What a whirlwind the past month has been. After spending a lovely Christmas at thebeach with a group of friends, I came back to site and started preparing for abusy month. Since then, I’ve beenon-the-go and changing direction almost every day. It seems that all of my project work has convergedat once over the past few weeks. I won’tbore you with blow-by-blow details, but here are some of my January highlights:Held a T-shirt making class with my Girls Club (shoutouts to my mom and sister for the supplies)Led another round of Safe Zone Training, this timefor Volunteers during their in-service trainingParticipated in a 2-day Junior Achievement preparatory training session (this isa worldwide program that “empowers young people to own their economic success”---seehttp://www.ja.org/ for the US version.) I’ll be teaching both the high school and elementary school levels of JA classesthis year.Attended a 2-day Small Enterprise Development Summitwhich included sessions on Handicrafts management and Agribusiness, as well asfield trips to an Eco-Village, a Food Technology Institute, and a smallbusiness administration office in Dakar.Helped coordinate a day-long SeneGAD (Gender & Development)Summit which included talks on HIV/AIDS, working with kids through sports, and presentationsfrom GAD groups visiting from Mali, Guinea, and The Gambia. Also, attended my last SeneGAD Board Meetingand turned over my Communications Coordinator position to two new gals whowill now share the title.Participated in two Work Zone Coordinator Meetingsto discuss the management of information and project coordination for volunteersin my sub-region.Attended a 2-day All Volunteer Conference where I:participated on a Diversity Panel sharing myexperiences being a “Female Volunteer in Senegal” (more specifically, sharing the story of how the police treated me after I was mugged last year);presented a case study on the Gardens of Moringa training Iorganized with my friend Andrew lastmonth;demonstrated my Paper Briquette Press during anAppropriate Technology Fair attended an assortment of interesting sessionson an environmental education club, a school correspondence program, and a beekeeping association inGuinea.Played in the West African Invitational Softball Tournament(affectionately known as WAIST) where Peace Corps regional teams play those from the Marine Corps, the Embassy, USAID, and a numberof other ex-pat groups. By tradition, the Peace Corpsteams wear themed costumes which makes it a lot of fun for us. Theother teams don’t which makes it less fun for them.Met with the founder of Swahili Imports (http://swahili-imports.com/), a smallAfrican arts and handicrafts importer from the lovely Eugene, Oregon, to learn more about theimport/export process. To my delight, not only did I learn a lot, but shewas interested in some of Mamadou’s work, so I sent her home with a couple of hiswooden plates to show her team. She’ll be backin a couple of months and I’m keeping my fingers crossed that she’ll place an order.Welcomed Jerry McGahan, a beekeeper fromMontana, who came to Senegal on a Farmer-to-Farmer grant funded by USAID. Together, we:met with the president of the Senegalesebeekeeping union and with regional representatives of a Senegalese NGO organization who are working ona localized honey consolidation project;visited with several beekeepers in the Thiès andFatick regions and inspected their hives;visited with potential beekeepers in theDiourbel region and advised them on how to get started;taught young school kids about the importance ofpollination and how bees fit into this process;coordinated a craft project with my Girls Clubmaking and decorating bee sculptures;worked on a training presentation that I willlater give to Peace Corps Volunteers interested in supporting beekeepers intheir regions.Held my first Junior Achievement class with 35students and 5 teacher assistants at the local technical high school.Coordinated an Eco-Ecole exposition for a delegationof visiting Scout leaders from Finland and Senegal.Whew! ALL of that took place over a three week period. I’m exhausted. Maybe I should just submit this blog entry as my resume when I return to the states. "If I'm capable of accomplishing that much in just three weeks (in a foreign language), just think what I can do for you!"

Sunday was myfirst down day since early January. There was nothing on my calendar and I thoroughlyenjoyed every minute of it. I made a bigpot of vegetable barley soup, started a new knitting project, and lost myselfin Pinterst for a couple of hours. Itwas just what I needed.

Here are some snapshots of events from the last month.

Newly painted t-shirts!

A rockin' solar powered water pump at an Eco-Village

This light and gas stove are fueled by a methane gas

tank which is fueled by this couple's sheet and cows--so cool!

A pedal-powered machine at the food technology institute

Making paper pulp to show the briquette press

at the Appropriate Technology Fair

Panel discussion on Diversity

Les Francais aka Les Dakarois

(Yes, I'm the Eiffel Tower in the middle)

The lovely ladies who replaced me as SeneGAD Communications Coordinator;

yes, it takes two to fill my shoes ;-)

Abdou Seck's honey stand

The Three Amigos - Me, Abdou, and Jerry in Bandia

Meeting up with some more beekeepers down in the delta region

Inspecting hives in the mangroves

Busy little bees. Aren't they pretty?

Jerry consulting about honey extraction

Mamadou's hopes of selling his products in the U.S.

just may come to fruition.

Beekeeping lesson at our Eco-Ecole

Making bee sculptures with my Girls Club

Soudou and Ibou planning out a future training garden and apiary.

Now that this crazy month has come to an end, it's got me thinking about how I reacted to it. One of the benefits of living out in the middle of nowhere on my own is that my experiences often shines a light on my idiosyncrasies. In my little bubble, it's hard not to notice slight behavior changes and quirks. Lately, because I've had too many things on my plate, my office has become littered with piles of project paperwork and supplies and the bags from my last couple of trips still lay unpacked on my bedroom floor. Thinking back on my life at home, this rang true there, as well. The busier and more stressed my work life became the more out of control my living space got and the weaker my coping skills became. Take for example the mouse that recently died in my office. For days, I smelled it, knew it was there, but couldn't deal with digging through the piles of stuff in my office to find it. Instead, I lit incense and said I'd get to it later. This is not just laziness, this is not being able to take on one more thing. My body also tends to shut down when I'm overloaded. During the midst of this busy period I had to decide whether or not to make an unplanned trip to Dakar to deal with an inner ear problem I was having. Making the trip meant cancelling some project plans and inconveniencing other people, so I opted not to go. Luckily, with lots of fluids and decongestants the the problem cleared up on its own.

These glimpses into my personality are a good reminder for me to pay attention to them. My reactions to stress may not change much, but I can probably do a better job of recognizing the signs and using them as a reminder to stop and take a time-out every once in a while. Ibou and his friends often comment to me that I work too much. I used to think that my work habits were just exaggerated in contrast to the many rest periods and breaks they take throughout the day, but maybe there's something more innate to it. I have to remember that there's nothing wrong with closing the laptop, putting down the reference book, and doing something completely recreational for a bit. This weekend's date with my knitting needles and soup pot were a good reminder of that. Self-reflection; it's a good thing.

If you're interested in seeing more recent photos, I've added a few new ones to the Photos tab (see tab at top of blog page). The most recent ones are Christmas in Popenguine v2.011 and Highlights from WAIST 2012. I also added some new photos to the albums entitled: Keur Cheikh Girls Club , Skype Snapshots, and the Tangibly Marking the Passage of Time.

P.S. - I did finally look high and low for the dead mouse and, although I didn't find it (I fear it's in the wall, but thankfully, the smell has faded), this new one was waiting for me under my desk the next time I entered my office. A sacrificial lamb, of sorts.Thanks for sending the d-CON, Mom.

It’s been 2 months since my last blog entry and I've beenon-the-go the entire time. They say thatyour project work picks up after the first year of Peace Corps service, andapparently “they” know what they’re talking about. This is beginning to feel like a real job allof a sudden!Before the rush began, I took my second vacation of the yearand spent 3 weeks back in the states visiting with friends and family andenjoying the splendors of autumn in Virginia. Although I wasn’t able to catch up witheveryone I’d hoped to, I did see quite a few people and many a four-leggedfriend. Being home wasn’t asoverwhelming as my trip to Europe this past summer. I’d already experienced the shock of themodern world and my mind was no longer making comparisons with everything Isaw. In fact, it was more like I’dlanded on a different planet, Planet America, and therefore I didn’t expect forthings to be the same. I did have a few first impressions, though. It seems I’vespent the better part of a year telling Senegalese folks who are enthralledwith the idea of the U.S. that America is not really like it appears onT.V. After having been back just a day,I realized that, well, it actually kind of is--clean, pretty, organized, and filled with things that cost a lot of money. I guess I’ll have to change my tune on this and just accept it for whatit is. The other things that caught myeye were the little trends that had popped up since I’ve been gone. Everywhere I looked there was Greek yogurt,scan squares, Angry Birds, and eyebrow threading. Odd, what catches on so quickly. Other than that, home was pretty much like I left it. I filled my days sightseeing, walking in the woods,enjoying the company of friends and family, hanging with my dog, attendinga film festival, eating good food, sipping tea, drinking goodcoffee, and appreciating fine libations. I overextended myself a bit with all of thesocializing I tried to fit in, so by the time I left I was fighting a cold andcough, but it was totally worth it. Howoften to you get to be a vacationing visitor in your own home-town? Click on this photo to open an album with pictures from my trip.My Love Affair with America

Special thanks go out to the many friends and family whohosted me while I was back. It was a bitstrange not to have a home to return to, but the hospitality extended to me wasgrand and I was happy to see that my renters are taking great care of my housein Batesville. Also, a big “merci” goesout to The Peabody School for holding an assembly so I could tell them allabout my adventures in the Peace Corps. Afterward the assembly, I spent an hour with the kids from the French classes withwhom I’ve been corresponding and it was really great to meet them inperson. Then there are folks whocame to the Cider Dinner at my friend Kevin’s house, who were gracious enoughto donate almost $800 to my “Bringing Books to Senegal” campaign. This is a project I was working on with a groupof volunteers in Senegal. We wereteaming up with the non-profit organization, Books for Africa,to raise funds tobring over 22,000 local language books and text books to local libraries andschools Senegal. Unfortunately, I justfound out this week, that the campaign has been cancelled, as the request forfunds has exceeded the time limit allotted. Never fear, the $4,400 already donated to this project will be diverted to the Peace CorpsMarathon fundraiser whose proceeds will be going to a scholarship program formiddle school girls. I’ve been involvedwith this scholarship program for some time and, in fact, some of the recipients of this year’sscholarships are the ones who attended our Girls Leadership Camp in September. Click here for a clever video clip promoting the Peace Corps Race for Education Marathon. Although I'm not planning to train for this race (are you kidding me?!?!--I struggled to train for a 5K while I was home and this is taking place in Sub-Saharan Africa!), I do plan to go down to cheer on those brave souls who will be running and make sure everyone stays hydrated.On 11-11-11, just a couple of days after returning toSenegal, I organized a World Hoop Day celebration to spread my joy of wigglingand giggling (aka hoop dancing) with the people in my community. World Hoop Day is a non-profitorganization based in the U.S. that granted me funds to make a slew of hoopsfor the kids of Diourbel. I teamed upwith my friend Nar Dieng, who heads a roller-blading association, to put on agrand spectacle for the kids. A localyouth center donated the space and Nar and his friends helped me make anddecorate 50 new hoops for this event. Acouple of Peace Corps Volunteers from neighboring villages came in for the dayto help me out and several school officials came to partake in thefestivities. We had well over 70 kidsjoin us for an afternoon of hooping and roller-blading. The local radio station even covered theevent in their evening broadcast. Asidefrom the usual annoyances, like having to transport chairs and hoops on theback of a horse-drawn cart, people showing up late, and a sound system thatwas many decibels too loud, everything came together and it was a fun-filledafternoon. Click on the picture below to open an album of photos from the event.

World Hoop Day

The following week, I gathered a training group in Dakar toconduct another round of Safe Zone Training to discuss gay awareness andsensitivity with our local Peace Corps staff. This was our third round of training and was, again, well-received. This always provokes lots of discussion andcontroversy, but that’s why we put it together in the first place. We give thestaff a safe place to talk about these issues and to better understand how tosupport homosexual volunteers who are serving in a country where homosexualacts are treated as both immoral and illegal. During this session, one of the staff membersshared with us her concerns about an Islamic belief that if you touch ahomosexual, even a casual touch upon the arm, then your prayers will not countfor 40 days. Since Muslims pray 5 timesa day, that’s 200 prayers down the drain. She understood that she has a professional obligation to interact withhomosexual volunteers, but wanted to make it clear to us that she wasuncomfortable with this. Fair enough—we weren’tthere to change their opinions, just broaden their understanding and hopefullyidentify some folks who could step up to provide support. Regardless, it was hard to hear. Soon after this discussion, however, one ofour openly gay volunteers returned a pen to another participant and to thankhim for remembering to give it back, she hugged him. Yes, right there in front of Allah and everybody,with 200 prayers in jeopardy, she hugged him. It was beautiful.

The next week I returned to Dakar to attend a Thanksgivingfeast at the home of the new Ambassador and his wife, Lewis and Lucy Lukens. They arrived in Senegal in August and werebrave enough to follow in the tradition of previous ambassadors and invite thePeace Corps Volunteers over to their house to celebrate the holiday. I saybrave, because letting a group of mostly 20-somethings who’ve been livingmeager lives subsisting on rice and millet for many months around unlimitedamounts of good food and wine can be a scary sight. Many volunteers chose to stay in theirrespective regions, hosting smaller gatherings at regional houses, but therewere still over 100 volunteers who signed up for the pot luck in Dakar. In addition, 30 or so embassy employeesjoined us, so it was quite an impressive gathering (that’s a lot of toubabs)and the food was amazing.

Stanzi rolling out pie dough with a beer bottle--classic Peace Corps ingenuity!An impressive variety of foods at the pot luck

One of the MANY long tables set up for the event.

So I over-indulged a little!

The Tivaouane gang had a Thanksgiving reunion of sorts.

