sauce. Another type of fish is mashed, balled, fried and added to the veggies and sauce. The whole sauce is mixed with the rice. A hot pepper has been added for good measure.

Let’s pause for a disclaimer: I have informed the town of Mboro (and quite a few people outside it) that I am allergic to fish. I therefore, have a system worked out with my family where when fish is eaten I will go out, eat leftovers, or prepare my own meal. So on Wednesday I made myself hard boiled eggs and ate a plate of spaghetti. And Saturday I made an egg salad sandwich and a cup of ramen noodles. It’s nutritious (sort of) and a little taste of home.

Saturday Dinner: Green Peas. This is one of my favorite meals. Admittedly it’s because of its protein and fiber content, but also because green peas seem to taste different here. Purchased dried, the peas spend an afternoon being rehydrated in salt water. They’re then boiled until soft. Beef pieces and an onion sauce are created together then added to the peas. Bread is served on the side, of course.

Sunday Lunch: Meat and Rice. As it was my host mom’s birthday we had her favorite meal for lunch. Rice was cooked with curry, hot spices, and bay leaves. Cucumber, carrot, tomato, green pepper, white radish, green beans and onion were sliced into long thin slices and tossed with green peas and vinaigrette. Beef and sausage was pan cooked, while summer sausage and hard boiled eggs were cut into slices. Green olives, pickled Vidalia onions and pickles were littered about the top.

Sunday Dinner: Chakrey. Picture a runny (not so goopy) sweat vanilla yogurt. Add pieces of your favorite tropical fruits (papaya, cantaloupe melon, pineapple) and a few others such as banana and apple. Throw in some dried stuff too; raisons and cherries. Added to it is millet flour made into millimeter sized balls thanks to water and a few drops of orange and vanilla extracts (it was also steamed at some point). This is the only meal that is served in individual serving sized bowls. Seconds are optional, and on this occasion I even had thirds!

Another note about dessert: Sunday being mom’s birthday, we had a phenomenal buffet of dessert. First we had the same yogurt described above minus the millet, plus extra fruit. But most importantly, my host father drove to the gourmet bakery (an hour away) to buy 6 (yes, I said 6) different flavored cakes for my mom. This is the 2nd year running I’ve seen this and it convinces me that for all dad’s joking he really does love mom! Happy 39th birthday to Ndiaye Anna Ba.

I frequently get a lot of questions about Senegalese food, so I decided to create a week long diary of what it is that I actually eat. While I was on vacation in the US, I attempted to refuse to eat rice or onions… because they are in everything I’ve eaten for nearly a year and a half. Aside from that tid-bit it’s time to lay out a detailed description of what I’m consuming (and why I’m always asking for protein in care packages).

There are a few basics that apply to every meal that I figure are “must know.” So this installment I’ll throw out all the generalities (and the next one will have a blow by blow of an entire week of food).

First off, half of ever meal is prepared in the hallway. The kitchen is used for storage of utensils, cookware and the gas tank. Things may be cooked there but they prep work is done in the hallway. Mom pulls up a chair then washes, peels, slices, or mashes food in the most common area of the house. The refrigerator even sits in the hall way. Honestly, there just isn’t enough room in the kitchen anyways… it’s roughly the size of guest bathrooms you’d see in America. Seriously.

When I say there is beef in a meal what I mean is someone got a hunk of who-knows-what-part of cow from the butcher. It was probably killed within the last 48 hours. I hope. They don’t seem to know how to handle fat, so my family cuts through the muscle portion to form small bite sized pieces thus leaving the fat to ribbon through each piece; yummy. In any given meal there are only maybe 15 to 20 pieces of meat and 9 or more of us at the bowl. This is why I ALWAYS ask for protein in care packages.

The “table” is a piece of vinyl that is placed on the floor, either in the hallway (for lunch) or the living room (for dinner). Then the meal is served in a circular platter about 24 inches in diameter with a 1 inch high rim. Everyone is handed a spoon at lunch and a fork at dinner. My youngest brother has a mini fork and spoon. This is not the case in every home. Quite often you will hear of people eating with their hand- without utensils. This is normal, but as my family is well off we only find ourselves in this situation when many more guests are around than we have utensils. The women sit on their legs, butt cheeks on ankles, while the men sit on their left leg the same way with the right foot on the ground and knee to their chests. Guests are given a “bank” which resembles the foot stool we used as kids to brush our teeth in the bathroom sink. It’s not really all that comfortable and just makes you eat with your chest resting on your knees during the meal. Or at least that’s how I feel.

As for etiquette, we have only a few rules. Everyone eats with their right hand, while the left hand holds a piece of bread (at night only). It is not the biggest insult if I forget and chew a piece of bread with my left hand, I’ve seen my family do it, but I generally try to set my fork down, tear a piece off in my right hand, and then eat it. When you are done eating, it is then acceptable to find a drink (or be handed one if you’re a guest). No one speaks, drinks, or moves slowly during a meal. You snooze; you lose- your precious few bits of meat- as any given period of consumption lasts a maximum of ten minutes.

Breakfast in my house is always the same: bread. It’s therefore not worth mentioning 7 individual times. We each get about 6 inches of white baguette. My mother will spread butter on the insides for my brothers. Occasionally we’ll have chocolate, or fruit preserves (if I’ve brought them) on the weekends. During Ramadan we try to eat sandwiches with egg or meat and cheese on them as it is already 7p and we are dying for protein. And there are plenty of volunteers who eat breakfast out… and acquire cooked bean sandwiches or chalkery (yogurt and millet) but those options are a pretty long walk for me and who can stand to wait that long for breakfast?

To drink for breakfast the kids are handed a cup of heated water mixed with sugar and powdered milk (because of its high fat and vitamin content… and good taste?). Adults drink water with Nestcafe (instant coffee) or Café Touba (strong chai spiced coffee). A third option is Quinquilliba, a mild local green leaf boiled in water for tea.

An note should be made about dessert. After lunch, if we have the stock, fruit is served. We’ll eat slices of watermelon, melon, corossol or papaya, or share pieces of orange, apple, banana… generally anything we can find in season. For special occasions, such as birthdays or holidays (both American and Senegalese) we’ll make a cake. Last year on my mom’s birthday my dad drove to Thies and bought her a cake from the bakery. It was really cute. And finally, when bored or throwing a party, my family pulls out the ice cream maker and tries a new recipe involving sweet yogurt or eggs and condensed milk. Generally with fruit flavors added but we attempted a great chocolate version once! Any dessert is successful if my 2.5 year old brother is wearing more of it than he’s eaten (actually that rule goes for most meals, too)!

One of the most important points to keep in mind is that we are currently in “vegetable season.” This goes to say that veggies are abundant and inexpensive (read: affordable in appropriate quantities). The meals represented next, especially at night, are infinitely more nutritious this time of year than, say, the end of the dry season just before the rain hits and plants can grow again. Perhaps I’ll log another meal diary in 6 months for comparison…

And lastly, the timing of meals isn’t what you’d expect either. Lunch is served anywhere from 1:30p to 3:30p. Schools in Mboro don’t even let out for lunch until 1p. If its Friday then lunch can be even later as the most important prier of the week (read: trip to the local mosque) takes place at 2:20p. Dinner is then pushed back to 9:30p at the earliest, but generally around 10:30 or 11p. This is because my brothers get hungry around dusk… so they snack. If we eat too soon after snack time they won’t finish dinner and this greatly annoys my host mother. In addition, 2 nights a week my dad won’t even get home from work until 10:30p so we’re waiting for him to join us before eating. Frequently some of my youngest brothers won’t make it until dinner is actually served before passing out of the night.

As part of the African adventure I planned for m sister’s visit, I combined visiting a friend, seeing a new point in Senegal, and doing something I’d never done before… and that’s how kayaking came about. We went to see the beautiful sites of five or so villages known collectively as the destination of Palmarin.

The adventure started when we left Mboro, took a two hour detour to see the mosques of Tivaouane (collecting Christine), and then passed through the Thies and Mbour garages before finally arriving at our destination. Along the route, I’d showed my sister the art of shopping for food via garage as we collected fruit, nuts, bread, and water. In addition, they got to experience the magic that is a seven-place ride with its heat, smells, lack of space, and breast feeding passengers. As an added bonus the car broke down on the road affording us that mini adventure too.

By my recollection, we went three villages into the collection of Palmarin before disembarking at the intersection of two dirt roads. Before getting there we’d crossed the delta and the seemingly infinite span of salt flats, choosing to actually drive on the salt flats because, as the name implies, it was significantly less pot-holed and bumpy than the actual road itself. The resilient pools of water made it easy to imagine the flooding that would have occurred during the rainy season making travel to and from the area a nightmare, if not completely impossible only a few months beforehand.