Phil, Kelsey, April, and Chris

The following day, a small group of volunteers hosted aBlack Friday Art Expo in Dakar. Ibrought two artisans from Diourbel: Mamadou, who I’ve introduced before, andDibor, a new tailor with whom I’m working. She and I designed some satchels and bags made from recycled rice sacks andthese sold really well. I also workedwith her to create some other new items that we thought would interest theex-pat community of Dakar. She made placematand napkin sets, adjustable aprons, and wrap-pants. Dibor sold so many things the first day ofthe Expo that she stayed up late at her sewing machine that night to replenish her stocks. In the first two days of thesale, she netted well over $200, which in an economy where people survive onless than $1/day, is pretty substantial. Her husband called me later that week to thank me personally.

Dibor at the Art ExpoDibor's rice sack bagsMamadou and his friend Matar

Hanging with my artisans

Khady returned to France at the end of November and won’treturn to Senegal until after my service has ended. I’m going to miss having her around, althoughit will be nice for Ibou and me to have the compound back to ourselves. This time around we’re not exactly alonethough. We now have a young French volunteer named Anna who has just startedworking with us. She arrived in Senegal afew weeks ago and will likely stay for the three months that her visa willallow. So far, she’s settling in andgetting used to the heat, culture, and language. That’s a lot to come at you at once, Iknow. Soon, she’ll be helping us withour Eco-Ecole program and our village garden projects. Although she doesn’t speak a lick of Englishand my ears strain to understand her accent (so different for the AfricanFrench accent), it’s nice to have another toubab around. Her arrival was also a good excuse not toreturn to eating lunches with the family across the street. As much as I enjoyed their company, I’m happynot to be forced to eat my weight in rice every day.

Another welcome change that’s occurred since my return fromthe States is that we’ve had over 2 straight months without any electricity outages to speak of. I’m not sure I’ve ever had two straight daysprior to this. Not sure what’s afoot,but the upcoming election surely plays a part in this. Unfortunately, now that I have reliablepower, my internet service has been on the fritz, working only periodically. Thishas been annoying and disruptive for me, but knowing that the majority of PeaceCorps Volunteers in Senegal (or around the world) don’t have the luxury of WiFi, I really shouldn’tcomplain.

The first weekend in December, a reporter from Voice ofAmerica came out to Diourbel to do a story on our paper briquette pressproject. She attended our Saturdaymorning Eco-Ecole and interviewed some of the kids and school directors. She was impressed with our little compoundoasis and the projects that we’re working on. Here is a link to the radio transcript.

Last week, my friends Andrew and CJ came up fromKaolack to conduct a training seminar about the wonders of the Moringa tree. My neighbor Stanzi came from Bambey, as well. The first day we broughtseveral people in from neighboring villages for a train-the-trainer session,teaching them how to best grow and cultivate it, the nutritional value ofits leaves, and how to incorporate them into their diet. The next two days were spent in the villagesrepeating these same lessons, but with the help of the participants from the firstday. The information was well-receivedand each village now has a small Moringa nursery to tend to. I’ll be following up with them in lateJanuary to see how things are going. Click on the photo below to open an album of our Gardens of Moringa Training.

Gardens of Moringa Training

Here's a special bonus--a short video of the women of Khokhe who broke out into song and dance while pounding moringa leaves.

Moringa Powder Song & Dance

And finally, last week marked another milestone for me; Iturned 44. To celebrate, I traveled toThiès to join a few friends for lunch and then went on a little shopping spreeto replenish my cupboards. As a specialtreat, I bought myself a bottle of Scotch, a frying pan, a can of artichokehearts, a hand-blender for making soups and smoothies. That alone equaled halfof my monthly living allowance—but, heh, I’m worth it, right?! All in all it was a good day and it was so nice to hear from so many of you.

Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas. May Santa's sleigh be filled with sacks of rice and boxes of live chickens!

I shared my ride into Thies with a box full of chickens

Ice Cream - Yum!Joyeux Noel

The last week in September, I joined 14 other volunteers and4 Senegalese counterparts at the University of Bambey (just about 25mins frommy site) for a Girls Leadership Camp. Planningfor this camp started just a couple of months after we swore in as Peace CorpsVolunteers. It was a project thatjustified meeting up for group lunches every now and again and was always inthe back of our minds until late this summer, when we started working on it full throttle. Luckily, the groupthat came before us initiated the camp the year before so there were some good“lessons learned” to consider when planning it. Not that we didn't leave room to make our own mistakes along theway. All in all, the camp was a bigsuccess and everyone pitched in to educate, motivate, and entertain 52 brightSenegalese teenage girls.

The girls were all recipients of the Michelle SylvesterScholarship, a Peace Corps-run program that provides tuition, school supplyassistance, and mentorship to middle school girls who exhibit academic potential, financial need, and lack of family support. Throughout the year,many Peace Corps Volunteers work one-on-one with these students and theirfamilies to encourage the girls to stay in school. The literacy rate in Senegal is 52% for males and only 33% for females over the age of 15 and the drop out rate for girls increases dramatically from primary to tertiary education.

As with most projects in Senegal, you neverreally know when and if something is going to happen until it actuallyhappens. The “inchallah mentality”(where people add “God willing” to the end of anything they agree to do) givesan entire society the right to be vague about their commitments. We’d budgeted for 40 girls to attend andreally didn’t know how many would actually join us until the morning of thecamp when they met their volunteers to be escorted from their home towns out toBambey. Surprisingly, instead of a shortage,we ended up with 12 extra girls, Allhumdalilah (another favorite Senegalesephrase-ender which means, “Thanks be to God”.)

Our week unfolded like this:

Sunday morning,the Volunteers who were not bringing girls prepped the facilities to get readyfor the week ahead. This was originallyplanned for Saturday afternoon, but we were all delayed due to a couple of bigrain storms that came through. Later inthe afternoon, the girls arrived, settled in, made nametags for their doors, atedinner, and got to know one another while forming teams. That first evening we discovered that notonly was it incredibly hot and humid in Bambey (living so close, this was noshocker to me) but there were no fansand the campus was infested with blister beetles and earwigs thattormented us every evening while seeking the overhead lights when the sun went down.

Monday morning, I led ayoga class to start our day. Thiswas a lot of fun, but a little intimidating at first because it was such alarge group and I had to teach the class in French. Luckily, I had Wolofinterpreters when I needed them. The girls were enthusiastic about the practiceand seemed to enjoy it, as later evaluations confirmed. In fact, one girl wrote that here favoritepart of the entire camp was doing the Corpse Pose every morning. I’m sure bothmy yoga friends and my non-yoga friends can appreciate this desire to lay on the floor in complete relaxation all the same. Each day had a theme and Monday was “Our Health Day”, which started with alesson on how to make Oral Rehydration Solution (aka homemade Gatorade) and whyit’s important to drink it when you exert yourself in the heat. After that, we had a lesson on the healthbenefits of Moringa, or in Wolof, Nebedaay (the well-documented “miracletree”), and after that we used dried Moringa leaves to make beignets (yummy little frieddonut balls)—see, anything that can turn a donut into a healthy snack IS amiracle. A nurse joined the girls in thelate afternoon to answer health-related questions ranging from “why don’t men haveperiods?” to “why do some girls smell like trash?” Girls will be girls! Every evening, before sunset, wehad some sort of physical activity led by La Rouge, the only male Senegalesecounterpart we had at camp. La Rougeadopted his name to reflect his affiliation with the communist party and weonly once caught him proselytizing his political beliefs to the girls. Other than that, he was great withthem. For Monday night’s healthactivity, I lead “Spa Night” which was a lot of fun. We made an oatmeal facial scrub and then anegg and lemon face mask. None of thegirls had ever seen oatmeal before and were very curious about it. It’s available here, but usually only“toubabs” buy it or can afford it, so this was a real treat. After our facials, we painted our nails, which almost didn’t happen, as we were informed at the lastminute by our counterparts that the girls would have to remove any nail polishbefore their next prayer (and remember, the Senegalese pray 5 times aday.) I’d only brought enough nailpolish remover to correct the mishaps I’d anticipated. This was certainly a lesson learned. I can’t believe I’ve lived here a year anddidn’t know this already. Clearly, notall girls follow this rule. My host mom regularly wears the stuff, but then again, she's "Khady Toubab." Luckily, wewere able to scrounge up enough acetone in the local market to allow thosegirls who wished to participate to paint and then un-paint their nails. I’m sure this felt very exciting and decadentto some and probably scandalous to others. Not all girls participated, so we got out the back-up supply of paper and crayons. Another obstacle I hadn't anticipated was having to use only our right hands (not our "dirty" left hands) to wash of our facial products because we were using communal basins. This proved morechallenging than you would think.

Tuesday was “Our Environment Day”, which includedactivities about identifying and defining the various cultural andmicro-climate environments that are found in Senegal, creating micro gardens inold tires and in water bottle planters, and an educational scavenger hunt thatunintentionally resulted in live animals being carried back in sacks—notour proudest moment--but we did give those teams extra credit for thinkingoutside the box. After dinner, the girlsput on skits or performed dances that represented the various ethnic groupsthat make up the Senegalese population. One thing about this camp that amazed me the most is how quickly the girls took to one another. They'd come in groups of 3-9, but other than that they didn't know each other beforehand. They were split up into new groups the first evening and roommates were selected randomly. Within the first few hours of camp, these girls were happily interacting with each other. No cliques were formed and they worked together as if they'd always known one another. I guess that's the result of Senegalese communal living.

Wednesday , on “Our Career Day” we made self-portraitcollages that representing what the girls like to do or what they’d like tobecome. After that we played a fun gamewhere girls had to take a stand agreeing or disagreeing with a series ofstatements that started out mundane and increasingly got more substantial (e.g.,“Ceebu Jenn (a rice and fish dish) is better than Ceebu Yapp (a rice and meatdish); A woman should not work outside the home; A man has the right to beathis wife; Birth control is only the responsibility of the man, etc..). This activity generated a lot of discussionas girls were called upon to defend their position, whether they agreed ordisagreed with the statement. Afterlunch, we invited a panel of professional women to speak with the girls. I’d been corresponding with OfeibeaQuist-Archten, NPR’s West African correspondent, for many months and both sheand I had hoped that she would be able to attend our career panel discussion, butunfortunately, her schedule changed at the last minute and she had to fly from “Daakaaaar” to attend a family event in Ghana. Despite her absence, and the last minutecancellation of both my host mom AND my neighbor who has also agreed to attend (but of course, carefully added "Inchallah" when agreeing), weended up having four impressive women on the panel. The pinnacle of our camp experience occurredwhen one of the girls stepped outside after hearing the woman from the HelenKeller Foundation speak and started crying because she was so moved by thewoman’s talk and hoped to someday grow up to be as inspirational as her. So, for those of you who helped sponsor ourcamp, THANK YOU. We didn’t just use themoney we raised to by markers, paints, supplies, and food, we used it to createan environment where young girls could form dreams about their futures.

Thursday wasanother big day for me. In addition tomy morning yoga class, my friend Kelsey and I lead a session all morning on howto make Neem lotion and Shea Butter lip balm. Then, we followed that up with a class on Costing. This was “OurBusiness Day”. Teaching businessconcepts here is always challenging, but I think we got our points acrossfairly effectively. I had to leave campafter this session to teach another round of Safe Zone (gay awareness andsensititivy) Training back in Thies, but the rest of the day at camp involvedother business related games and marketing exercises.

Friday was “Our Imagination Day” and focused onactivities that encouraged creativity. Some of the other volunteers led the yoga class in the morning and thenthe girls tie-dyed camp t-shirts, watched a movie about women in Senegal,worked on various other art projects, and practiced for a talent show that washeld that final evening.

If the camp could be evaluated by the state of exhaustion wewere all in when it was finally done, then I’d have to admit that WEROCKED! The girls were amazinglywell-behaved, tolerant of the heat and the bugs, and enthusiastic participantsin all of our planned activities. Wedefinitely could not have pulled off the week without the help of ourSenegalese counterparts who, hopefully, will come back next year to work withthe next set of Volunteers. Ultimately,as with any good Peace Corps project, we hope that the camp will be a sustainableproject and that lasting partnerships are formed.

Click on the photo below to open an album of pictures from the week.

Girls Leadership Camp 2011

One morning shortly after I returned from vacation, I walkedout of my room and found my host mom sitting at the table drinking a cup ofcoffee. “Surprise!” she said in Frenchbefore reaching over to give me a kiss on my left, then right, then left cheeks. Khady Ndiaye, or Khady Ndiaye “Toubab”, asthe neighborhood kids call her because she’s more Western than the averageSenegalese woman, has come back from France where she works cleaning rooms at aski school 8 months out of the year. She superstitious about flying so she comes and goes without any advancednotice. Khady (pronounced like “hottie”with a guttural H) doesn’t like her job there much, but she gets paid well and,as a result, can afford to own her own house in Senegal. Ibou and I rent rooms from her and ourassociation offices are located in her compound. Much of her family lives next door, althoughher relationship with them is a bit strained so she keeps them at arms-length. The compounds share a wall which used to havea door leading from one to the other, but after a dispute with her father’ssecond wife, she bricked it up. That’sKhady for you! She’s a force to bereckoned with. People both love and fearher. Although she returned unexpectedlyin the middle of the night, it didn’t take long for people to realize that shewas back. Within 24 hours, the peace andquiet to which Ibou and I had grown accustomed was gone. In its place was a flurry of activity asKhady began executing the home improvement plans she’d been envisioning whileaway. Gardeners showed up to hack awayat or dig up and move the overgrown plants. Brick layers appeared with pile of sand and bricks to begin paving a terraceoutside her living quarters. Workmen deconstructeda thatched-roof hut over our classroom space so it can be replaced withsomething more substantial. Khady iswise with her money and is investing it in her compound as opposed to doling itout to whoever asks for it, which is the more common trait here inSenegal. She definitely has a good headon her shoulders.

In addition to filling her house with workmen andconstruction debris, she’s also filled it with friends. Daily, there are a handful of folks who come byto catch up with her and hang around most of the day. We all eat lunch together, with 10-12 of usaround the bowl, and most of them stay for afternoon tea. Last week, Khady decided that I need to learnhow to cook Senegalese food. Thisthought had, of course, already crossed my mind since cooking has always been oneof my favorite pastimes, but I hadn’t quite gotten around to it yet. It wasn’tan appealing prospect at my neighbor’s house where I’d been eating lunch sinceKhady left last December because their “kitchen” is a small hot cinderblock roomwith soot-stained walls which is shared with a family of mice and about 10,000flies. I also, thought that learning tocook here wouldn’t really translate back home because the pots, pans, and“appliances” are so different. All mealsare cooked over a single propane burner or a pile of burning wood (sometimes even“paper briquettes”!), so there is a certain order to how things arecooked (e.g., the fish is fried first, then the oil is used to make a sauce forthe stewed vegetables, then the rice is steamed over this mixture, then theveggies are removed, and finally the rice is added to the liquid.) Even though we have a four-burner stove inthe indoor kitchen here, no one ever uses it but me. This method of cooking outdoors, using onepot, is well-engrained into the fabric of the culture and it’s not going tochange anytime soon.

This will soon be a new covered classroom

Khady washing dishes amid the debris

Most of the greenery in our compound got hacked away,

but I suspect with all of our heat and rain, it will be back in no time.Anyway, I decided to take her up on the offer and havestarted to prepare some meals under her tutelage. Had I known how many “toubab points” thatwould have gotten me earlier on in my service, I would have done it sooner. The first afternoon, I made a simple tomatosauce to have over the millet couscous that someone brought us from an outlyingvillage. Couscous is “village food”, yousee. People in the cities eat rice. This is an unfortunate cultural divide as couscousis made from local millet or corn and is so much more nutritious than theimported white rice that most people I know eat. My sauce consisted of oil, tomato paste, water,onions, hot peppers, vinegar, potatoes, and spices. It was far from rocket-science, yet you wouldhave thought I’d just sent a man to the moon by the way people reacted to a“toubab” cooking a Senegalese sauce. Anyone who heard the tale, which spread like wildfire, came by to ask meabout it and giggle. Maybe this was theother reason I hadn’t been inclined to do this until now--I certainly don’t need any other reasons tostick out around here. After the successof my couscous sauce, I was next charged with Ceebu Yaap, or Rice with Meat,which is very descriptive of the end product. You’d never guess that a platter of oily rice with a few morsels of meatin it would take several hours and many steps to make, but it did. It went something like this:

We washed ½ kilo of meat in a basin of watersince it spent the morning at the market covered in flies. Remember, a ½ kilois just over 1 lb (before the fat cooks off) and we were serving this to 12people—not a lot of meat.Next, Khady and I held onto each piece of meatwith our right hands (the “clean” hands), stretching them taut, then I used adull knife to cut the pieces into smaller pieces.I then chopped 2 onions in the palm of my handand added this and the meat to an aluminum Dutch oven called a “marmite” with ½liter of oil and basically deep fat fried these for 15 minutes or so.After the meat and onions were crispy, we added3 liters of water and, pardon my French, boiled the hell out of it for at leastan hour.Meanwhile, with a large wooden mortar andpestle, I pounded away at an onion, many cloves of garlic, a couple of bellpeppers, 25 CFA worth of hot peppers (yes, that’s the measurement I was given),black peppercorns, and Maggi and Adji spice packets (aka MSG-laden spice mix). Pulverizing this into a saucy paste was agood upper arm work out, but you must be careful that the mixture doesn’tsplash up and hit you in the eye, which, of course, I was not.Before adding this saucy mixture to the pot, I skimmedoff the oil. At this step I got excitedfor a minute because most Senegalese dishes are really oily, but then Irealized we were going to add the entire ½ liter of oil back in later.Then I rinsed 2 kilos of rice (that’s about 4½lbs dry weight--a lot of rice) and placed it in a steamer pan over the boilingmixture and covered it, wrapping a long piece of fabric around the two pots tokeep in the steam. This is why weremoved the oil, so that the pot would produce a better steam.About a half hour later, when the rice was softand fluffy, I poured it into the boiling mixture with all of the oil that I’d skimmedoff and cooked it until the rice has absorbed all of the liquid.Finally, I transferred the mixture to a large platter, scraping the crunchy rice that was stuck to the bottom of the pot and placing it in the middle as a garnish, and listened to all the oohs and ahhs from our guests as they gobbled up thishigh-carb, high-fat meal.Today I helped make"Boulettes" (fish pounded into a paste and then deep-fried and served with a curried tomato sauce over rice. It was pretty good. We’re building up to Ceedu Jenn, the national dish of rice,fish, and vegetables, but even though they’ve been impressed with my cookingskills thus far, no one thinks I’m ready for that yet ;-)

Abib eating millet and my couscous sauce the

next morning for his breakfast.Making Ceebu YaapThree hours later (see I told you there's not much Yaap)Khady and her bonne (maid) frying fishballsTomato curry sauce

This weekend, my friend Kelsey came to visit. We were both in Thiès on Friday for a GirlsCamp planning meeting and came back to my site together to work on some of ourassignments. We decided to cook an “American”meal for dinner on Saturday night and prepared a burrito bar with tortillas, marinatedmeat, seasoned black beans, sautéed onions and peppers, grated cheese thatKhady has brought back from France, chopped lettuce that Ibou grew in histabletop garden, and mango salsa. Everyone loved it. Ibou, who usually eatslike a bird and has been sick for the past week, wolfed down his entire burritobefore mine was even wrapped up. Khadyinformed me that a meal like this would cost 7€ per person in France, and Khady’sbrother and nephew were glad that they’d come to visit just as we were puttingthe meal on the table. The next morning,we shared the leftovers with the guys working here and they all came over to thank uspersonally. I might just be making thatCeebu Jenn sooner than they thought!

Ibou, Fatou, Coumba, and Khady

Ahhh! A yummy burrito.

Even this little pipsqueak enjoyed the meal.

First Impressions of Barcelona

A few weeks before leaving for my vacation, my friendAlys, who’d just completed her Peace Corps service, began a long and windingjourney through Europe on her way home. Her first stop was Barcelona, from which she reported,

HelloBarcelona. You're beautiful, but please don't make me fall in love with you. Ijust got out of a long term relationship with another continent and I'm stillgetting over it. But damn, you're temptingly sexy...”

Ichuckled when I read this and then spent the next couple of weeks daydreamingabout what lay ahead for me. I mean, let’sadmit it; sexy has not been in my vocabulary for a very long time. When I arrived, I was just as smitten as shewas. This city’s got it going on! It’s beautiful, clean, artsy, proud,colorful, exuberant, historic, organized, kind, picturesque, smart, tasty,charming….and yes, even sexy. The only discomfortfor me was that the Spaniards in this part of the country are so proud of theirculture and heritage that they speak their indigenous regional language, Catalan. Having just left a country where I struggleto communicate, I was a little worried that this might send me over the edge. But no, the Catalonians have mastered many languages, including Spanish, Englishand, for some, even French. Believe itor not, I even ran into a few Wolof speakers on the streets. For the first 24 hours, I was completely tongue-tied and my brain didn’tknow what sounds to produce. Peoplewould speak to me in English and I’d try to answer them in some combination ofFrench and Spanish. Luckily, by the second day and after a good night's sleep,this problem subsided. I'd planned a few days in Spain before my parents arrived, so I could adjust to themodern world again. My first impressionswere that everything was so pristine and that everything worked. For some reason, I’d only left Senegal withthe name of my hotel and no address and knowing that I’d booked a room in a tiny privately owned establishment,I was concerned that a taxi may not be able to find it. So, I paid for theairport WiFi to search for the address and then asked a guy at the informationdesk at the airport if I should call them to get directions. He said “most taxi drivers have GPS devices—noworries.” I just stood there a minutelaughing out loud at the wonder and absurdity of it all. When you get in a taxi in Dakar and ask thedriver to take you somewhere, the driver will first argue with you about thefee and then finally agree to take you there for some negotiated price. Halfway to your destination he’llturn around and ask you how to get there and then, inevitably, start yelling atyou for not knowing the way. More thanlikely, he’ll try to charge you more when he stops to ask directions. Sometimes, this whole process gets so infuriatingthat you just get out of the taxi have to start all over again. So, the news of GPS devices, taxi meters, and“no worries” was like music to my ears. I grinned the whole way to my hotel. The other thing that immediately hit me was how clean the streetswere. I mean, you could eat off themthey were so clean—I’m not just talking generic American-clean, I’m talkingWisteria Lane clean. They hadrecycling bins to sort glass, paper, plastic, and even compost on every cornerfrom inside the airport to the smallest little neighborhood street. Needless to say, I was very impressed. The tapas were the next thing to catch myeye—so artfully crafted were these little flavorful tidbits. The first evening, I sat alone and ordered aslew of them, one at a time, while enjoying some lovely Spanishwine. I could have sat there all night. Itwas just divine.

Montblanc

The next morning, I caught a train to the medieval village of Montblanc, which issituated about 2 hours southwest of Barcelona in the Tarragona region. The patron saint of this village is St.George because, it is here, they claim ,that he slayed the evil dragon and saved the virgin princess. That's quite a claim to fame! Montblanc is alsothe home of my friends Annaïs and Eric, a Catalonian couple who had stayed withme in Diourbel when they were traveling through Senegal back in January. They run an organic farm called. Xicòria, which means 'chicory' in Catalan, a plant with many culinary and medicinal properties. Together withanother couple, Sylvia and Maximo, they manage a cooperative association, employing a group of local association members and WWOOFing volunteersto help them coordinate educational programs,distribute baskets of produce to shareholders, and manage catering jobs usingtheir homegrown products. The group wasabout 10 people when I arrived and they welcomed me into their communal familywithout the blink of an eye, sharing both their work and their meals with me. The two nights I was in there, theneighboring village was hosting a street festival, so after we finished work,we piled into a couple of vans and headed over the hills for artisanal beer,music, street food, and festivities. This was how a typical day at Xicòria unfolded:

Shareholder baskets ready for pickup7am – Head out the door to begin work on the farm(e.g. picking tomatoes or onions)10am – Communal breakfast setup on tables at the farm: coffee/tea, fresh baked bread, homemade jams, cheese,Iberian ham, tomatoes, and fruit11am – 1pm – More farm work (e.g. cleaning andbundling onions or assembling shareholder baskets)1pm – Communal lunch back at the apartmentconsisting of something yummy like fresh gazpacho, a hearty vegetarian dish, afresh salad, and grilled veggies drizzled with delicious local olive oil.2pm – 5pm – Siesta (they really take this seriouslyin Spain—things shut down completely)5pm – 8pm – More farm work (e.g. handpickingbeetles off cabbage plants)8pm – 11pm – Village festival in VallsEach night we fell into bed sore and exhausted. It reminded me of my Horse & Buggy Produce days but with a lot morebreaks for eating and resting. The secondday I was there, Eric, Maximo, and I drove to a friend’s place with a vanloadof tomatoes and spent the afternoon washing and slicing to prepare them fordrying. Their friend makes artisanal breadsand pastas and constructed a giant ventilated drying machine in his kitchen todry his pastas. In trade for vegetablesto feed his WWOOFing volunteers, he let us use it for drying tomatoes. There’s a lot of bartering going on in thiscommunity and it was nice to be a part of it for a few days. My hosts were so welcoming and, with amixture of languages, we were able to communicate effectively. Our visit ended way too soon.

Cruisingthe MediterraneanMom & Dad on the docks in MonacoMomand Dad arrived in Barcelona on Thursday just as I was getting back fromMontblanc. I literally walked into ourhotel from the train station and there they were waiting at the elevator withall of their bags. Although they were tired from an all-night flight, we ranaround the city enjoying the colorful atmosphere. They had been in Barcelona two years ago andwere anxious to show me around town. Unfortunately, we walked a little too fast and furious that afternoon whichcaused Mom to pull a ligament behind her knee and that slowed her down for theremainder of the trip. On Friday, weheaded down to the port and boarded our cruise ship. I’d been on a cruise last summer, a Girls Trip for a longweekend in the Bahamas with my mom, sister, aunt, and cousin, so Iknew what to expect, but still, somehow, the over stimulating décor still took me bysurprise. There were patterns everywhere—onthe floor, on the chairs, on the walls—chrome and bright lights, too. It was sensory overload at times. Luckily, our room was big enough that we weren't stepping on each other and it had a window looking out onto the waterthat made it seem even bigger. This servedas a good escape from the crowded decks above. It’s a good thing I like hanging out with my parents because we had alot of “together time” on this trip.