In the village of my friend, we passed time at a local restaurant sipping on cold cokes, tasting mint ice cream, meeting my friend’s host family, searching out more drinks, and gossiping in the shade until more volunteers joined our party. In total we became a team of seven ready for kayaking, camping, and a great time. So we started hiking, in the later afternoon sun, down an endless dirt road toward water, our guides, and the boats. And this lasted for about an hour, or maybe two miles, until we arrived at a shallow bank of water. There were two guides for the adventure who would navigate the waterways of the delta, set up camp, prepare dinner, and act as a bevy of knowledge about the area.

We pared off for the boating part of the excursion, although not all that smartly, with Christine and I in our own kayak, my sister and her boyfriend in another, the boys in a third, and the remaining volunteer to pilot a solo kayak. Disaster struck Christine and I almost immediately after pushing off from land. The water was only 5 inches deep, but we managed to get ourselves completely turned around and floating backwards with the current in mere minutes. The rest of our party long gone, we piloted from one bush of mangroves to the next attempting some on-the-job acquisition of the skill. Where I had started in the front of the boat (the strong rowing position), we eventually found our groove with me in the back (the navigator position).

Just before sunset we pulled into camp. Although it felt as though we were on a secluded island, we were told that walking farther into the bush one could find their way to another village and eventually the main road. But from where we were standing, we’d landed on one of the only banks with a clearing in the mangroves. A few tall trees, a flat surface for tents and brush already trimmed back a bit. The space of land was slightly elevated which augmented our view of the delta.

Our guides handed us peanuts and blankets so we sat down to enjoy the sunset with a celebratory cocktail; a good time ensued. For dinner we started with an appetizer of clams served with an onion sauce and pieces of fresh veggies. Dinner was grilled shish kabobs of lotte, a type of white fish, with more veggies. It was outstanding. The guides had even brought a cooler of cold sodas and beers to share. By the time dinner was done we were ready to call it quits and climbed into our already set up tents with air mattresses and sheets and blankets; very hospitable.

The next morning we woke at dawn to the sounds of hyenas in the distance. A French breakfast consists of bread with butter or jam and coffee, which is what we ate picnic style once more plus some juice and fruit. A little bit later we’d packed up camp, loaded the kayaks, and set off once more to navigate the delta.

After the debacle that was our experience the night before we begged the guys to split up their kayak to save Christine and I the hassle of forging once more through the unfamiliar experience. They refused. Perhaps they thought it was funny. We disagreed but had no choice to brave it again. And it was going quite well, even though we were now going upstream, until it occurred to the guys that our kayak was ahead of theirs; typical male egos. So they picked up the pace, and just as we were going around a close quarters type of corner in tandem with my sister’s kayak the guys slid their kayak between our two, slamming into ours midway down the length of her effectively pushing us into the mangroves. It was all over for our confidence after that. We couldn’t get ourselves out of one bush without landing again in another. Sigh. The guys thought this to be hilarious, so at the first chance we got we splashed them with as much water as our paddles would throw. It seemed justified at the time.

Before making it back to the main road, we took a detour to a small island covered in shells that were protected grounds after being looted for the shells that could be used to build roads out of the delta to Dakar. There we learned more fun facts and found our way to a giant baobab tree. The guy was so big that 8 of us could climb inside of it. Literally. And we did. And after the hilarity of that, we had a nice cup of coffee inside before climbing back out. Then back to the kayaks. And then we made it back to the main road, thus completing our entire experience. Well done, well maybe except the actual kayaking part.

It seems that most of the maladies I’ve tackled here in Africa have been contracted by something liquid. The problem is the contaminated water. We have filters, bleach droppers, and even pre-filtered bottled water… but as it usually does in life, shit happens. There are times when I run out of water in my carrying bottle long before I know I’ll make it back to a vendor or my treated stash. It’s at these times that I think to myself “diarrhea is way easier to treat than dehydration.” I know what you’re thinking, diarrhea leads to dehydration… but that’s only if I still haven’t made it back to water by then. And when I get dehydrated I stop functioning like a rational human being, which makes getting anywhere in this blistering sand box a whole hell of a lot worse. And my final argument is the ability to stop at any house on the way home and beg the use their hole in the ground toilet… but once I’ve made the commitment to not drink untreated water, there’s no stopping by any old house begging for water.

So, once getting myself into a waterless predicament, then choosing the lesser of the two evils and chancing the contaminated water, there is nothing to do but cross my fingers and pray to not spend quality time with my toilet. But, you know, shit happens.

Plus side is that a good number of maladies have also been cured by some of my new favorite liquids. Stomach cramp, constipation, or urinary tract infection: bissap juice. Irritated stomach or amoebas of some kind: ginger juice. Dizziness, high blood pressure, dehydration: treated water (generally in mass quantities) mixed with oral rehydration salts. Laziness, tiredness, or lack of motivation: café Touba. Sweet tooth or lack of appetite: Senegalese tea. Depleted stash of water flavoring packets: Foster’s Clark fruit drink mix packets. Stress, irritability, or general need to relax: beer.

I know a few of these might be foreign words that you’ve spent a good 3 minutes deciding how to pronounce, so I figure we should go into more detail.

A glass of icy bissap juice is actually sundried hibiscus flowers that have been soaked in water. That water was then drained, mixed with sugar (and extracts of any kind or lemon juice), and then chilled. Fancier versions include soaking mint in with the flower petals. It is similar in color and taste to cranberry juice, and I can personally attest to its third likeness to the fruit with respect to urinary tract infections. If brewed in hot water, it tastes more like a berry tea and does seem to help with anything variety of stomach cramping knots. However, beware not to drink more than a few glasses of bissap because in large quantities it acts as both a diuretic and caffeine. No one wants to be awake all night running to the bathroom every half hour. Trust me; I’ve made that mistake already.

For a spin, mix it with orangina (soda water with a dose of orange flavor) for a kiddy cocktail, with gin for a man’s drink, or rum and sprite for something a bit fancier. If you find yourself in Dakar where rum is strangely in short supply substitute whiskey and continue about your evening. It won’t taste all that great, but then again what were you expecting?

Bissap can be found in syrup form (a thriving enterprise among women’s groups), purchased on the streets made with local water and sold at reduced prices, occasionally by the glass for exorbitant prices in restaurants, or in the grocery stores by the carton.

Café Touba can best be described as strong hot Starbucks coffee mixed with chai spices. Because the Senegalese love their sugar so much there is an excessive amount in there. Like any coffee, caffeine is the key ingredient, but this mixture will have you off your ass before you can finish the espresso shot serving size portion.

Senegalese tea is similar to the Café Touba in that it too will be served with copious amounts of sugar in a shot sized serving. It is brewed with Chinese green tea for round one, even more sugar in round two and with mint by round three. Don’t drink on an empty stomach because you will get sick. It is typically served after lunch as a digestive while more sugar conscious individuals are partaking of siesta.

Foster’s Clark is the only thing getting me through the monotony of daily water consumption. Before you start making noise about my finicky pallet, I suggest you try filtered beached water for breakfast lunch and dinner for any duration of time. Right. So Foster’s Clark makes all sorts of great flavors like orange, apple, guava, passion fruit, peach, mango, and even Coca Cola. Mix ‘em with a large bottle of water and enjoy for about 30 min until your next bottle (because that’s how fast we go through water in the hot season).

And last but not least, Senegal produces a total of four beers on its soil. Flag and Gazelle were the only two around when I landed. A Flag tastes like a wheat version of Budweiser while Gazelle is like a Miller Lite that only gets better when you add a lime wedge Corona style. I was immediately drawn to Gazelle for its great quantity for the money ratio and taste. Later in my service two more beers were introduced: 33 and Pelforth. 33 is somewhere between Flag and Gazelle in taste and bottle size, where as the Pelforth is an amber ale. There are some imports that are available in bigger cities for more money, but who can be bothered? Hmm, yeah I stuck with my old faithful.

Dear Reader,

I should probably explain that I've been absent for a while due to my impending Christmas holiday plans. On top of my regular lack of consistent internet availability, I've added last minute projects and 2 weeks of fun filled quality time with loved ones to the agenda. So basically, I won't be blogging for a bit. Have no fear, a glorious return is planned for January.

Thank you for a year of listening to my mind's idle chatter. Happy Holidays to all.

Alys

Stop. Before we go any further, I need to make the following announcement: this blog is about menstrual cycles. If you’re a guy perhaps it’d be better for you not to read this. I’m serious. This means you, Dad.

Ok, now that that’s out of the way… it has come to my attention that people I don’t actually know read my blog because of its informative properties. Therefore, I’ve chosen to share (in the most professional way I can hope for?) my knowledge on being a women in either the Peace Corps West Africa and dealing with my monthly gift.

The Peace Corps handbook tells a future volunteer to pack everything they could want for the next two years and specifically lists feminine hygiene products as a part of that pack. They say this because more often than not there is no place to buy what you’re looking for. Either it doesn’t exist, or you’d have to travel way too far to either find it or easily return on a monthly endeavor. If you’re a mildly OCD type like me, you’d be facing an excel “packing” spreadsheet attempting to calculate an average tampon usage per month multiplied by estimated duration in Africa, with buffers for any changes inevitably incurred by unforeseeable strain on the body (because let’s face it, adjusting to PC life is NOT easy). I didn’t like statistics class in college and therefore couldn’t find an acceptable calculation that didn’t involve an entire suitcase full of tampons.

So I opted for the alternative, Diva Cup, for the sole advantage of saving packing space. The diva cup is a closed-ended funnel shaped piece of molded plastic designed to rest inside a vagina and collect waste matter. Periodically the cup is extracted, emptied and reinserted. At the end of a menstrual cycle the cup is cleaned, sterilized, and stored until next month. This one product can be used for the entire duration of my Peace Corps service and takes up less room in my suitcase than a bottle of Tums.

I found one of the only stores in my state to sell the device on its shelves and dragged a trusted friend with me. The economic crisis being in full swing, and everyone looking to save a few bucks, I talked my friend into buying one too. I didn’t have an opportunity to try the method out before heading to Africa but she did and, quite frankly, her results were inconclusive and a bit daunting.

Naturally this meant that along with all the other things I had on my mind, I got slammed with starting my period my very first night in Africa. Hurray! So I got out my cup, read the directions another seven times and spent a good half hour making sure I’d positioned it right. And I did all of this without dropping it down the new squat toilet I was adjusting to; bonus points! Thank god the Peace Corps took mercy on us in that first week by providing a running tap next to the hole in the ground as well as some toilet paper. I probably would’ve cried if they hadn’t been there.

The application of this product is something I’ve never had experience with… going inside. With the tampon’s easy applicator and removal string, who had the need? But honestly, the whole experience was similar to giving up toilet paper. The first time you do it a panic attack nearly cripples you with nightmares of germs and disease and you spend no less than ten minutes washing your hands. The next time you bring it down to a mere 5 minutes. Eventually, you relax. You haven’t gotten sick and, after all, that’s what soap was invented for.

As the months continue to rack up, I’ve become more and more appreciative of my Diva Cup. The benefits are more than the initial savings in suitcase room. Because it’s made of plastic, it can be worn for longer than 8 hours if necessary without fear of toxic shock syndrome. Additionally, there is no fear of leak (after you’ve gotten the hang of insertion, that is) and therefore no fear of embarrassing stains or inability to wash them out when I do my laundry by hand. If that weren’t enough, there are frequently times when water isn’t always available to wash either the cup or hands so this option allows me to wait until I’ve returned to the privacy of my own home, or at the very least a trusted locale.

Now let’s talk about trash. There are no landfills, no recycling centers, and no compost facilities to make things better. What we do have is a lot of delusions about how the trash isn’t affecting our environment. The outside perimeter of the city is covered in it. Either you carry it there yourself, or if you’re lucky (like me) someone goes around the neighborhood collecting it for you… and then dumps it out there. My family creates about one small desk size waste basket of non-biodegradable trash per week. That’s pretty impressive considering there are 8 of them. I make about one basket all by myself, and I’m constantly looking for a way to stop making more (damn drink mix packets!). Anyway, there’s a lot of waste product involved with the whole tampon issue and I’m seriously thankful that I’m not contributing all that to the town’s trash field. Kids and animals alike both play there, and the thought of them discovering (and playing with) my waste makes me cringe with embarrassment.

What do the Senegalese women do, you ask? Well, my understanding is that they employ the tactic of cotton fabrics stuffed in underwear which is then washed and reused. The whole process is well hidden as I’ve never seen anything resembling this hung out on the laundry line to dry. Feminine hygiene products are available for sale at western stores, but they are very expensive, and as I’ve mentioned before generally don’t appeal to the publicity that accompanies the trash removal aspect of society.

So now that I’ve convinced you to purchase your own Diva Cup (whether you’re joining PC or looking for a cost/ environmental savings at home) I’d like to touch on my one and only mishap with the cup. As I’ve mentioned before, at the end of the week, I clean and sterilize the cup before storing it away until the next month. In Mboro this means I borrow my family’s gas tank to boil it in water for about five minutes then soak it in a bleach water solution for another five minutes. Attempting to avoid the cup’s discovery by one of six of my brothers, I wait until the house is empty. As I’m always attempting to accomplish more than one task at a time this means I once found myself sufficiently distracted to the point of forgetting about the cup while it boiled on the gas. I remembered it again shortly after the water had completely boiled away and the plastic started to melt and smoke up the kitchen. Oops.

In utter panic I contacted my sister and explained that she needed to purchase me a new cup and mail it out within the next 24 hours so that by some miracle it would arrive before the next month. It got here7 days later in one of those small flat yellow envelopes; alhumdililahi (frequently used Arabic saying for ‘thanks be to god’). Since that incident, I’ve altered my sanitization procedure so that I now remove the boiling water from the gas before put the cup in, followed by bleach. And I’ve also got a renewed sense of comfort knowing that my sister’s on call for African emergencies.

According to my African mother, older women cover their feet in henna designs for 3 reasons. The first is that it is believed to hold medicinal properties. As in, the elderly who suffer from arthritis find a certain relief in the henna that soaks into the skin. The second is that the henna helps undo the damage done to the heels from years of trudging through the sand in flip flops. You wouldn’t believe the calluses I have after a year and a half… so imagine what a life time looks like: cracked heals, surfaces of stone, and a permanent flip flop tan line (that last one I only imagine in my case). The third reason henna is so popular is more basic: It looks pretty.

I know when I say henna most of you imagine the really pretty rose or brown colored designs found on Indian women. Like everything else here, the practice of henna is completely different. First up, we use black henna. It comes from a base of who knows what and is actually packaged as black hair die from China. It is sold in the pharmacy (how CVS of them, right?) I couldn’t tell you want they use in India but it’s obviously different. In addition, the designs are much more basic, more African. There are no little dots forming flowery designs. Senegalese women use athletic tape to form their patterns and cover the whole area in the henna mixture… leaving the taped area is the break in the color. The parts of the body decorated are typically the bottoms of the feet, and the inside of the palm and the fingers (but usually only the left hand- because it’s already dirty).

I’ve attempted henna twice. The first time was over a year ago when I spent the day at a women’s house and told her I was interested. She enlisted her daughter to commence in my first experience. They attempted a red version (I’m nearly certain we can call it a botched Indian knock off) that involved taping my hands off, putting a creepy green paste over nearly every surface, and covering my hands in plastic to protect them. I was to spend the better part of half a day attempting to not use my hands. It was tedious. And I gave up early, 4 hours later. After voiding my hands of all objects, a barely yellow tint was visible. It left a few days later.

The second attempt occurred just recently and coincided with the visit of my sister. Granted I’d been asking my mom for a year to do henna with me, but apparently a visitor warranted the activity. This is probably because of the 3rd utilization of henna, it’s pretty. Semi-permanent tattoo sightings are much more prevalent in Mboro in and around holidays, because these beautiful works of art make things more festive. Another reason could be that a week is taken off for every holiday, thus leaving the peoples with plenty of extra time to kill. Or maybe they take a week off for all the preparation. It’s a ‘chicken or the egg’ conundrum, if you ask me.

Anyway, I digress. The week of Tabaski, my mom mentioned doing henna together. Our plan was to do it Friday (the holiday having been on Wednesday). My sister was to arrive Saturday morning. My suspicions lay with my Senegalese mom always trying to get me to dress better (read: more Senegalese) and her not wanting me to fall short of proving to my actual family that I have indeed spent too much time integrating into my current lifestyle. We started by calling a women who performs the art as a side business in another neighborhood. My mom got a quote and I agreed. Later, my mom talked to some friends, and decided we could do the whole thing ourselves with the help of a neighbor in our area of town. Hmm; this should have been a sign. So should’ve the fact that I’ve been asking my mom to do this with me for a year now… only to learn that she’d “never done it before.” Odd as I’d seen her with it…

So, like any other task, we sent one of the children out in search of the necessary ingredients. For two days, the boy came back empty handed. By Friday night, I suggested we attempt to do it with my sister upon arrival the next day. It wasn’t until just before my sister, her boyfriend, and I were scheduled to leave Mboro did the items miraculously appear. And then, as in most instances with my host mom, I got bullied into doing something I was not actually willing to do at that point in time. Drinks with a friend were postponed and my sister and I were seated in the foyer of our house. The neighbor girl arrived and the Chinese hair dye was mixed.