Our9-day itinerary took us around the western Mediterranean Sea. We stopped in (or at least near enough tovisit): Monte Carlo, Florence, Naples,Messina (Sicily), and Marseilles. Wealso docked a couple hours outside of Rome one day but decided to explore the portcity for a couple of hours and then spent the rest of the afternoon having quiettime on the ship. Our stop in Palma de Mallorca was cancelled due to a port-workerstrike so we ended up with an extra day in Barcelona, which was just fine withus. Mom, Dad, and I seemed to be in the same mindset about wanting to relax andnot run around like crazy people trying to see everything there was to see in acity in just one day.Oneof the highlights of the cruise for all of us, but especially me, was the overabundanceof food available at all hours of the day and night. I’d made an early decision to mentally separatemyself from the developing world so as not to be riddled with guilt the wholetrip. Instead, I was appreciative of themany choices presented to me each day. Atthe morning buffet I could have made-to-order omelets, an assortment of cheesesand cold cuts, freshly made cottage cheese, fruits, and yogurt, bacon andsausage, home-fries, etc. Lunches wereoften eaten on shore or were another version of ship’s buffet with aMongolian Wok, salad bar, deli sandwiches, various hot entrees, and frozenyogurt (which, of course I had daily!) What I had previously mocked as “trough food” back in the States, was now asight for sore eyes. Dinners were a bitmore structured and were served in a dining room with a full menu of dailyspecials. At times, my mother convincedme to join her in ordering multiple appetizers (because we could) and we haddessert after every meal. I likelyingested more food in any given day than I do in an entire week back inSenegal, but at least I was eating well-balanced meals and got my fill ofprotein and vegetables.Severaldays into the cruise, my body started feeling rejuvenated again. I was getting plenty of sleep (in acomfortable bed in an air conditioned room), my diet, although excessive, was healthful,and we were walking a lot at each port of call. I decided to take my now-kind-of-squishy-body that hadn’t seen any realphysical exercise in over a year up to the gym and started working outagain. I can’t tell you how good it feltto get on a Stair Master and make myself sweat. In Senegal, I sweat all the time because it’s either 110 degrees or ifit’s a tad cooler, like it is now, the humidity is through the roof. Sweating because you live under the Africansun and sweating because you’re pumping blood through your veins and makingyour muscles ache are too entirely different things. I was so grateful for just a few days thelatter. It gave me hope that someday, mybody will get back in shape and I’ll feel good about myself again. I alsotreated myself to a haircut in Sicily and had my first “goodhair day” in over a year.

Backto Barcelona

At the Olympic Museum in BarcelonaBecause we ended up in Barcelona a dayearly, our post-cruise visit there was increased to 5 days. Even so, there was still so much more of thecity we could have explored. We left ourhotel by 10am each day after making ourselves breakfast in our room and didn’t return until8 or 9pm each evening. We ate ourlunches out, enjoying the neighborhood restaurantsoffering Daily Menus (an appetizer, an entrée, wine, water, and dessert) for reasonableprices (but, man is the dollar weak over there!!). We usually picked up things from the local mini-marts to have in ourroom for dinner when we returned late. The highlights of our wanderings through Barcelona included the Modernismearchitecture that peppers the city (including all things Gaudi and especially Domènech i Montaner’s MusicPalace), the plazas and infrastructure built for the ’92 Olympics, the SpanishVillage built for the ‘29 International Exhibition, the St. Joseph Market withits colorful produce displays and meat on a stick, the Els Encants flea market, the many impressive art museums, andall of the colorfully decorated balconies. We shared our visit to Barcelona with thousands of young Catholicrevelers who trickled in from all over the world before heading to WorldYouth Day in Madrid as well as a slew of soccer fans who were there cheering on FCBarcelona as they won the Spanish SuperCup the last night we were there. We really had such a great time that it was hardto leave, but I did so with a promise to myself that I would be back. To lighten the mood as we were preparingto leave, Dad looked at me and said (with tongue in cheek), “As many people ourage tell their children, ‘We’re going to a better place.’” ;-)

Home in Senegal

Fundraising koozieFlying back “home” to Dakarfelt strange, but this is where I find myself these days. It was nice not to have thedeer-in-the-headlights feeling when I got off the plane and it was fun beingable to speak to some of the Senegalese on board in their native tongue.However, I was also welcomed back to Senegal in true Senegalese style. We landed at 3am in the pouring rain (that same storm eventually headed west and turned into Irene) and I was immediately accosted by no fewer than 8 aggressivetaxi drivers who all wanted my business and had all laid claim to my luggage. There was a lot of yelling and I had to pullmy bags back out of people’s hands but, eventually, I negotiated with a driver and withinseconds of getting in his car he got pulled over and had to bribe the policebefore we could be on our way.--oh, Senegal! With very little sleep, I attended the new volunteer Swear-In Ceremonylater that morning, spent the weekend doing laundry, and then had mymid-service medical exams early the following week. I’m now back at site and am settling backinto work and my way of life. The rainyseason has brought dampness to everything and new bugs and smells inhabit myroom. Although this makes daily living uncomfortable at times, it’s no longer new. The power and water cuts are just part of lifehere, as are the ants in my food, the mosquitoes buzzing around my head, andthe mold growing on my belongings. Thisis my life and my home now, at least for the next year, and I can find comfortin anticipating what will come as I make my way through the last half of myservice. Keep me in your thoughts, as you are in mine.

More Photos

Here are two photo albums from our trip:

Mediterranean Cruise (Monaco, Italy, France)Barcelona and Montblanc

It’s hard to believe that I’m at “mid-service” already. In two weeks, I’ll have been in Senegal for anentire year. There have been weeks that have flown by and days that have draggedon, seemingly forever, but some years are like that for all of us, I suppose. The difference, for me, has been that thateverything in my world changed the moment I got off the plane in Dakar last August—the language, theculture, the food, the climate. I’m just going to say it, the whole experiencehas been a lot harder than I thought it would be. One year later, the languagesare familiar, and although I can communicate with those around me, I’m far fromfluent; the culture is less shocking, but still confusing and abrasive attimes; the food has gone from interesting and new to commonplace andrepetitive; and last but not least, it is still HOT. Those of you on the East Coast have recentlyexperienced the extreme of my daily temperatures. I’m not sure anyone can every really get usedto it. Even the Senegalese who were bornand raised here still include mention of the heat in their everydayconversation: “Dafa taang!” (It’s hot!) or “Taang nga?” (Aren’t you hot?).

At mid-service, there’s a changing of the guard or a passing of the baton,of sorts, that happens with volunteers. Manyof the folks who were here when we arrived have just ended their serviceand have gone home, moving my group up a notch in seniority, and new trainees havearrived taking our place as the new kids on the block. It was difficult to say goodbye to thefriends I’d made here over the past year. Living in harsh conditions and sharing our experiences with one anothercreates a unique bond. Much of what goes on over here is hard toexplain to people not living in the midst of it. Partof me felt a little abandoned when a handful of my friends left a couple of weeks ago and it made the 12 monthsahead of me feel a quite daunting. Atthe same time, however, I was welcoming a new group of people who are just about to start their service and are so excited tobe here. They’re a good reminder of whyI came and what I hope to accomplish before I leave.

July 2011 - Past, current, and future PCVs from the Dakar region.This seems as good a time as any to take my first vacation. Next week I’ll be meeting my parents inBarcelona for a Mediterranean cruise. Itmay seem extreme to go from roughing it in a developing world to fancy livingon the high seas, but I need it desperately, especially now at mid-service. A little booster will do me good and, hopefully, I’ll come back refreshed , readyto take on new projects , and motivated to push a little harder on someprojects that have recently stalled. I timed this trip to coincide withRamadan, as things here tend to slow down then. Ninety-four percent of the country are Muslims and therefore Ramadanbecomes all-consuming. People fast (nofood or water) from sunup until sundown (~5:30am ~7:30pm) which means thingsbegin to slow down around lunchtime when people roll out their mats. After that it’shard to get much done. Some volunteersshow their solidarity and fast with their families, however, I've decided tospend this time recharging and regrouping. I’m totally at peace with that. Sometimes you need to listen to what yourbody needs, like last week when I consumed 3 hard-boiled eggs, a bag of beefjerky, and a can of tuna, including its juice, within a 3 hour window. Clearly, I needed a protein boost. Other times you need to listen to your souland mine is telling me I need to get away for a bit. Hopefully, this vacation will leave both mybody AND my soul a little more energized.Truth be told, I’m a little bit worried how I’ll handlebeing in the developed world again. I’mpacking extra wraps because, even though I long to experience air conditioningagain, I’m sure I’m going to freeze on the ship and then there are the sociallyquestionable bad habits I’ve picked up since being here. In order to integrate into a new culture youoften find yourself doing what they do to try to fit in, but these don’t alwaystranslate into social norms in other parts of the world. The following is a list of10 habits that I should probably try to break before getting on my plane nextweek:

Burping during mealsWiping my nose on the hem of my skirtFlapping my arms like a chicken when I say “No”Eating my meals on the floorWearing flip flops to formal eventsSlurping my drinksScraping the filth beneath my fingernails withthe page corners of the book I’m reading (ok, I admit, that one’s all me—no onereads here)Adding “Inchallah” (God willing) to the end ofevery sentenceLetting insects crawl on my food while I’m eatingSquatting wherever and whenever when I need topeeWish me luck with all of that!

While I’m gone, the volunteers in my area will be continuingto raise money for a Girls Leadership Camp that we’ve planned for the end ofSeptember. We’ve been working hard these past few months to coordinate thisproject. I’ve even been in discussionswith NPR’s West African Correspondent, Ofeibea Quist-Arcton, to join our CareerDay panel. Per Peace Corps policy, allfunding for camps must be come through a Peace Corps Partnership Grant, whichbasically means that we have to solicit funding from people back home. So, if you’ve been looking for a way tosupport some of the work I’m doing over here, this would be youropportunity. One of the goals of thiscamp is to encourage girls with aptitude to continue their education, as thisis a problem in Senegal. According to arecent gender assessment study done byUSAID, the ratio of girls to boys drops from 98% in primary school, to 80% inmiddle school, and then to only 54% in high school. Girls are usually pulled out of school early to assist with householdchores or later to get married. Our campwill focus on the importance of continuing their education, on the roles theycan play in their society, and the opportunities that are available tothem. We’ve got about 40 girls who arecoming to camp, which is being held at a local university not far from mytown. To donate to this project, followthis link: Thiès Region Girls Leadership Camp 2011.

Also, when you get a chance, take a look at thenew tabs I’ve added to the top of my blog—Photos, Videos, and Sounds. These should provide another window into myworld here. I’ll be updating these over the next year as Icontinue my service.

One ofmy proudest achievements in service, thus far, did not include attempts to endmalaria, to promote nutrition for small children, or even to introduce analternative fuel source. No, instead, mymoment of glory came in the administration of a quiz---a "queer quiz", to be exact.

At thetail end June, Gay Pride Month in America, five other volunteers joined me atthe Thiès Training Center to deliver a day-long seminar on sexual orientationand alternative lifestyles. Our target audiencewas a group of local staff members whose job it is to provide language trainingand cultural support to Peace Corps Trainees. Also in attendance were other key members of the Peace Corps Senegalstaff, including the Training Director, Safety and Security Coordinator, andthe Medical Officers. This training(called Safe Zone Training) was originally put together by volunteers in TheGambia, the small country that cuts through the middle of Senegal, and was sharedat our Gender and Development Summit back in February. It focuses on increasing the staff’sawareness of different sexual identities and instructs them on how to supportvolunteers that come to them with personal issues. Homosexual acts are not only consideredimmoral by the religious leaders here, but they are also punishable bylaw. In 2007, 96% of the Senegalese populationsurveyed said that homosexuality should be rejected by society and, in the past3 years, 14 Senegalese men have been arrested and 5 imprisoned for illicithomosexual behavior. Just two monthsago, several of my friends and I were stunned upon reading a front page newsarticle declaring a “jihad” on homosexuality, wherein one of the most prestigious religious leaders suggestedthat those found guilty of this heinous crime be stoned on the streets.

They saythat serving in the Peace Corps is the “toughest job you’ll ever love”, butwhen that job comes with the challenge of masking your true identity for fearof personal harm or imprisonment, as it did for 14% of the volunteers who sworein last year, that makes the job even tougher and, frankly, this just didn’tsit well with me. I was raised to beopen-minded and accepting of people’s differences and I include in my “circleof love” many people whose lifestyles differ from my own. My mother recalls a phone call she receivedfrom me in college after I’d witnessed a KKK march where little kids stood nextto their parents holding signs with anti-gay slogans. I was livid at them; she was proud of me; and yes, I saidKKK, as in Ku Klux Klan. I’m not blindto the fact that discrimination is still alive and well in our great nation,but I’ve never been one to tolerate it. WhenI arrived in Senegal, and realized that many of my friends who had been “out”at home had to go back into the closet here in order not to offend their hostfamilies or, worse, subject themselves to possible danger or arrest, it made mefeel as uncomfortable as they did. Living in this this foreign culture is hard enough without the addedburden of trying to change who you are. So,I took matters into my own hands and pushed to have this training.

TheSeneGAD (Senegal Gender and Development) Board met at the beginning of May andapproved my proposal. Shortlythereafter, we had full support from our Country Director, and we formed a SafeZone Committee of interested volunteers from around the country to review andmodify the training materials we’d gathered. In less than 2 months, we conducted our first day-long session to 12attendees. We covered basic vocabulary,issues faced by homosexual volunteers, current gay rights around the world, thestages and difficulties of coming out, testimonials shared by current volunteers, andanti-gay behavior. We spent the lasthour of the session discussing the definition and role of an “ally” and how ourstaff can be supportive of volunteers who have issues related to their sexualorientation. At the end, we passed outthe “queer quiz”, which was really just an evaluation form, asking attendeesabout how their perceptions may have changed from the beginning of the class. Across the board, the participantsdemonstrated an increase in understanding and a willingness to discuss theseissues. We had lively and opendiscussion throughout the day and everyone agreed that this was an topic thatno one had felt comfortable broaching before and that this training was longoverdue. The SeneGAD Safe Zone Team

Our Country Director opened the session to show his support.

It was an interactive training day.

We even had role-play scenarios.We maynot have changed a nation’s attitude, last month, but we connected with a roomfull of people who provide daily support in the lives of future Peace CorpsVolunteers as they struggle to understand a new language and acclimate to a newculture. We “helped promote a betterunderstanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served”, which is thesecond goal John F. Kennedy defined for the Peace Corps. Even though most of our participants still hold strong to their religious/legal beliefs regarding these matters, they're open to accepting and supporting others whose beliefs are different from theirs. Like allcountries where Peace Corps is present, Senegal is a developing country with ayoung democracy, so, of course, there is room for improvement when it comes tomany rights and the concept of equality.

Even we, in America, don't quite have this right yet, as we were reminded by the late Coretta Scott King--but we're trying. “Wehave a lot more work to do in our common struggle against bigotry anddiscrimination. I say ‘common struggle’because I believe very strongly that all forms of bigotry and discriminationare equally wrong and should be opposed by right-thinking Americanseverywhere. Freedom from discriminationbased on sexual orientation is surely a fundamental human right in any greatdemocracy, as much as freedom from racial, religious, gender, or ethnicdiscrimination.”

One of the things I like most about my role in the PeaceCorps is the variety of work I get to do. On any given day, I may be teaching aBusiness class to high school students, ripping paper with little kids to makepaper briquettes, collaborating with other volunteers on gender and developmentissues, talking with farmers about new water pump technology, or helping an artisanmarket his goods—and that’s the short list! Recently, I traveled to Saint Louis, the former French colonial capitalof West Africa, to attend an Artisan Exhibition with one of my artisans.

Dakar Artisan Expo, Dec '10Saint Louis Artisan Expo, Jun '11

Mamadou Dioum is a woodworker I met when I firstarrived in Diourbel. The two volunteersbefore me both worked with him, so I basically inherited this partnership. Mamadou learned to work with wood from hisfather at the age of 8, as did his brothers and cousins. Wood carving has been in their family forgenerations and there continue to be young apprentices hanging around theirworkshop. This is a family that takespride in what they do. Mamadou is in hislate twenties and is trying to move the business forward. If you come to Senegal, you’ll see manysimilar wood artisans selling their products along the streets of Dakar, butMamadou is trying to differentiate himself from the others. He works on new designs for the chairs andtables he creates and spends the time to do quality control and experiments with new shapes and types ofwood to make his bowls and plates more appealing. His traditional mortars and pestles,tam-tams, and djembes cater to the local market, but he alsomakes the small statues and masks popular with tourists.

Salad BowlDjembes and Tam-TamA cousin at workMamadou's newest designMasksChairs, tables, and fruit bowlsThe next generation

I think my host dad, Ibou, cringes every time I leave thecompound to work with Mamadou because, by definition, woodworkers are contributingto the deforestation problems that plague this country. At the same time, however, he understands theimportance of promoting traditional arts, and this is certainly one ofthem. Each piece of wood is maximized to make themost of it and the wood chips they create are gathered daily by neighborhoodwomen who carry them away in buckets on their heads to use for cooking.

Makes interlocking legsOne piece of woodWatching Mamabou or one of his cousins carve a criss-crossinginterlocking set of table legs out of one piece of wood is truly amazing,especially with the size of the tools they use. I am continually amazed at the precision they can get wielding largeadzes and the detailed finishing they can do with chisels that are old and fallingapart.

Although his work is beautiful, Mamadou has a hard timemaking a profit. Like most smallbusiness owners in Senegal, his personal finances and business finances aremerged so money coming into the business is usually spent the same day onkeeping the household afloat. In fact,hoarding (or saving) money is considered to be unsocial. According to David Maranz, who wrote African Friends and MoneyMatters, a book which we were required to read as part ofour training, “it is a general rule that people expect that money andcommodities will be used or spent as soon as they are available. If the possessor does not have immediate needto spend or use a resource, relatives and friends certainly do.” This is challenging for me as a SmallEnterprise Development Agent and also as a community member. I often find myself in the position ofloaning Mamadou money so that he can finish a commissioned job for someone Iknow. This has become increasinglyfrustrating for me as it’s become more commonplace. At least in this scenario, I know I’ll getthe money back when my friend pays for the piece because they can pay medirectly and give Mamadou the remainder. It's not exactly a sustainable practice, though, and I know that. All of my efforts to talk Mamadou into saving some of the money he earnsfrom one sale to invest in the next one have been for naught. Fortunately, I have some back up assistancewith this. My friend Alyssa, who is avolunteer in Thiès, worked on creating a Peace Corps Artisan Réseau (Network) as part of herservice. Mamadou is now a member of thisgroup. The artisans who work with volunteers meet regularly and paymonthly dues that go towards transportation and table fees at exhibitions. One of the Peace Corps technical trainers conductstraining seminars in their local language to assist them with managing theirbusinesses and we have a volunteer who works with the West African Trade Hub to help those who are interested in exporting their goods. The volunteers who work withthe artisans reinforce that training at site. It’s a slow process, but we’reheaded in the right direction.

An Artisan Reseau Training Seminar (Dakar)Alyssa leading an Artisan Reseau meeting (Thies)

In my office, reviewing photos

The Five ElementsThe Eastern medicine paradigm formulates five elements: Fire, Water, Earth, Wood, and Metal. I first become aware of them and their effects on my life years ago when I began acupuncture therapy for chronic upper respiratory infections. The elements are our creative and controlling energies and ideally should all be in balance. Out of balance, they are known as the causative factor and become apparent to a trained acupuncturist, who can then restore balance with the placement of needles along your body’s meridians. After Western medicine offered me nothing but years’ worth of antibiotics, I turned to this Eastern alternative and it worked for me. I liked the idea of communing with these elemental forces of nature, plus it gave me something to thing about while needles were being stuck in me. It wasn’t until I came to African, however, that I understood the profound effect that these elements can have on one’s daily life, in a veritable way. Fire, Water, Earth, Wood, and Metal all play a crucial role in the the developing world.

FireWithout fire, most people in Africa would not eat. Most meals are cooked over open flames so fire is a bare necessity. Fires are also used to burn crops after harvest, heat irons when doing laundry, and boil water for the afternoon Attaya (traditional sweetened tea). Fire also burns, ever so brightly, in the sky. The sun is prominent overhead for the majority of the year, exuding extreme heat which permeates everything and everyone. When you are this close to the equator, seeking shade becomes a daily pastime for both people and animals. When folks back home ask me how it is here in Senegal, my first response is usually, “it’s hot!” The sheets on my bed and the clothes in my wardrobe feel like they’ve just come out of the dryer. Cinder block walls radiate the day’s heat inside, even throughout the cooler evening, making sleeping indoors uncomfortable. The brightness of the sun against the light sand is blinding.



WaterAs you can imagine, water is a sacred commodity in Senegal. Many people spend much of their day porting it from one place to another. I’m lucky to have a faucet at my house, but most of my neighbors rely on wells. Even with my faucet, water is not guaranteed. Like, the electricity, water outages are frequent and unpredictable. Growing up, my dad had a sailboat, so I’ve always had a great respect for the open waters, but after living here in the Sahel, I’ve learned to respect the mere presence of water, as well as its weight, its taste, and its health. Aside from a drop or two that fell unexpectedly last week, we haven’t seen rain since the first week in October. When it arrives next month, it will come with a force, dumping great amounts of water on the thirsty soil. Children will strip naked to bathe in its showers, shrieking with laughter as they lather up. But it won’t be all fun and games. The trash and manure that line the streets will become soaked in giant puddles creating public health enigmas. Storm drains clogged with trash will back up and flood the streets blocking roads and creating traffic jams. Clothes that were once too hot to wear will soak up the moisture in the air begin to mold. Standing water will cultivate mosquito larvae and the air will be filled with biting and disease-carrying insects. So, although it’s greatly desired most of the time, when it comes water often wreaks havoc.



Earth

The earth feels old and tired in Senegal. The soil is sandy and lacking nutrients. Where it’s not sandy, it’s rocky and hard. Sand and dirt are tracked everywhere and swept continuously. The earth is dry and expansive, its colors melding into the structures that sit atop it. Those structures are made from its rocks and its grasses. The earth here struggles to provide sustenance and farmers are in constant struggle to make it work for them. Because the terrain is flat, the sky is big in this part of the world. Trees are few and far between, so the wind flows freely and fiercely at times, picking up sand along the way which then finds its way into every nook and cranny. The great majority of people’s living space is in the open with dirt floors and the sky overhead. People here in Africa have known this earth a long time and can attest to the fact that it has not always been kind to them.



WoodAs I mentioned in my last post, gathering wood is a daily role for many women. Wood is needed for fire, fire is needed for food, it’s all a big cycle. The trees that are left in this area of the world become prey to people in need of firewood and live tree limbs are hacked away without a care. If they're not taking their limbs, they're scraping off their bark to make traditional remedies for common ailments. Miles of land stretch on with only the baobab (a spiritually protected tree, which happens not to burn well) in sight. Luckily, I live with host-father who’s spent his life learning and teaching others about the importance of reforestation and the benefits of an environment diversified with many plant species. Some days, it feels like he is on a one-man mission trying to implement change and modify behavior. For now, he’s got my help, and each year a new group of students to carry on his message. The land is vast, however, and the message has far to travel.



Metal

Concrete and metal form the basis for most structures in Senegal and the sound of the two of these together is one that I will never forget. It’s a loud harsh clang that is mimicked by the native language. Metal on metal is also the sound of meals--spoons scraping against bowls and platters. Metal absorbs heat and therefore augments that problem of daily discomfort. Roofs radiate the heat inside, doors swell up mid-day and are hot to touch and hard to open, window shutters clang in the wind. Scrap metal is used to enclose compounds or to make toys. Small children can often be seen rolling metal hoops down the road like scene from colonial Williamsburg. Others spend time constructing their own toys, making figures and cars out of old wire or tin cans. It's also common to see young children with razor blades in hand. These thin, sharp, cutting edges replace scissors, which most family don't own, so no one thinks twice when they end up in the hands of a small child trying to cut a piece of cardboard into a doll. I have to admit, this is hard to watch.



My Thoughts

Communing with the elements can mean leading a harsh existence, but it can also make you intimately aware of your environment. I know that in 14 months, I'll be packing up my hot or moldy belongings and headed back to my life in "Amerik", where we have insulation, carpeting, air conditioning, and public sanitation systems to shield me from some of these discomforts. We also have four glorious seasons which help generate growth and make my little spot on this earth a beautiful place to be. I would hope that I will never take these basic elements for granted again, but in all likely hood, I will, because I can. Hopefully, I'll always remember what my friend Marla recently told me, that "most of the world is like Senegal, or India, or Laos", where she just traveled. "We were born into a rich and civilized country. We can cannot be sorry for what we have, we can only have an open heart and be more in tune about what other's need and, above all, be thankful for what we have."

Now that I’m fully engrossed in project work it seems that I have many balls in the air at all times. I’ve always worked well under pressure or backed up to a deadline so, although I’m busy, this feels good to me and provides structure and purpose each day. It also helps keep my mind present here and not as worried about the things going on back home that are out of my control.

[Editor's Note: Once I'd written this entire blog entry and was about to post it, I realized that I'd written about this project in my last posting. Instead of just deleting it, I decided to post anyway, since I went into much more details here. See? I do have many balls in the air and can't even remember which ones I've written about already. Hopefully, you'll learn something new, regardless.]

One of the projects I’m working on is a paper briquette press. In December, I attended an All-Volunteer Meeting where a group of 2nd and 3rd year volunteers demonstrated some of the appropriate technology projects they’ve worked on at their sites. A few of these caught my eye and I’m implementing them in Diourbel with Ibou and our eco-village members at Baol Environnement. The first one we tackled was the paper briquette press. This project was brought to Senegal by my friend Stephanie, who researched how to turn recyclable paper into burnable briquettes. She found a press on-line, ordered it, and had it replicated here by a metal smith. By definition, appropriate technologies are "small scale, labor intensive, energy efficient, environmentally sound, and locally controlled." The local user should have access to all of the materials needed and be able to replicate any working parts locally. This press fits the bill; however, because it requires the use of recyclable paper to actually make the briquettes, the project was not sustainable in the rural village setting where Stephanie lived. The amount of paper used by her villagers was minimal. The city of Diourbel, where I live, is the capital of the region of Diourbel and therefore has many schools, businesses, and government offices that use paper. Because it’s more of an urban setting, most people also use some sort of paper in their homes.

In order to truly appreciate this project and its multifaceted benefits, you have to understand the trash situation in Senegal. Outside of Dakar and one coastal town along the Petit-Côte where Peace Corps Volunteers have been actively addressing this problem for years, there are few established trash collection systems throughout the country. In Diourbel, you can hire a man with a donkey cart to come along and collect your trash and he’ll take it to a community trash pile in the middle of town--away from your compound and out of your sight, but still in the middle of a populated area next to someone else’s neighborhood. Most people can’t afford this or can’t be bothered and create trash piles just outside their compounds which are shared with their neighbors. If they’re throwing away anything putrid, like fish guts or animal parts, they’ll usually dig a shallow hole and over it with sand, but the feral cats are on to them and quickly unbury them. When the pile gets large enough, someone will set it on fire and we’ll all breath burning plastic fumes throughout the night. It’s not pleasant. These trash piles are more than just an eye sore, they’re a health hazard, too, covered in flies and accessible to small children. Removing paper products from them barely scratches the surface, but it does help get people thinking about trash sorting and trash reduction.

Since we established a paper recycling bin in my compound, my trash-creating guilt has been diminished because when I buy “toubaby things” like toilet paper that has a cardboard roll in the middle, packaged foods, and tissue boxes, or when I receive letters and packages in the mail, I’m able to toss their paper-based wrappings in it. Between that and the compost pile we’ve made in my compound since my arrival, my “plastic” trash is fairly limited.