At this point it’s time to revisit something my mom said: that she’d never done this before. Apparently this meant that she’d never a) used the black Chinese hair dye version and b) been in charge of actually forming the designs on skin. I’d told her from the beginning that she was in charge of the African design that needed to appear on my significantly paler skin. And since this artwork was scheduled to last for weeks at a time, putting all that in someone else’s hands is kind of a big deal for me; a trust issue if you will. I did give her one single restriction: in no way shape or size did I want a heart to appear on my body. I’ve always felt this was tacky, and I just can’t live with tacky for weeks on end.

So we got started. The neighbor showed my mom how to use a small stick or match to dab the henna onto the skin. From there a design already mapped out on paper was used. I mentioned a number of times that my drawing could be much simpler than 20 or plus shapes that lay out… but no one was listening. I guess they still weren’t listening when I said I wanted the design on the top of my foot, because the actual one started about 3 inches up my leg and worked its way across the top of my foot. After an initial line was drawn, my mom left me in the hands of the neighbor girl to be finished and started working on my sister. Squiggly lines, diamonds, dots, flowers, and swirls began to take form in black. I distracted myself from its ridiculousness by translating conversation between my mom and sister.

I should have been paying attention because when I finally turned back a heart was smiling smugly back at me from the center of the design. Unbelievable. This “artist” of a neighbor had gone too far. It’s finished, I tell her. My mom bullies me once more into putting a tattoo bracelet on my left arm. Fine, but NO hearts! I end up with two (what were aimed at) straight lines around my wrist with dots in the middle. In the end my sister ended up with basically the same things both on her foot and her wrist. We were instructed not touch them until the mixture dried. The neighbor girl bumped my wrist while attempting to design it… so from the get-go it was messed up. I made it worse by grazing a wall. And I guess wrists are difficult for everyone because sister did the same thing with hers.

We eventually left for our drinks at the local watering hole so that making jokes about the whole debacle would go down easier. I started to refer to it as the time “a 3 year old drew on me with a marker,” because that’s what I believe it looked like. I spent the next week using my sister’s make up removing face wipes to diminish my works of art as quickly as possible. I also had to shave my arm hairs (which were dyed black- it is hair dye of course). It didn’t take long. In the end, I’ve learned the following lessons (although it’s not been the first time): my host mom is great at bullying and I’m great at getting bullied, if you want something done right (or without hearts) do it yourself, and finally that nothing- absolutely nothing- is going to get done when I first imagine or plan it to.

The idea of food porn is not my creation. In fact, I actually can’t attribute it to anyone in particular. But it is, however, a much thought about and highly integrated part of a Peace Corps Volunteer’s life. The word porn is used in this sense to mean an unfulfilled desire captured in video, picture, verbal exchanges, and publication- cyber or printed. And of course it has to involve food: making, buying, preparing, ordering, eating, or just simply staring at a coveted food item. The practice of engaging in one of the aforementioned verbs related to food is considered “food porn.”

For the average PCV, food porn is a daily vice like nicotine or booze to an alcoholic. Perhaps, it’s the mere exercise of sitting in one’s room smelling the preparation of lunch and day dreaming about what the day would be like if your favorite meal were in store- instead of the rice and fish you’re going to get. Some volunteers will watch cooking shows like Iron Chef, Hell’s Kitchen, or anything found on the Food Network to get their fix. Others explore all the different substitutes possible in their favorite recipes given what’s available in Senegal. For example, I have made a fabulous batch of chocolate chip cookies substituting honey from the Casamance region for brown sugar. Don’t judge me or I won’t share any of the millet banana cake. And still others spend time looking up pictures or articles about food online. Websites like thisiswhyyourfat.com and one’s giving food critic reviews are nothing to dismiss.

There is a volunteer produced cookbook with tricks of the trade: building your own stove or baking with a gas tank and the more successful in-country substitutes for unavailable ingredients. But whenever possible we prefer to spend money at import stores buying western ingredients to cook at home or in our regional houses. Volunteers often have their favorite foods shipped to them by loved ones. Peanut butter, spices, dried or freeze-dried items, and even meals for created for mountain climbing enthusiasts. Again, don’t knock some of those pasta dishes until you’ve tried them.

Volunteers frequently attempt to make American meals to share with their host families. The success rate is dismal but the efforts continue. To my knowledge one of the truly “amazing” things my predecessor made for my family was a pot of extremely spicy chili (though it’s unclear if the success was due to the level of spice or that the spice clouded the taste of the foreign meal). For holidays I attempt to make my family some of my favorite desserts. And they eat it politely but I can always tell they don’t understand the concept of apple cobbler or why anyone would want to make such a chocolate moist cake (read: brownies).

And when none of this is sufficiently satisfying, we PCVs travel over multiple days to reach the splendor that is Dakar often creating a weekend agenda centered solely on food. The attraction is of course the bevy of western restaurants and menu items. Cuisines of Chinese, Thai, Japanese, Korean, Lebanese, Ethiopian, French, Italian, Mexican and even an American diner food and a KFC knock off are residents of Dakar.

But none of this will ever compare to the day we actually go back to the Western worlds from which we came and our food porn was born. With my pending vacation in the great land of convenience (aka the USA), I can’t help but imagine my first meal back home. Not just casually thinking of my favorite foods, and narrowing them down to most important, I take it one step further to food porn because I picture myself preparing and then sitting down to the master piece of a meal. I can smell the kitchen and grill smells, lick the bowls used in preparation, see the familiar colors of my favorite items, and I salivate. In fact, since I’m thinking about it now, I might as well share.

My dream starts with some fresh pieces of veggies (like carrots, cucumber, and broccoli) dipped in the hidden valley ranch packets that are mixed with sour cream to make dip. It should be noted that I mix 1.5 packages to prescribed amount of sour cream for increased flavor. This is washed down with my favorite white wine Relax, a type of Riesling. For dinner we eat a McCormick seasoned steak grilled medium-well and served with horseradish sauce (made from a base of wasabi mayo and horseradish). On the side is a salad with the following toppings: dried cherries, feta cheese, onions, tomatoes, cucumber, and croutons. The dressing is, of course, jalapeño ranch from Pepperidge Farm. For dessert there’s a giant bowl of cold berries (really any fruit ending in berry will do) and barely thawed cool whip. Oh, and let’s not forget the large warm chocolate chip cookie. I don’t like a lot of chocolate chips in my cookie, just one or two, because I’m really in it for the dough- of which I’ve already a few spoonfuls when raw.

No, not all of those items go together, but I suppose it wouldn’t be food porn if they did. Or if I hadn’t described it all in what I’m sure was boring detail to you (which was pretty agonizing for me). I do think it’s telling that most of the items were based from fresh healthy foods… that were accompanied by dairy based products. It says that I don’t get either of those food “groups” in sufficient quantity here. You should be concerned if my 1st supper had included rice, pasta, bread, or any other form of carbohydrate. But anyway, I figure you get what I mean by food porn by now. And yes, Dad, the above was a not-so-subtle hint. Thanks.

Thanksgiving being my absolute favorite holiday, and since I’d stayed with my family in Mboro the year before, I saw fit to travel this year. So I went to Dakar for the best gig in country to be celebrated in the form of an upscale dinner party. Every year the Ambassador to the United States opens her home to the lonely likes of the Peace Corps Volunteers residing in Senegal. It’s a potluck whose arrangements is organized only a few days before when a person calls, texts, or emails their desired food contribution to the PC headquarters office. I personally went through 3 rounds before settling on something not requested by others and not similarly represented. As my sister was visiting I also made arrangements for her to join the festivities as well.

The day of my sister, her boyfriend, Christine, and myself woke up in another town, organized our possessions and set out to find a ride to Dakar. Looking for a car out of Popenguine had us walking all sorts of scenic routes, until we stopped a passing car to ask directions back to town or a garage. He turned out to be a French priest at the mission in town and offered to give us a ride to the next town’s garage. After we got in, it was discovered that he’d been living in Senegal for 3 years and was currently travelling to Dakar on business… he offered to take us the distance and would not accept money or gifts. He drove us within 3 blocks of our destination in Dakar in a record time nearly half of what is considered normal travel.