After paper has been collected, it’s torn into small pieces and soaked in a basin of water overnight. The next day, the paper is worked by hand into a thick pulpy mixture. Peanut shells (of which there are an abundance in here in the peanut basin) are then added and this mixture is put into the press. One basin of pulp/peanut shells will yield about 8-10 briquettes.

The press itself is small (10”L x 3.5”W x 8.5”H) and consists of three parts, the base, the insert, and the press plate. The base and the insert fit together to hold the pulp and then the press plate is placed on top. Two arms attached at the top of the base are interlaced, crossing each other to rest on top of the bars on the press plate. Pressure is applied to the arms, which presses the water from the paper pulp and creates a solid briquette. The press comes apart to release the newly formed briquette for drying. Even though the climate is hot and arid, the briquettes take a minimum of 15 days to completely dry on our rooftop.

The briquettes are used to replace wood, charcoal, or gas for cook stoves. Each day, families cook a large lunch for everyone in their compound and this is traditionally done in a large pot over an open fire. Charcoal and gas are an expensive option, so the majority of people use wood. Using wood entails either buying it or sending women and girls out to gather it. The first option eats into the household expenses and the second option often means that girls are taken out of school to take on this chore. Using wood, also adds to the problem of deforestation, which is an odd term to use because where I live there are no forests, per se, just random trees that provide bits of shade and tremble in fear of machetes. Although briquettes require a small amount of wood to get the fire going, an entire lunch can be prepared using mainly paper briquettes resulting in a great reduction in per meal costs.

A project like this is only useful if you have the means of passing the technology along to those who need it. We’ve taking a two-pronged approach to this. The first was to introduce the press to a group of fifty 4th grade students who attended an Eco-Ecôle program with us over Spring Break. We spent several days explaining the press, how it works, why it’s needed, and the impact on the trash situation and household savings to them. The kids loved it. They got to rip up paper, play with wet paper pulp, make something they can use, and practice explaining how it’s done. Because we worked with ten students from five different schools, we challenged them to go back to their classrooms, establish a paper recycling station, and explain to their classmates what they had done. Yesterday, we got a call from one of the school directors who said that the students from his school who’d attended our Eco-Ecôle program conducted a demonstration for the class and placed rice sacks in the room to collect paper. This was the school that had sent us the most number of girls, so it’s not surprising that they led this effort, since the girls are the ones who benefit from this the most. This means we have kids teaching kids the importance of trash sorting and recycling, kids teaching kids the how to reduce the cost of providing meals to their families, and kids teaching kids about new technologies that are within their reach. How cool is that?

The second group of people that we’ll work with is women’s groups, which are a fundamental part of the socio-economic structure in Africa. Our association, Baol Environnement, works with 48 women’s groups in the Diourbel region and provides them with training, organizational assistance, and new technologies. These women can create micro-enterprises using the paper briquette press as a means of creating income for their groups by making and selling briquettes and/or presses to their communities.

So, that’s just one of the many projects with which I’m currently involved. The others are equally interesting and I’ll be writing about these soon.

Please note that I've added some photo albums to the left side-bar. These may be repeats for those of you who also follow me on Facebook. I'll add both new albums and photos to these existing albums from time to time, so take a peek when you have time.

Today is April 19th, just an ordinary day, but one that, historically, has held some significance in my life and probably yours. First and foremost, it was my Granddaddy Penington's birthday (admittedly, this one is more "my life"), he would have been 103 years old today. Dr. Bob was a fun-loving gentleman and I always pause to think about him at this time of year. This is also the day that the Branch Davidians had their catostrophic showdown in Waco, TX in 1993 and the day that the Federal Building in Oklahoma City was bombed in 1995. Within this same week in recent history, we also had the Columbine shootings in 1999 and, a little closer to home for me, the Virginia Tech shootings in 2007. I'm always grateful when we get through this week without incident. And because non-news is rarely reported, I thought I'd write a bit about my rather mundane day here in Senegal, this April 19th. Besides, what has become quotidien for me, is likely still new and different for you.

I awoke this morning in my Bug Hut on the porch just outside my room. It's been so hot lately, that by the evening hours, my room heats up to oven-like temperatures and my fan, instead of improving the situation, just makes it feel like a convection oven. So I've taken to sleeping outdoors. Even before I opened my eyes, I heard the familiar call of the Beautiful Sunbird who visits the bushes next to my patio every morning, and therefore I woke up smiling, knowing that the first thing I would see would be breathtaking. I was surprised to discover, however, when I did open my eyes, that this regal bird was joined by two other spectular birds who make their home in Senegal, both equally stunning and much larger. There they all were, just two feet from me, and there I lay--without my camera. I knew that as soon as I moved and unzipped my tent they would fly off, so I just lay there quietly for 10 minutes or so and enjoyed their beauty as they cooed and preened themselves in the morning light. Soon, nature called and I was forced to get up and sure enough, they flew off, one right after the other. Here are pictures I've captured of these same birds over the past month from a much greater distance. Tonight, you can be bet I'll be sleeping with my camera at the ready.

The Beautiful Sunbird

Senegal Coucal

The mystery bird (anyone want to help me identify it?)

After dismantling my tent, I made coffee and instant grits (you can take the girl outta the South, but you can't take the South outta the girl ;-)) and sat on my porch enjoying a relatively cool morning, while reading a chapter of my current book, John Steinbeck's The Winter of My Discontent. This is the 26th book I've read since I've been in Senegal (for a full listing, see the My Spare Time page of this blog.) It's amazing what lack of developed-world stimulation can do for the mind.

After breakfast, Ibou and I met with an agency that's writing a paper on our Paper Briquette Project, in hopes of providing us with some funding. They came by to discuss the project and collect some of the pictures I've taken. The agency supports sustainable development projects in Diourbel and after interviewing many groups and their projects, they've decided to put our project forward and present it in their proposal for grant money. I couldn't be more pleased. This is how our project came to life. Back in December, I attended an Appropriate Technology Seminar at the Peace Corps Training Center. Peace Corps Volunteers from thoughout West Africa came together to present technologies that they'd discovered and used successfully in their communities. The Paper Briquette Press was presented by my friend Stephanie, who lives just 25km south of me. It's basically a small three-piece metal contraction that presses wet paper pulp into a brick-like form. The brick is then dried and used in place of wood, gas, or charcoal for cooking. Recyclable paper is used to make the pulp, thus providing a means of reducing trash while decreasing the cost of fuel and minimizing the unhealthy smoke normally created during the cooking process. A "win-win-win" situation, you might say. The project never really took off at Steph's site, because she lives in a small village where there's a scarcity of paper. We both agreed that Diourbel was a perfect location to try it as there are many government offices and schools with bins full of waste paper to use and recycle. So, Steph visited us in early January and brought the press for a demonstration. Ibou loved the idea, we got buy-in from our association, and we quickly found a metal worker to replicate the press. Since then, Ibou, our friend Lamine, and I have done lots of testing and have now incorporated it into our Eco-Ecole project, using it to teach 4th graders about their environment. It's been so much fun and I'm glad the project is getting some attention.

A Step-By-Step Guide for Using the Paper Briquette Press

Step 1 - Make paper pulp.

Step 2 - Place pulp in press.Step 3 - Place top plate on press.

Step 4 - Apply pressure to press.

 Step 5 - Voila! A paper briquette. From that meeting, we walked to a neighborhood elementary school, where we were scheduled to meet with the Directors of the five schools participating in our Eco-Ecole program. Unfortunately, four of the five Directors failed to show up--ironic because one of the meeting agenda items was to discuss absenteeism amongst our students. Go figure! We proceded with the meeting anyway, as there was one Director, two teachers, and a parent representative who had come. We summarized our program and detailed what went on in the five classes we held over Spring Break. The Director served us cafe Touba and beignets (think elongated donut-hole), so I've now had my sugar fix for the entire week. At the end of the meeting, a teacher poked her head in to speak with the Director, then they asked me if I would mind stepping into one of the classrooms to "demonstrate the color of my skin." Apparently, the teacher had taught a lesson yesterday about the differences in people's skin color throughout the world and was thrilled to have a Toubab in her presence to show the kids. When I entered the class there were 40 adorable little kids all sitting at their desks. When the teacher asked them if they remembered what they learned yesterday, they all responded in unison, "Oui, Madame." She introduced me and asked the class what color my skin was and they all responded, "Blanche, Madame." I tried to protest and explain to them that "aux Etats-Unis", most people would differ with that response, referring to me more as olive or brown, but that seemed a bit over their heads--they were only 6 or 7 years old, so I let it go. She then asked them "And what color is your skin?", to which they responded "Noir, Madame." Then, as proof that the concept of political correctness has not yet reached these shores, she asked "and who has Yellow skin?" and they shouted "les Chinois", and "who has Red skin?" and they shouted "les Indians." She looked so pleased. And, that, my friends, is what is being taught about the world today "en Afrique."

"Oui, Madame!"

One teacher on the cutting edge of social advancement, or not.

On our way out of the school, I stopped to take a picture of some girls playing "Elastique." They tie pieces of elastic fabric together into a large loop (one group was actually playing with one made entirely of torn-up old leopard print underwear), two girls hold the loop open, and one or two girls hop in the middle and kicks her leg up and over the band, interlacing herself in and out of the band, kind of like "Cat's Cradle", but with legs instead of fingers. It looked fun. As soon as the camera came out, however, I got rushed by half the school who all wanted to be in the picture. After that, Ibou and I stopped to gaze upon and pass judgment at the big pile of trash and plastic that was burning in the middle of the school yard. Tsk tsk! Hopefully, our Eco-Ecole program will put an end to unhealthy practices like that. We also plan to plant a plethera of much-needed shade trees. While the kids were out in the bright midday sun playing during recess, all of the teachers were lined up under the awning of one of the classrooms where there was a single strip of shade. Trees will make a world of difference in this school yard and in all of the others that we're working with, as well. Hopefully, we can get that message across. Just last week while I was in Dakar, I picked up 1,000 tree seedling sacks so we can get our tree nursery project started with the kids.

Fun with Elastique!

Everyone wants to be in the picture.

Kids are breathing the fumes of burning plastic at school.

At lunch, I joined the Gueye family across the street, as I always do. It was a typical day at the lunch bowl, although instead of Thieboudienne, we had Yassa (a yummy sauteed onion sauce served over white rice with a couple of pieces of fish and potatoes thrown in the middle.) I love Yassa and Yassa Poulet (the version with chicken) is even better. Today we had 12 people around the womens' bowl, although we were a good mix of women and children (both male and female). I have to admit that twelve is a bit crowded for the bowl and overcrowding has a negative effect on the entire culinary experience. Let me describe the scene for you. We're all siting around the bowl, with sweaty legs touching and overlapping so we can all fit. Only me and the small boys have spoons, all the women and young girls eat with their hands. We should all be focused on the portion of food directly in front of us, but with three toddlers at the bowl, that's hard to manage, so there were hands, arms and spoons every which way today. Cheikh, a 2 year-old, was sitting on his mom's lap to my right and his great Aunt Marame, was sitting to my left. At one point Cheikh had run out of onion sauce on his portion of rice so he reached over with both hands (a double no-no) and took some of mine. His Aunt saw this and slapped his hands (they teach bowl manners early here), and to my surprise, he slapped her back. She was astonished and slapped his hand again. He was none too pleased, and returned the blow. This continued (right over my portion of the bowl, mind you) until everyone broke out in laughter. Then, as if that weren't exciting enough, a visiting 3 year old started choking on a piece of potato. His mom made him cough if up into her hand, dumped it on the ground, wiped her hand on her skirt, and then kept on eating. Then, the midday heat must have gotten to Fallou (a 9 year old boy), so he got up, puked in the courtyard, covered it with a handful of sand and then came back to the bowl to finish eating. After that, Cheikh sneezed, spraying his mouthful of half-chewed rice into the bowl. I seem to always sit next to Cheikh these days, which means that I leave every meal with a lap full of greasy rice and other items he's taken from the bowl and dropped on me. He's also developed a bad habit of resting his greasy hand on my thigh, so all of my clothes now have a grease splotch just above the knee on that side. I've given some thought lately about "firing" my lunch family. I pay them about $30/month to eat lunch with them, which doesn't sound like a lot, but it takes a chunk out of my monthly stipend (and I seem to be the only person paying it, but that's beside the point.) Also, I've just about reached my rice threshold and am not sure how much longer it will be before I can no longer put one more bite of it in my mouth. But, it's days like today, when a new dish appears out of the blue and everyone around the table laughs all at once at the slapstick antics around the bowl, that make me want to stick it out, even if I come home and make myself something else to eat an hour later.

As I was headed out the door to lunch, Ibou headed into Dakar to file some paperwork for our association. Lamine, who comes twice a day to water the garden, hang out, and help with classes, also left to go eat. On his way out the door he said, "Ok, I go now. You will be alone now," and quitely, under my breath, I said, "finally!" Alone time is hard to come by in Senegal. Although Ibou and I are technically the only two people that live in my compound this time of year, there are almost always other people here. Business associates arrive unannounced throughout the day to discuss projects, shoot the breeze, or use the internet. Neighbors come regularly to borrow things, offer to run errands, clean the compound, or share news. Lamine is here every morning and evening to water the garden and then Tafa come 6 nights a week to water some more and guard the property overnight. Within our compound, I have two rooms that measure 3m x 3m each, but even these are not entirely private. One is my bedroom and has a small bathroom attached and the other I use as an office. Without much warning, someone may appear at the entrance to either of these rooms and whip back the curtain door to greet me. Most people try to show a little restrain, however, and instead of whipping back the curtain, will just stand on the other side of it chanting "Assalum malekum." Literally translated this means, "peace be upon you", but in these circumstances it means, "I've arrived at your door for no particular reason so you must come out and acknowledge me so we can exchange meaningless greetings while I interupt whatever it is that you were doing before I arrived." This happens countless times each day. Needless to say, greetings are the well-respected backbone of this society and you don't mess with them, even if you're a Toubab trying to get some work done.