On the road we discovered that my cell phone provided was offering buy one get one free in cell phone credit. This felt like finding treasure as any other promotional day I've been privy to has only offered a 50% upgrade. 100% was only a myth... until now. Our phones work off of prepaid credit that is purchased in card form from any aspiring entrepreneur. They are more common than lemonade stands in a US subdivision during summer. Though this seems like a sidebar to the festivities, it could've been equated to a Christmas miracle and was therefore highly appreciated.

For breakfast we ate lunch items at the diner in downtown Dakar. Chances to sit in AC, drink lemonade, and eat pizza and fries would put anyone in an American mood. Followed by checking into the hotel, taking hot showers, and getting dolled up for the evening- all of which improved the experience. I haven’t looked that pretty since I got ready for New Years Eve 2010. Depressing and pathetic, but true… and also a cost savings. While Christine, sister, and I did our makeup and exchanged accessories, sister's boyfriend spent some quality time watching Senegalese music videos and learning the art of traditional dance. Both he and sister can do a remarkable impersonation of a appropriate leg shaking and lifting with accompanying blank faced stare.

In the early afternoon, we bought supplies at the nicest store in town for our contribution to the buffet and took them over to the regional house. There we showed sister how each local volunteer has a locker but the bunk beds are up for first-come-first-serve grabs to the people who arrive there. Unfortunately preparations for dinner side dishes and desserts worked much the same way… and by the time we got there barely any of the cooking utensils were available for use or storage. After some shifting of side dishes and bargaining for stove top space we managed to boil our pasta and cut our sausage, cucumber, olives, and onions. The dressing was to be tossed in just before dinner was served (although that was somehow lost in translation with the kitchen staff at the ambassador’s residence). And just as we were finishing it was time to grab the barely used heels from my locker and head out to our party.

We took a taxi and actually got there by telling him the neighborhood and whose house we were going to. This surprises me because I couldn’t tell you the location of any other ambassador’s house in any other country. But then, I’m not strong in geography. Upon arrival, the security guard checked our names off a list, in a VIP club sort of way, before we walked through the gates. The Ambassador herself met us at the front door with greetings and a member of the kitchen staff (there to receive our dish, which she would later transfer to a new plate and sans dressing), and after offering our thanks for the invitation we signed the guest book and headed to the patio for some drinks.

The back yard of the estate (yes that is the appropriate word for the place) was the perfect place for a twilight cocktail hour. A bar and two bartenders served red and white imported wines, beer, and local juices while my fellow volunteers and members of the PC staff mingled around the pool. Sister spent a fair amount of time chatting up and getting to know my friends who were beautifully dressed in a way that made me miss holidays, formal functions, and generally being clean and well groomed.

Just as the sun set, we headed inside to the grand living room where eight round tables we covered in beautiful white linens with matching white chair covers and place settings. It was like a fancy wedding, and combined with the lighting (which for the first time in a long time wasn’t florescent), made me consider whether or not I have a problem with season effected disorder or just bad lighting. The wait staff (I’m talking men in dress shirts and vests, seriously) brought wine periodically. For dinner we ate all the usual fixings, each made from at least 3 different “recipes from home,” and I tasted them all. Well except the green mashed potatoes… and that’s just good common sense. I ate so much that I got a second plate, but I couldn’t finish it.

We stuffed ourselves like this for quite a while before they brought out coffee and cleared the buffet table (the promise of optional take home bags whispered through the air). Then it was on to dessert, where the table was once again covered with brownies, apple pie, corn bread (another lost in translation item), carrot cake, and other items I couldn’t manage room for. Luckily the others at my table all wanted mere bites so we shared one of everything.

As the sleepy drug of turkey took hold of the room, I found the already cleaned pasta pan and secured for it safe passage back to the regional house with other friends. Then I collected my sister and her boyfriend and Christine and got them back to the hotel room, where we called our families (possibly only due to the 100% promotional phone credit miracle) and laid down in a poor attempt to let our stomachs digest. This didn’t last long, as we’d promised to drag ourselves up and out to the nearest bar for beers with friends. We made it through one sad beer before calling Turkey Day a success and going to bed. And that’s how an ex-pat does an American holiday in style, Peace Corps life style be damned.

The biggest holiday of the Senegalese year has come again. It’s two lunar months after Korite (or about two calendar months plus ten days) and is known here as Tabaski. I’m sure it has a more Arabic name in other Muslim countries, and is celebrate a day or two earlier than we do, though I don’t know anything about it. This day is a fusion of my two of my favorite American holidays Christmas and Thanksgiving, and I’m certain that last year I was too caught up in the “everything is so different” aspect to see the resemblances. Happily, not much escaped me this year. I’m going to make a bold statement; this Tabaski was the best Senegalese holiday I’ve passed in all my time here.

The seemingly most important aspect of the day is sheep. Two days before the event I found myself in Dakar, which had a viable shot at being renamed Field of Sheep. Every single spare corner of land that wasn’t resident to a building or a trash pile was covered in sheep and their vendors (and even some of the piles, unfortunately). That’s a lot of sheep; which is to be expected given that every household takes it upon themselves to kill a sheep for their family. How many houses is that? A better question is where do all the sheep come from? I can’t answer either. I can tell you that the single most important purchase of the holiday is the ram, which can cost anywhere from $100 to $400 per. Now’s the time I remind you that the poverty line is drawn at making less than $1 a day… you do the math.

Also reminiscent of Thanksgiving is the enormous amounts of cooking to be accomplished. The night before my family and I sat down to peel a large sack of potatoes, (luckily I’d had a peeler shipped in which made me quite effective) and another of onions. The morning of I was put in charge of the French fries. I lucked out again as my mom (lover of all cooking appliances, utensils, and short cuts) had a fry cutting shooter gizmo which made the job a million times easier. After that I pitched in with the onions. For hours we sat cutting onions in our hands with a paring knife. These women don’t use cutting boards or large knifes to do their work, but they can accomplish the same volume with their hands as a I could with a cutting board for any given period of time. I on the other hand, having zero practice with this method, fumbled often. I’m proud to say, however, that I’m cut free!

Our Catholic neighbors were kind enough to lend us their daughters. Any girl in her teens was sent to our house and given a knife. In the later hours of the morning, when the onions were finally done, I started in turning the potatoes into French fries. Once again my mom pulled out the appliances and her deep fryer… which is good because as clumsy as I feel around the kitchen these days, I don’t know if I could’ve handled the open gas flame and the flying oil at the same time. So for hours I sat refilling the basket, closing the lit, double checking the color, emptying the basket, fighting off the hungry kids, and repeating. When the older Catholic women arrived, they helped my mom prepare onion sauce and our meat.

Let’s go back. What have the 7 men of my house been doing all day, you ask? Well by 9 am they are dressed in their brand new fancy boubous (which looks like an elderly gentlemen’s silk pajama suit) and at about 9:30a they have a special prier service at the mosque. After returning, they change back out of their nice cloths and get down to business. In less than 2 hours my team of brothers and uncles had killed, gutted, and cleaned not 1, but 2 sheep for our family’s festivities. Impressive speed, no? A neighbor had joined us for five minutes with his very sharp knife for the actual killing, and later another random man came by to collect the skins. I didn’t join them for the actual killing, but I did chuckle a bit when my 2 year old brother came running in the house saying “Mommy, the sheep is bleeding.”

Lunch (aka the most important meal of any Senegalese day- let alone this one) consisted of huge piles of meat, such as liver, ribs, or tenderloin, in a bed of onion sauce surrounded by fries, ate with our fingers and hunks of baguette. I have developed quite the affection for the mustard here, which looks deceptively like boring kind found at home but tastes like wasabi mayo that’s been died the same yellow color. Its heaven and I’m considering buying my family mass quantities of it so as to ensure we never run out. About the third or fourth time I asked my mom for another dollop she warned me not to over eat the mustard and make myself sick. Something I did last year, although it’s been contributed to the vinegar used in onion sauce recipes in other households.

After lunch I showered and put on my best Senegalese outfit. Unfortunately my nice shoes are holed up in Dakar and my flip flops nearly killed my mom with embarrassment. None the less, I grabbed my Catholic neighbor, a female friend of my generation (something I have very few of here), and headed to the booze boutique for a beer. After she wasn’t able to finish the whole bottle, and we donated it to the next client to walk in the door, we walked around our neighborhood greeting her friends. I struck up a conversation about how there are in fact only 50 states in the US (as opposed to the 52 that are taught) and 7 continents (5 of which are recognized here).