So, the little alone time I got this afternoon was a pleasant change. I finished a pair of socks I've been knitting (you can see a picture of them on the My Spare Time page) and was able to sit down and type up these thoughts. The power has been out most of the day, so noone has came to use the internet and I had about 3 hours of uninterrupted alone time while everyone else I know took an afternoon nap. It was lovely. Then, the power came back on, Mom and Dad skyped, Lamine returned with a couple of friends to water the garden, and people started lining up at my door for evening greetings. I was back in the real world again. I'm sure tomorrow will bring much of the same.

Senegal is a young country, just a babe in the world of political freedom. Like a newborn giraffe that is still just learning to walk on its long and gangling legs, it often stumbles in its attempts be a leader of democracy, yet it is still considered one of the most stable governments in West Africa. Fifty-one years ago today, Senegal was granted independence from France,a nation that had colonized it since the mid-17th century. Before that, the Portuguese, Dutch, and English had their hands in the mix. The entire continent, in fact, spent centuries under the rule of foreign lands, and it was not until the independence movement in the 1950s and 60s that most of these African nations were freed to govern themselves. Senegal and The French Sudan were granted independence simultaneously on April 4th, 1960, and were named the Federation of Mali. Just four months later, however, the two prior colonies decided to form independent nations and on August 19th, the Federation was dissolved and Senegal became its own country. Léopold Sédar Senghor, a well-known and respected intellectual and poet, was elected the first president of independent Senegal. Since then, a constitution has been written, and amended several times, and there have been two other elected presidents, Abdou Diouf, and Abdoulaye Wade, the latter who is still serving today.

SenghorDioufWade

Senegal has become a respected leader in African unity and development and a promoter of African arts. It is seen throughout the world as a peaceful country and all of its elections thus far have been uncontested. That is not to say that there is not political strife here, because surely there is. Since the early-1980s, there has been an independence movement in the Cassamance (the southwestern region of the country), which has escalated in violence in recent years. The Peace Corps does not allow us to visit or travel through this area and deaths brought about by rebel forces are often reported on the evening news. The areas to the north and east have recently been affected by Al-Qaeda activities in the bordering countries of Mauritania and Mali, and our Peace Corps volunteers have just been moved from locations closest to these borders. Next year’s presidential elections are predicted to bring some upheaval, as President Wade has lost favor in recent years. Two weekends ago, there were nation-wide protests on the anniversary of his initial election and on the eve of these events several people were arrested for allegedly attempting a coup d’etat. People blame him for electricity and flooding problems that stymie the country and many contest the constitutional validity of him running for a third term. Taking all of this into account, Senegal is still a functioning democracy and conflicts are few are and far between.

So, how does a country that’s been independent for just over a half a century, celebrate its “anniversaire?” Well, first of all they close school for two weeks, which means that some people take this opportunity to travel to visit family and friends. My host-Dad, Ibou, has a friend visiting this weekend from Dakar. Apparently, Moustafa left Diourbel 25 years ago and has never been back to visit, much to the dismay of Ibou, who visits him often in Dakar. He tells me its the heat that has kept him away for so long. The thing that finally lured him here was not the Diourbel Independence Day Parade, however, but instead the external hard-drive worth of old music files that my father left Ibou when he was here last month. Ibou and Moustafa have been holed up in his living quarters for the past three days listening to Jazz and Big Band music, staying up until the wee hours of the morning, burning discs for Moustafa to take back to Dakar. When I joined them for dinner last night, I discovered that they’d only made it through the D’s (the music is filed alphabetically), so I suspect, Moustafa might be making a music pilgrimage to Diourbel again soon.

There is definitely a feeling of patriotism and excitement in the air today. The mosques are blaring more frequent announcements, my neighbor made Yassa (a yummy onion sauce dish) for lunch instead of our usual Thieboudienne, people are gathered around their TVs to watch a big wrestling match, and because my neighborhood looks for any excuse to drum and chant all night, there’s been a lot of that. My 12-year old friend Adji came over yesterday to give me a copy of a poem by David Diop (Senegalese poet, 1927 – 1960) that she’d copied out longhand and decorated with doodles for me. It's called Afrique, Mon Afrique. Here it is, translated for you:

Africa my Africa

Africa of proud warriors in ancestral savannahs

Africa of whom my grandmother sings

On the banks of the distant river

I have never known you

But your blood flows in my veins

Your beautiful black blood that irrigates the fields

The blood of your sweat

The sweat of your work

The work of your slavery

Africa, tell me Africa

Is this your back that is unbent

This back that never breaks under the weight of humiliation

This back trembling with red scars

And saying no to the whip under the midday sun

But a grave voice answers me

Impetuous child that tree, young and strong

That tree over there

Splendidly alone amidst white and faded flowers

That is your Africa springing up anew

Springing up patiently, obstinately

Whose fruit bit by bit acquires

The bitter taste of liberty.

Adji also told me that there would be a parade today, so this morning I asked Ibou about it and he said it was just about to start down by the post office. I grabbed my bag and headed out the door, asking if he and his friend would like to join me. He smiled and said smugly, “Parades are for young people, we prefer the Jazz.” I had to smile. I made it downtown just as things were getting started. Thousands of people were lining the street and a grandstand had been erected for the occasion. Color guards and drill teams from the Gendarmerie, the National Police, and the Senegalese Army were lined up in formation, and when the parade began, they marched down the street just out of sight. Then, to my surprise, they turned around and came back again, and then, because something had to fill the half hour time slot devoted to the parade, they about-faced and did it one more time. So, that’s one way to fill out a parade when you only have a few entrants--Batesville Day Parade organizers, take note!! While I was taking pictures, the chief of police, who is also a neighbor of mine, spotted me in the crowd and escorted me to a VIP seat. I guess there are some advantages to being the only Toubab in the crowd. Aside from the uniformed troops and a small military marching band, the only other entrant in the parade was group of decorated old veterans wearing military medals on their boubous—no floats, not high school marching , no little kids dressed up in costumes. There were no balloons, no vendors selling flags and pinwheels, and aside from one woman who’d made sugar bread especially for the occasion, no street vendors selling food. But a parade is a parade and even without all of the consumer hoo-ha I was glad to share this patriotic moment with my fellow host-countrymen and women.

A crowd gathers in front of the post office

The Grandstand

Military marching band

The National Police

The GendarmerieSpecial VIP seatingBoys trying to see above the crowdA mighty fine formation

I’ll end this journal entry with another poem, this one written by Senegal’s first president Léopold Sédar Senghor (1906 – 2001) about a tragic event that took place in another country (our beloved country) on this same historic day, just 8 years after Senegal gained its independence. Apparently, he, too, was a fan of “the Jazz”

Elegy for Martin Luther King (IV of V) (for jazz orchestra)IVIt was the fourth of April, nineteen hundred and sixty-eight,

A spring evening in a grey neighborhood, a district smelling

Of garbage mud where children played in the streets in

spring,

And spring blossomed in the dark courtyards where blue

murmuring

Streams played, a song of nightingales in the ghetto night of

hearts.

Martin Luther King chose them, the motel, the district,

The garbage and the street sweepers, with the eyes of his heart

in those

Spring days, those days of passion wherever the mud of flesh

Would have been glorified in the light of Christ.

It was the evening when light is clearest and air sweetest,

Dusk at the heart's hour, and its flowering of secrets

Mouth to mouth, of organ and of hymns and incense.

On the balcony now haloed in crimson where the air

Is more limpid, Martin Luther stands speaking pastor to

pastor:

"My Brother, do not forget to praise Christ in his

resurrection

And let his name be praised!"

And now opposite him, in a house of prostitution,

profanation,

And perdition, yes, in the Lorraine Motel - Ah, Lorraine, ah

Joan, the white and blue woman, let our mouths purify you

Like rising incense!--In that evil house of tomcats and

pimps

A man stands up, a Remington rifle in his hands.

James Earl Ray sees the Reverend Martin Luther King,

Through his telescopic sight, sees the death of Christ: "My

brother,

Do not forget to magnify Christ in his resurrection this

evening!"

Sent by Judas, he watches him, for we have made the poor

into wolves

Of the poor. He looks through his telescopic sight, sees only

the tender

Neck so black and beautiful. He hates that golden voice

modulating

The angels' flutes, the voice of bronze trombone that

thunders on terrible

Sodom and on Adama. Martin looks ahead at the house in

front, he sees

The skyscrapers of light and glass, He sees curly, blond heads, dark,

Kinky heads full of dreams like mysterious orchids, and the

blue lips

And the roses sing in a chorus like a harmonious organ.

The white man looks hard and precise as steel. James Earl

aims

And hits the mark, shoots Martin, who withers like a

fragrant flower

And falls. "My brother, praise His Name clearly, may our

bones

Exult in the Resurrection!"

Threebabs!Traveling to Africa is not for the faint of heart. In fact, when I found out I’d be living here, I wondered if anyone would come to visit me. The tickets are pricey, there are a slew of shots required, and the accommodations are a little more rustic than those to which people I know are accustomed. Lucky for me, I have adventurous parents, who are healthy, still quite young at heart, and who decided to throw caution to the wind and come see me, bringing with them two extra suitcases of things I’d left behind and some much appreciated consumables.

Abdullah's article sparked a friendshipA couple of months before planning their trip, my Mom read a “When I Was In Senegal” article that a young boy had written for a local newspaper in which he described visiting his parents’ native country and spending the summer with relatives in Dakar. My parents made contact with the Abdullah’s parents who live just a few miles away from them in Springfield, VA and told them that their daughter was living in Senegal. Rama and Idrissa had Mom and Dad over for Thieboudienne (a traditional rice, fish, and vegetable dish) and they all became fast friends.

Mom and Dad arrived in Dakar before dawn on the 21st of February, the last day of the WAIST, the West African Invitational Softball Tournament, where Peace Corps volunteers from West African countries join other Americans who live and work in Dakar for three days of sportsman-like frivolity. We volunteers take this opportunity to dress up in team costumes, bond with others from our regions, and drink beer in the middle of the day. My team, although handsomely attired in African print cotton lederhosen, did not go onto the finals which meant the last day of the tournament and the first day of Mom and Dad’s trip was freed up to do other things. Because there were over 200 Peace Corps volunteers in Dakar that weekend, we were hosted by American families and I was staying, with 11 other women at the US Ambassador’s house. Madame Bernicat was kind enough to welcome Mom and Dad (and all of their luggage) into her home for breakfast the morning they arrived before we headed out to explore the city and check into our hotel. Unfortunately, they didn’t get a chance to meet each other, especially since I’d found out the day before that she and her family live about 5 miles from Mom and Dad back in the states and will be returning in July. Who knew Springfield was such a Senegalese hotspot?

Team Lederhosen @ WAIST 2011Dad arriving in DakarBreakfast Chez Madame Ambassador

After recuperating from their flight and relaxing after breakfast, we walked through N’Gor and caught a crowded bus to Mermoz (different neighborhoods within Dakar.) The rickety old bus was hard-core Senegalese, falling apart and over-crowded, but they were troopers and hopped aboard anyway. In the afternoon, we checked into our hotel in the urban Plateau district and were pleasantly surprised to have ample space and air conditioning. During our three day stay in Dakar, we enjoyed lunch at a French bistro, real ice-cream, street vendor omelets and coffee, Portuguese food at a Cape Verdean restaurant, and lunch at Rama’s family home, where we met her parents, her father‘s first wife, one of her sisters, two of her brothers, and a couple of nieces. They were incredibly hospitable and we enjoyed their company for hours. We also visited Île de Gorée, an historic island just off the coast of Dakar that served as the launching point for African slaves from all over West Africa during the latter part of the 18th century. It is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site and serves as a tourist destination. The island is stunningly beautiful and filled with bougainvillea-lined streets and colonial architecture. Because no cars are allowed on the island, there is a peaceful, meditative feel to it, and the colors are rich and pleasing to the eye, especially in contrast to the urban hustle and bustle of Dakar which is just a ferry ride away.

An afternoon with the Fall Family

Goree Island from the ferry

At the House of SlavesBougainvillea-lined streetsColonial architecture along the beach Thursday afternoon, we hired a Sept-Place to take us back to Diourbel. What felt luxuriously spacious to me (just 3 passengers in a car that’s usually packed tight with 7) felt archaic to Mom and Dad. To their credit, you could see through the floorboards to the street below and exhaust was blowing in the windows of this 30 year-old, non-air conditioned, Renault station wagon . As we drove east away from Dakar, the temperature rose significantly (20 degrees F) in the 150 kilometers that we traveled.