By dark I was beginning to feel the ache in my body from hours of peeling and frying, so I headed back home. My mom asked me to help here make a fruit salad for dessert... so there I sat cutting melon, banana, pineapple, and more. Meanwhile, I watched my dad and mom continue to clean the piles of sheep meat littering the house in buckets. They reduced the hunk sizes and packaged them into serving size bags to be stored in the large freeze we borrow across the street. By the time the salad was done, it was after 10pm and I was exhausted. My mom, now having such a great working knowledge of my oddities, handed me my usual serving size of salad and allowed me to skip dinner all together (which I’m told wasn’t served until 1:30am). I fell into bed completely exhausted.

For those of you mildly concerned about recent incidents with my uncle, turns out that the second purpose of Tabaski is forgiveness. There are a series of fun Wolof phrases designed for asking all of your acquaintances for pardon for past disagreements and offenses, as well as anything you might have done unknowingly and or unintentionally. I forced myself to take a deep breath and pull off a typical Wolof scenario which ended in the forgiveness of my uncle and the restoration of our (tolerable) relationship.

My friends and I were scheduled to go on yet another long road trip to explore the Senegalese country side. And so we gathered in the garage in Thies, a mutual meeting point, to find a driver worthy of our adventure. As it turns out we had more than one car’s worth of people… and me and a good friend, lets call him Sebastian (for the sake that using his real name would be awkward), found ourselves as the two guinea pigs biting the bullet and agreeing to jump in a car with a few of the locals.

And so the trip began, the two of us crammed in the very back seat with a thin Pulaar man, made more uncomfortable by the mountains of luggage stuffed into the trunk space and overflowing onto the roof. The wind barely made it through the cracks in the windows to our stuffy corner of the car but at least the sun was blocked by the silky black curtains. The radio played the sounds of Islamic priers chanted to sound like music.

Hours into the trip I found myself lulled into my usual haze of sleepiness developed by years of combating car sickness. My bobbing head would float into the invading rays of sun or rest on Sebastian's or the Pulaar man's shoulder. The road was winding and became hilly, but I’ve grown accustomed to the driver’s ways. He’ll speed down one hill then slam on the breaks half way down to miss the truck in front. He’ll skip passing the truck outright in favor of chugging behind him up the next hill, so slowly the car almost stalls out. And then suddenly I’m jolted awake by the more sudden than normal slamming of the brakes, the screeching of tires, and annoyed cries from other passengers.

We skid, without a glimpse as to why we’d veered into this pickle, sideways down the road into a slightly elevated speed bump. This slightness was just enough to tip the car, in a panic-inducing type of slow motion, into a roll resembling that of a tumble weed. Down the hill the car tumbled until engaging in a final roof to the pavement kiss at the bottom. The most awful screams were melded with the crunching of metal into one terrifying explosion of noise. I’d vice gripped my eyes shut, to avert them from the horrors, only to peel them open again to the upside down puddle of glass and blood I lay contorted in.

The desperation to break free from the wreckage struck me. The air felt dead, dense, unbreathable… and I was gasping towards the space, air, and rays of sunshine outside the car. I crawled under the overturned seat to follow the others through the window. I ran dizzily away from the car as fast as possible, going confusedly in at least three different directions; I didn’t actually know what I was looking for. Air. A place to collapse. Sebastian.

It hit me like another crashing panic attack: I’m looking for Sebastian. My throat hurt but I was screaming anyway. I spin in circles so fast that it takes multiple turns to realize he isn’t there. Where? Where is Sebastian? And then my stomach drops. And in dread I turn back to the car. I drop to my knees and cry out. He’s still in the car. He must be. And I rush back to it, to the shattered back window, and fumble for what feels like hours to pull the bags out of my way. He’s there, upside down in his seat next to my vacant one. His eyes are closed. He isn’t moving.

He’s dusted with blood, but they’re just superficial cuts caused by the glass. I reach out but can’t touch him. Sebastian. He stirs and moans. I move another bag out of the way and crawl deeper back into the wreckage. Sebastian. He moans again. In the tiniest heart breaking voice he squeaks out “can’t.” An eternity later he manages a second word: “breath.” I start to flail in zero free space to rid the back end of the vehicle of all remaining bags. It seems like there’s an endless supply. I wriggle further into the car and I finally reach him. He’s wedged between the seat and god only knows what else. I can see that his chest is unable to rise with his weak breaths. He’s barely awake.

Do something, anything, my mind is screaming. First aid! I grab for his pulse, which is weak but there. I roll onto my side and tilt my head. I breathe air into him. Again. I’m wedged in so close I can see that his chest is still barely moving. Again. Again, I breathe in. Again. I don’t know if it’s helping, but I won’t stop. Between breaths I start screaming for help. Where is everyone else? Why aren’t they helping? Breathe. “Help!” Breathe.

And then I feel something hot close around my ankle. Someone is there. They’ve come to help me get my friend out. They pull. They are pulling on my leg. No. No. I can’t leave. I grab the seat and kick the hand off my leg. I’m yelling so many incomprehensible things. The hand grabs hold again, and another on the opposite leg. They pull harder this time. I lose my grip on the seat. I flail desperately at something to hold on to, but I fail to grasp anything. They are dragging me back out through the trunk. Though my hands are still reaching toward Sebastian, I’m pulled in agonizingly slow motion away from him. I catch his eyes and they’re filled with tears and panic. He can’t say it, but he’s begging me not to leave him. And then he’s gone.

I’m out of the car, lying on the pavement. I jump up and back towards the car but my fellow passengers grab me around my waist. I kick and scream. Two men are dragging me ever further way from the car. I’m yelling things in every language I’ve ever learned… but none of it is the Pulaar that they speak. No one seems to understand me. Sebastian. I need to help Sebastian. Let me go. I fight as hard as it seems I’m possible to break free, but it’s a losing battle. All the adrenaline in my body has been exhausted. I can’t fight them off. My whole body is trembling and I can no longer see. I realize that I’m crying. Hot tears are pouring down my face. Sebastian. Sebastian. Sebastian.

And then I wake up. I’m in my bed in Mboro, under the mosquito net. The tears spilled out of my dreams, in to reality, and across my face. I shake uncontrollably and am covered in an icy cold sweat. My throat is raw and dry like I might have been screaming out loud. It’s just after dawn and there’s barely any light in my room, but I can’t help myself and I contact the real Sebastian. I need to know he’s ok.

This dream happened 6 months ago before the infamous trip to Kedougou… but I can still remember every detail like it just happened yesterday. The next time I speak of Mefloquine please remember this story; wildly vivid and horrible dreams top the list of side effects.

The buffet of incidents leading me to swear to always be an amazingly grateful house guest is never ending. Most recently, while my whole family is recovering from a cold given to us by a certain family member, my mom and the maid started a pot of soup for dinner. We rarely eat it because of the heat, but with the changing weather, cooler nights, and never ending cold and flu season, we had good reason to whip up a batch.

Generally, food is prepared in the house by the maid, my mom, or collaboration between the two. This last one goes mostly for the night time meal. My mom will ask the maid to pre-clean and cut veggies leaving them in the fridge for her to later use for dinner long after she’s gone home for the day. On soup night, this was the case. The maid prepped the veggies and meat, and left them in two separate bowls in the fridge. The boys were told to start the broth with bullion and the bowl in the fridge. Hours later a bowl of soup is brought in to my room by a brother, followed by another with a hunk of bread, and my mom.

“We forgot the meat,” she says. The maid had cut it, but somehow that bowl never made it into the soup. Internally I’m jumping for joy. The meat here isn’t frequently appetizing to me, and the fatty soups worthy bits are no exception. Shamefully, I act like a little kid and hide the bits I don’t eat by flushing them down the toilet or putting my bowl at the bottom of the stack in the kitchen so it can’t be traced back to me. So, yeah, I’m ecstatic there was a mistake in communication on this one. There’s a bowl full of broth and veggies with my name on it, and I dig in.

Insert my famed uncle. It’s a miracle he’s able to get up off our couch and walk his bowl to the kitchen as he usually just hands if off to one of the kids. But the reasoning is soon clear. He uses the opportunity to walk through the house making jokes with everyone about the meatless soup. “Soda, how is your water?” What are you talking about? “Anna is stupid and forgot the meat. We are just eating water for dinner. It’s horrible.” It’s not horrible. It tastes great. “You are stupid, too.”

At this point I am boiling over in rage. It’s enough to make me reconsider watching so many vampire related TV shows because there is just no stopping the fury from exploding from my mouth in a combination of 3 languages. The only person who is stupid is you. Anna is an amazing cook and you never appreciate it. You never say thank you. You take and take but you never once give back.

He laughs. My fire starts to flame blue. “It’s unbelievable that I have to remind you to say thank you. You don’t live here. This isn’t your house and therefore everything given to you is a gift. How could you be so unbelievably rude as to insult a free meal? You need to apologize to Anna right away for what you’ve said.” And about now you need to visualize me physically bullying my uncle into the living where my mom is sitting- as the last person to eat left all alone by the people she’s served who have already finished. My uncle covers the small bits of shame poking through his thick skull with a sheepish laughter and says he’s sorry. For what? Because there’s no meat in the soup. “The soup still tastes good,” my mom says. Yes, I believe that to be true, but he doesn’t. I’m sorry.

I go back to my room in order to lower my blood pressure. My uncle goes to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water to drink. He’s been embarrassed by my shaming him so he’s still making jokes and laughing. I would normally leave it be, but he just happened to grab my water bottle to drink from. Oh hell no. Put that back, I say, it’s not yours. He’s thinking I’m referencing that all things in the house aren’t his, and his ego has taken enough bruising for the night, so he ignores me. I follow him into the kitchen, blood pumping a million miles an hour again, and take the bottle from his hands. See? It’s got my name on it. It’s my bottle. “You’ve never put your bottle in the fridge.” It’s been there for over a year, so don’t bother with that lie.

He can’t take it anymore. Calling someone a liar, or out directly on a lie, is a major insult around here. He deals with his anger by laughing. This is the Wolof way; making mean spirited jokes. I put my water bottle back and he makes a move to grab another one. I’m way beyond flying off the handle (is it bad to admit that?) and I start screaming that he can no longer just take what he wants to while he’s disrespecting the house that I live it. Get out. Now. You’re done here. Go. Now. I pick up his shoes and throw them out the door. I’m actually hitting him. My family is an uncomfortable state of awe watching my utter unraveling in its process. My dad who is the most non-Wolof (read non-gossipy and non-confrontational) people I’ve ever met, has come out of his room to see what the fuss is about. He is so uncomfortable he giggles. Everyone else has stopped laughing uncomfortably and is staring at the floor. My brother comes up and tries to hug me. I shake him off. He pulls me back. Another brother hands my uncle a water bottle and a cup. “It’s done,” he says.

Yes. It is done. They might let you get away with it, but we’re done. Do not speak to me again until you find the meaning of respect. It takes me almost an hour to calm down and stop shaking. This is partly because I can hear my family recapping the incident in whispers and jokes. And as I reflect on my own actions or reactions, a few thoughts come to mind. I read an article about a new book by Tim Gunn, a man of the fashion industry, in which he talks about taking the high road. The value of shutting up and letting people be responsible for figuring out their own mistakes. Boy, am I the anti-thesis of that right now. Must do better in future.

But also I think about where all this sudden anger has come from. Friends have commented that people back home have noticed a change in their aggressiveness, and though I haven’t gotten the same comments I can’t help but believe it’s only because no one has noticed yet. I’m going through the same experiences as my fellow volunteers, so it’s incredibly likely that I’m also becoming more assertive with my anger. I’m more Wolof actually, because the culture here is to make a big deal out of something as quickly as possible. The quickest tongue and loudest mouth wins an argument, because peace, the always desired outcome is sought out quickly. Make a big enough scene and everyone else backs down. Not making a scene at all, trying to use respectful indoor voices and rational will get you nowhere. No one will do what you ask or take you seriously in any way shape or form. That’s what I’ve been learning for the last year anyway. And I’ll be damned if I didn’t I learn it well. Or if I’ll be speaking to my uncle again any time soon.

On the night of the incident in question, my uncle came over a few hours before dinner to do his usual job of annoying everyone whilst waiting for dinner. I usually sit in my room for this, working or watching a movie. At some point I got up to stretch my legs only to find him lying on the couch watching TV alone. No one else seemed to be around the house, which is common for the cool evening hours, but did make his presence a bit wierd. As soon as he saw me, he pulled a look on his face like he was in pain. He started moaning. I ignored him. He moaned some more. I left. A little while later I went into the room for something. He moans again; really attention hungry “look at me” kind of stuff. I do nothing. “I’m sick, Soda.” Yeah. “I’m really sick.” I ignore him. “You should help me.” You should go home and go to bed. You shouldn’t be walking across town to visit people who aren’t here. Go to bed. “But I’m sick. I can’t walk home like this.” I left again.

I’ve found I’ve become the type of person who no longer has the patience for indirect pleas for attention. Indirect is a huge part of Wolof culture, so I’m looking at a long battle of tolerance down the road. But that in itself shouldn’t be too hard. It’s the desperate attention seeking measures that get under my skin. Maybe more so because I know this culture to be one where if you’re sick people leave you alone. Initially, being a new comer, when I got sick I wasn’t left alone; I was forced to eat. But as time went on and my family got used to my unchanging aura of weird I started to learn that sickness makes them uncomfortable to confront. I’m talking about mild sickness. It’s the type of thing were simple medications are generally too expensive so they’re forgone. No pain meds for a headache and no Sudafed for a cold sort of stuff. People are expected to suck it up. When I’m sick my family knows that I need to make my own tea and skip a few meals in favor of soup. If my door is closed I’m sleeping and they should knock lightly for meals and I’ll get up if I;m awake or have energy. They leave me alone until to recover like they would anyone else in the family. Everyone except my uncle that is?

Something I discovered by trial and error is that when I'm sick everything needs to come to a halt in order to get better. My first few months here I was continuously sick. Whether a stomach issue, or a cold, or a skin problem I’d take the appropriate meds and continue on with my life. But I just wasn’t ever 100%. We come from a culture of having only a handful of sick days for the whole year so they surely shouldn’t be wasted lest some emergency happen where taking those days is unavoidable. But that's not life in Senegal. Somehow there are too many factors and recovery takes that much longer. And if you don't get better, you could actually get so much worse. The only way to deal with illness- and most Senegalese agree with me- is to stop everything in favor of doing absolutely nothing until healed. No matter how many days it takes, I have to remember that I’m no good to these people if I can’t keep myself healthy. And no matter how much I ponder over finishing just a thing or two on the to-do list to keep myself from slipping behind in work… everything must be put on hold. Unless your my uncle??

So given these bits of knowledge and culture, could you see why I’m so frustrated with a person that walks across town even though he shouldn’t to demand attention from people who don’t actually give it out? Why? Why would someone do that?

The answer is chicken. My uncle is under the impression that because he is a member of the family anything he desires in our house should be his. Awesome. Though this is not the first time I find myself frustrated with this arrogant cultural norm, I am overly agitated with the aforementioned “death bed” of an illness (remember all that moaning?) that accompanies him. This man is known to show up at our house demanding to know what’s for dinner. He’ll stay if it’s good, or complain and leave if he deems it unworthy. Now, I know my mom is one of the best cooks I’ve found in the country, but he’s just a little too ridiculous about it. A 30 something single bachelor that still lives with his mom (admittedly all normal for the area) who wanders the neighborhoods each night in search of the best dish… come on! At least bring a table gift from time to time. Act like a grateful house guest, right?

Well on this particular day, I find out, upon the return of the rest of my family members, that my Dad’s sister from a few towns over is coming to pay a visit. This will be my first time to meet her in the year I’ve been here as family only visits every few years- if they don’t actually live in Mboro that is. In honor of long distance visits my family busts out the bird; they made an excellent meal of chicken, fries, and salad. And although it shouldn’t surprise me that my uncle is selfish enough to potentially spread illness to every last member of my family, it does still anger me greatly.

But as I’m used to this, I brushed it off and took an extra vitamin C tablet. And then we sat down to eat. We are a family of not having to obsessively wash our hands before meals because when we do eat, we use a fork or spoon. On the occasion that there are too many people to pass out spoons for all, then we break out a fancy portable hand washing station but we mostly don’t need that. One of my brothers is in charge of passing out spoons. Only on this day, my uncle took on the role, or stack if you will, and just as he went to hand me the first one he sneezed all over them all. And this right here is what drove me to rage.

How can a sneeze be such a horrid offense, you say? Until you’ve been sick as many times as I have, and in a place where it’s hard to tell if you have a fever because you’re always that hot, I think you just won’t get it. Some days it doesn’t seem to matter how many vitamins I take, how many times I wash my hands, or how many small snot nosed kids I avoid… there is just no escaping the next cold or flu.

So here I am with an attention seeking uncle, who just happens to be sick and spreading it to everyone without remorse, who is also pulling his usual “I’m here for the best meal in town” sans worthy contribution. And I suppose this incident wouldn’t have been different from any other time that I meet my breaking point with a surrendering sigh, except for all the non-redeeming qualities coming together at one moment in time. Suffice it to say, I let him have it in an overly Wolof way. What can I say; I’m sick of being sick. I’m also a little sick of self centered people.

There’s a brand new mall in Dakar. Where organized shopping did not exist once upon a time, it does now. I can’t help but smile when I walk in, and thinking about the old days of window shopping. It’s a marvel not to be harassed in the market; to just relax and take my time. And when I get a bit down about my current surroundings, and start longing for things found only at home, I plan my next trip to Sea Plaza Shopping Center.

The center is located on the coast; most literally it was carved into the side of it, just a few hundred meters down from the beautiful Radisson Blue hotel that boasts one of the best nights stays available in town. To access the center, your car must first pass through the guard post. I’ve personally never taken a car into the center as a taxi will drive you only to the curb near the guard post, so I really couldn’t tell you what kind of credentials need to be presented or if you’re just paying for parking. Parking is a part of the carved structure and doesn’t appear to accommodate the vast potential the interior amenities do. Perhaps the designers assume that most people will take a taxi like I do.

Once inside you’ll find two floors of boutiques lining the walls and an escalator connecting the two in the center. On the bottom floor you’ll find an information booth. It seems a bit odd considering my personal awareness of the Wolof culture… in which information is regarded with enormous value and thus deemed inappropriate for sharing under most circumstances. Hopefully all you really need is a map to find the store of your choice. At present, and about 40% capacity filled, there are a buffet of what appear to be designer European stores (though I wouldn’t know, I’m just assuming based on the price tags), a few electronics stores that remind you of the home theater section of Best Buy with their couches and “come and test” signs, a beauty salon providing the usual hair, nail, and massage amenities, a scented candle store (some things really don’t change, huh?), and even a beauty products boutique with Clinique items in the window.

I’ve spend time at the bowling alley that has all the lights, vinyl, bowling shoes and sounds to trick your mind into thinking you’re back in the States. There’s a restaurant with typical food and seriously over priced drinks, pool tables in the only smoking section in the place, and an arcade where all the games are in English. I almost didn’t even realize that last one until someone pointed it out to me after being there more than a half hour.

Like any normal mall there’s a food court at one end with a variety of dining options. If you choose Mexican, expect the food to appear more organic than Taco Bell, except for that melted single of Craft American across the top of your burrito. If it’s a fruit smoothie you crave, it’s hard to believe (or pay for) but this too can be found in the food court. Its seating area isn't entirely too expansive that the staff at eat food booth can’t deliver your tray to you. Indoor or outdoor seating will give you amazing views of the coast, but the formal restaurant in the far corner will give you all the sports you can handle with their numerous plasma screen TVs.

In case I’ve never told you about the most upscale grocery store chain in all of Senegal, now would be the perfect time since their newest branch resides in this mall. It is curiously named Casino although absolutely no gambling is to be had, whether your mind jumps to negotiating prices or worries about future food contracted illness of the bowels. The store boasts large aisles full of merchandise organized like you’d find at any grocer back home, amazing amounts of florescent lighting found in no other shopping venue in town, and air conditioning as cold as you can stand it. There’s a deli/ butcher counter, a bakery, an occasionally open sushi stand (I know, I almost don’t believe it myself) and a wine and liquor section. Imported products like corn flakes, chocolates, and beauty products can be found here, for a price slightly higher than you’d be charged back home.

It’s no secret that I’ve lost weight whilst I’ve been on this continent, but with it goes my ability to fit comfortably in every article of clothing I’ve brought here. It’s pretty easy to find pants or shirts in the chaos that is the market, or to have something new made up by a trusted tailor. What is difficult is underwear shopping because of the lack of privacy afforded while doing it. I had a family members send me a few items based on a mildly educated guess of my current size, but there’s no way of knowing for sure without walking into a store and its dressing room to perform some simple trial and error experiments. In this new mall, I got lucky. Not only are there multiple lingerie stores, but they have non-lacy everyday sections, a fitting room, and attendants that speak English. Admittedly, that last fun fact isn’t a necessary one to the operation, but certainly made the whole thing a bit more relaxing.

The pride and glory of the structure, in my singular opinion I’m sure, will be the movie theater to come. As someone who would count movie-going among her top favorite activities, I can say that going without the experience of the stadium seating, reclining folding chairs, annoying crying children, and overly priced and buttered popcorn… I cannot wait for this place to open. Unfortunately, information sharing what it is, I can’t tell when that will be. We’re on African time, so it might not even be in the next year. I also can’t tell you what kind of movies will be shown; American, European, or other, or which language they’ll be in or have subtitles in. I can tell you about my certainty that the cost of going will be similar to that found in the US (as evidenced in the bowling/ pool/ arcade experience). And of course that I’ll be one of the first people in line to see whatever show when the time comes.

And now I'm already mentally planning my next trip to Dakar. Oh the simple things.

I talk a lot about how different things are here in Senegal, or Africa, when compared with the US. Everything from the physical aspects of climate and food, to the psychological ideals like perception of beauty and work ethic, feels like a 180 degree turn from all that I’ve known before. And yet, the longer I sit in this sand box the more I slowly pick out the things just happen to be similar. It’s not 100%, but a small fraction of something is similar to life back home. And that can be kind of comforting.

1. Chivalry isn’t dead, but it’s not obvious either. It may be true that a woman must give up her seat for a man, but that doesn’t mean that guy is above helping her with her multiple bags of luggage.

2. When it comes down to it, family comes first.

3. Sick days are important, and should be taken so that one can return to work healthy. The African adjustment is that there is no cap on the number of sick days taken, no proof necessary, and no repercussions for work missed. Hmm.

4. Kids still take naps. Actually, we all do… it’s called Siesta. But hey at least the kids are quiet and sleeping for a few hours of the day, even if this means they are then allowed to stay up all night.

5. I’ve seen a stop sign, and people who stop for it. It’s even in English, but is still a rare occasion.

6. Laundry is hung out on the line to dry in the sun. This may be out of necessity more than energy conservation, but that doesn’t diminish the similarity, right?

7. There is nothing like a cold beer after work. There is nothing like our happy hours back home either... and though they don’t exist here, a huge thank you goes out for the fact that at least the beer does.

8. Dieting is expensive. Buying all the veggies and fruit my family should be eating instead of rice and pasta is a significantly larger dent in our monthly food spending. However, I’m certain that the Senegalese eat carbs to fill their stomachs where Americans eat them for taste.

9. There isn’t a single show from back home that hasn’t appeared on my Senegalese television (with French voice-overs). CSI, Grey’s Anatomy, 24, or How I Met Your Mother… they may be a season or two behind, but that makes it easier on my translating. I guess this isn’t a similarity- more an exact copy- but perhaps the comparison is the type of entertainment sought out by the viewer.

10. Major sporting events are televised and large amounts of people gather together to view them. Sure, they’re watching soccer and not football or wrestling instead of baseball… but its none-the-less a highly publicized event splashed over TV, radio, billboards, and other media outlets.

11. Homework is put off until it’s due, rather than getting it done just after it’s been assigned. Ahhh procrastination, no one can escape you…

12. People watch the music channel on TV to see music videos. We have a French spin on MTV that mixes American top 40 videos with Senegalese and French ones. Let’s just prey they don’t start a version of Senegalese Real World. I can picture the drama that would be Real World: Matam- 7 strangers, that don’t speak the same language, living isolated but together in the dessert. Oh, mayhem possibilities.

13. Good help is hard to find. Whether it’s my mom firing another maid every 2 weeks, my counterpart that completely abandoned me 3 months after I arrived, or the endless stream of people that can’t be counted on to show up when they say they will… good help is hard to find in Senegal. And just like home, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. I’ve got the number of a great leather worker, a reliable driver, and the very dedicated, hard working secretary general at the mayor’s office.

14. People hate not being able to understand others that speak in a foreign language. How many times have you seen/ heard someone say “We’re in America, speak English.” I am on the receiving end of that here.

15. My favorite veggies (potato, tomato, onion, carrot, etc) are here. Sometimes they are prepared in a similar manner to life back home (like mashed potatoes) but mostly they aren’t. Who would have thought to mix tomatoes with peanut butter?

16. People dress to impress to go pray. Here it’s Friday, there it’s Sunday, but whatever.

17. There is an obvious manner of dress change between a young woman and an older one. While short shorts may be all the rage with the young crowd in this month’s heat, a respectable older women will be sporting her traditional dresses.

18. It’s embarrassing to smell bad. No matter how poor, a person does not want to be caught in stinky cloths or without a fresh scent (whether it is thanks to inexpensive soap or a fancy imported perfume).

19. Antivirus software is severely needed. Probably more so here because no one has it, because they can’t pay for it, because even if they could no one has a credit card to pay online… it’s a messed up world.

20. There are plenty of unemployed able bodies here- that although they could, for whatever excuse choose not to work. The difference is that their families support them, not the government. A different kind of welfare.