We stayed in Diourbel for just over a week, pausing every couple days to consider a day trip here or there, but deciding each time it was just easier and more pleasant to stay at my compound and venture out for a couple of hours each day either before or after the heat of the day to explore different parts of my town. Although the mornings and evenings are still cool, the midday temperatures are surpassing 100 degrees F again as we get closer to the “hot” season. On their first full day in Diourbel, Mom and Dad woke up early to accompany me on my 3-mile walk to school. Unfortunately, when we got there, we discovered that the kids were excused for the day to study for exams the following week. That would have been nice to know before we headed out. C’est la vie au Sénégal! We visited with the school director and then headed into town to explore the market. Along the way, we stopped to say hello to Mamadou, a woodworker friend of mine. He presented Mom and Dad with wooden bowls he’d made for them and gave us a tour of the artisan village where he works. From there we explored the market and bought ingredients for dinner. Before leaving Dakar, we’d stocked up on some essentials at the large grocery store, so we cooked breakfast and dinner every night they were in town. We ate lunch with the Gueye family across the way, who served us Thieboudienne with a mango-tamarind sauce, everyday. Although they enjoyed this dish (as do I), they got a good feel for the monotony of the Senegalese dining experience. Mom and Dad joined the women’s bowl where they were given short stools to sit upon and, although it was a little difficult for them to get up and down, they managed to eat every lunch on the floor with us. That being said, Mom’s first trip down was a bit eventful, as she aimed for the back of the stool instead of the center, which sent her toppling over onto her back, lifting her dress up over her head, and providing a very white flash to my very dark-skinned neighbors. The Gueye’s were very welcoming and glad to open their home to my parents. Adji-Fatou, the 12-year old girl who’s become my friend, planned a large party for my parents to welcome them to Diourbel. She and her mother made crevettes (Styrofoam-looking fried shrimp chips) and fataya (fried dough with onion sauce) and she invited about 10 of her friends to come over for a dance party. They all dressed in their sparkly clothes, rolled out a mat, and danced to the same three songs over and over again on Adji’s brother’s tape player. It was adorable.

Mamadou and my parents

At the Diourbel Market

Sporting their new duds

Youngsters on the dance floor

Awa Gueye with crevettes and fataya

The electricity went out a lot during my parents‘ visit, sometimes for the entire day. This is pretty common here, but seemed more inconvenient when trying to entertain guests. They’d brought headlamps and a couple battery operated lights with them, so we just made the best of it. During the day, I would get some work done, grading tests, reviewing lesson plans, etc., while Mom and Dad read on my porch. We invited Ibou to join us for dinner most nights and I served as translator for our dinner conversation. Had everyone spoken the same language, I think they’d become good friends. Dad brought Ibou his entire collection of mp3 music and they quickly bonded over this gigantic old music collection. Mom brought him a Hawaiian print shirt she’d bought at a yard sale and he wore it for days. We all spent a good deal of time photographing and identifying the many beautiful birds that seek shelter in our compound’s garden oasis. The last day we were in Diourbel, Ibou organized an all day event, in three parts. First, he had one of our neighbors come over to cook a big platter of---you guessed it--Thieboudienne and we ate that with a few friends. Afterwards, we enjoyed Attaya, a strong sweet Senegalese tea served in shot glasses, and then were instructed to go rest. Later in the afternoon/early evening, members of the eco-village and a group of neighbors came over to express their appreciation for Mom and Dad’s visit and my presence in their community. We ate cakes that had been made in the solar oven, several neighbors gave speeches, and we even had a griot sing a song of praise while others entertained us with dancing. The group presented Mom and Dad with gifts of traditional clothing and then the party dispersed again. A few hours later, another neighbor came by with a dinner she’d prepared for us (meat cooked in the solar over, French fries, salad, and bread). She and Ibou left it for us to eat it on our own (in the dark), hence Part 3 of the all day affair was held with much less fanfare.

Ibou, Richard, and Nancy

We spent a lot of time birdwatching

Mom adapting to the local way

Lots of meals, lots of dishes

Mom journalingA fond farewell

Singing and dancing to celebrate

Dad napping

Dining by headlamp

Gifts from the neighbors

A farewell lunchFriday afternoon when I returned from school, we departed with a hired a car and driver for Tivaouane, my training village. We arrived at my host-family’s house in the midst of preparations for a baptism. My host-Uncle and his wife had had a baby girl the month before. There were many friends and family there helping to prepare for the big event to be held the following day. My family was so pleased to see me after 5 months of being away and I was happy that we’d decided to make the trip. It was especially nice to see Cheikh, my tall young host-brother who had been my communication link to the family. We brought him a soccer ball, as he’d asked for one so many times when I was there. When we gave it to him, his eyes lit up and he told us that he planned to take it to school, as their physical education class no longer had a ball. We were all touched by this sweet gesture. The family served us a platter of Thieboudienne, even though we’d already eaten lunch, and we ooh’ed and aah’ed over the baby for awhile before walking around the neighborhood to visit with the host families of the other Peace Corps Volunteers who had trained there with me. Each family was surprised and happy to see us. It was a really nice visit overall.

Cheikh with his long-awaited ballA reunion with my Tivaouane familyFrom Tivaouane, we headed into Thiès where we visited the Director of the Training Center and had dinner with my Language/Cultural Trainer, Sakhir. It was quite the day for reunions. We stayed at a nice inn attached to my favorite restaurant and headed out the next morning for Bandia. There we stopped to talk with my beekeeper friend and took a tour of his beekeeping warehouse and his garden. He’s agreed to come to Diourbel to conduct a “How to Get Started in Beekeeping” class with some of our eco-village members. Bandia is also home to a large wildlife preserve where we spent the afternoon. I was concerned it might be a bit overly touristy, but we were impressed with its authenticity and how well the reserve is managed and maintained. In the two hours it took to drive through the grounds, we saw hundreds of animals, all scattered about living amongst each other. There are no predators roaming within the 3500 hectacres of grounds so rhinos, giraffes, ostriches, zebras, monkeys, and warthogs can all live together without fearing for their lives. It really was amazing to be amongst this African menagerie (unfortunately, my camera was acting up while we were there so I'm awaiting copies of the photos that Dad took.) After our guided tour, we enjoyed lunch by the crocodile pond and fed curious monkeys from our table. After lunch we drove to Popenguine, which is just a hop, skip, and a jump away. We checked into a two room villa near the beach and had a relaxing afternoon and evening, buying trinkets from the vendors, visiting with PC Volunteers who were gathered for a fête, and watching the sunset over the beach. I even talked Mom and Dad into a game of Yahtzee.

Abdou and his papaya tree

Abdou's bees enjoying a drink

On the beach at Popenguine

Sunday morning came much too quickly, as this was the last day of their visit. After our petit-déjeuner, we drove to Saly, a resort town south of Popenguine. This is the town where many European vacationers come to experience Senegal and because of that it’s a bit more developed than other beach towns. I was surprised to see that just off the beaten path, however, there was still a great deal of authenticity to the community. They were having an annual artisan fair, so we were able to see lots of handmade items all in one place. Unfortunately, the Senegalese (yes, I’m about to make a broad statement here) do not understand how to approach a potential customer. As we walked down the aisles of artisan booths, vendors grabbed us by the arm to pull us into their booth or threw their own arm out to block our way. This form of aggressive marketing does not work with me, nor does the need to wheel and deal to get a fair price. Normally, in a market setting, the Toubab price quoted is double or maybe three times what the vendor would charge another African and finagling is necessary to get them down to a reasonable price, however, at this artisan fair, prices were being jacked up 10-fold or more. Mom ended up buying a pair of wood carved hand brooms for $20 US (still probably too high) after talking the vendor down from $240 US. This negotiation took 20 minutes and became rather unpleasant at times, with us walking away and him chasing us down. Experiences like these always do a disservice to the vendors and I wish I knew a way to effectively teach them that they‘d sell much more if they just left shoppers alone. We ate lunch at an outdoor French restaurant where Mom ordered crêpes (she’d been taste-testing and comparing notes in every restaurant we dined) and a chocolate mousse, and was a very happy diner. From Saly, we made our way back to Dakar, relaxed for a couple of hours by the pool at the Atlantic Club, and then met up with Seyni Fall, Rama’s sister, for dinner. It’s really nice to have new friends in Dakar. When we stopped by her house to pick her up, we caught the last few moments of a wresting match (Sumo-style wrestling is huge in Senegal) and witnessed the favored wrestler pin the underdog, thus winning the match. The house erupted in cheers, as did the neighbor’s houses, the surrounding streets, and all of Dakar. When we drove down the street to find our restaurant, we had to maneuver through the crowds that had filled the streets chanting and singing in celebration. Our driver got nervous as a crowd of revelers jumped on the car in front of us. I later learned that this sporadic celebration spread all the way to Diourbel and beyond. It was an amazing sight to see and a nice way to send Mom and Dad off. We dropped them at the airport after a late dinner and I headed back to Diourbel in the middle of the night with the driver, plopping into bed at 2am.

Breakfast at our beach villa

Relaxing poolside at Club Atlantique

Our new friend Seyni Fall

There are so many little stories that have been left out of this synopsis of my parents’ visit, but those of you who know them can get a play-by-play in person. They left here comforted to know that I am surrounded by friends and people who care about me, that little by little I’m making a difference in peoples’ lives, and that I lead a simple yet, engaging life here in Senegal. I am so glad they made the journey to see me and were able to witness a part of the world that is so different from the one we, as Americans, have come to know. I told my friend Rebecca that I think this trip added 5 years to their lives and I hope that it’s true, for their sake and mine.

Two days a week, I get up early and walk about 5K (~3 miles) to a vocational high school on the south side of Diourbel to teach Entrepreneurial Business and English classes. My students range from 16 to 20 years old are quite bright. They’re enrolled in the Electricians program and surprisingly (for Senegal), I have 3 young ladies in my classes. This means, of course, that the rest of the classes are made up of teenage boys (aack!) Luckily, they’re not as bad as I had anticipated, in fact they’re rather charming I teach the classes in French, which is challenging for me, but I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I probably sound like an idiot a lot of the time. French is also a second language to the students, so not everything they say is correct either, and to add insult to injury we all have to deal with each others “non-French” accents.

On the first day of classes, I gathered the students in a circle for a little ice-breaker exercise. Getting up out of their seats during class was a new concept to them, so that in itself was an ice-breaker and also helped to label me as a “strange” teacher. We tossed a bean bag baboon around that my parents had sent, repeating each persons name and something they like that starts with the first letter of their name, e.g., “my name is Fatou and I like Fataya (a fried meat-filled pastry), his name is Abdoulah and he like Alcohol (even Muslim teenagers like to push the limits), her name is Moussane and she likes Maffé (rice and meat with a peanut sauce). It amazed me that even though school had been in session since early October and many of these students didn’t know each other’s names until we played this game.

Classrooms are sparse, filled only with a blackboard made of painted wood and several rows of rickety old desks. Textbooks are a luxury that are rarely seen and if they do exist are often misprinted or old and outdated. This I have only heard, because I haven’t seen any textbooks at our school. Teachers spend a lot of time writing things on the board and students spend a lot of time taking notes, as this is their only reference to what has been taught. I spend the first 15 minutes of each class going over what I taught the class before just to make sure it was understood and that the kids took good notes. Handouts are also rarely used because there are not many printers available and if there were, the cost of ink and paper would be prohibitive. I generally write my lesson plans out longhand and use the blackboard convey concepts to my class.

Because I was a bit worried about teaching teenage boys, I set some classroom rules on my first day. I’d been to numerous Senegalese meetings where cell phones rang incessantly (usually with horrible high-pitched Islamic chant ring tones) and people answered them, holding conversations right there in the middle of the meeting without excusing themselves, so this was my first classroom rule: 1) No Cell Phones In Class. The next rule, was an attempt to address the Senegalese tendency to be late to everything: 2) For Every 15 Minutes Late To Class You Must Pay 100 cfa (which is only about 20 cents) and You Must Dance For The Class. The latter has been quite effective and the kids have started policing themselves so they can try to embarrass their classmates. Being late is something that is well ingrained in Senegalese society. Just this week, my counterpart and I hosted a training needs assessment at our compound for the leaders of 20 women’s group. The meeting was scheduled for 2 hours and literally one third of the attendees showed up within the last 20 minutes of the meeting. The first day I was scheduled to teach at Centre Polyvalent I showed up at 7:45 for my 8am class to find the door locked and no one on campus. I knocked on the Director’s door and actually woke him up (good role model. eh?) He found the key, and the kids started trickling in around 8:20am. Now that we have established classroom rules, most of them are much better about coming on time, which feels like an accomplishment, especially since our schedules have been erratic due to Islamic holidays that have cancelled classes and Peace Corps training which has taken me out of town on my scheduled teaching days. Hopefully, next month, my teaching schedule will become a bit more consistent.

Another thing that has taken some getting used to is finger-snapping. When students want to get your attention, they’ll raise their arm and snap their fingers. When they all want to speak at once, it's quite the snapping chorus. This, too, is a widespread habit that occurs in all meetings--picture a room full of Arnold Horschack’s snapping their fingers.

The most embarrassing moment I’ve had in class thus far stemmed from a mix up of words. In my Entrepreneurial Business class, I was teaching the concept of the 5 Ps (product, placement, price, promotion, and personnel) and had asked the class to choose a local business and then tell me what their actual product was. The guy who had chosen the “boulangerie” (bakery) told me his product was “pain” (bread), the boy who had chosen the cyber-café told me his product was internet service/availability, and the gal who had chosen a prêt-à-porter (ready-to-wear) store told me her products were the latest fashion trends. They were getting it! I was so pleased. However, I then asked the young man who’d cleverly chosen the “bissouterie” (kissing booth) what his product was, he said “l’argent” (money). Huh? I explained that money was something that he received in exchange for his product, “’les bissous” (the kisses), but it was not the product itself. The class looked at me funny and then erupted in laughter before explaining that I’d misunderstood him. His business was not a “bissouterie”, but a “bijouterie” (jewelry store), and “l’argent” not only means money, but also is the word used for silver. Oh the funny Toubab teacher! It was an honest mistake (and pretty funny!) I’m so glad I decided early on to be at peace with making a fool of myself.

Today is Valentine’s Day, so last week, I gave my Monday morning English class homework. They each had to make me a Valentine’s Card (in English). There were 17 kids in class the day I assigned the homework, and today, when it was due there were only 3, and none of them had a Valentine for me :-( So instead of reading their cards aloud, I passed out sweets and we spent the first 10 minutes of class discussing Valentine’s Day and how it's celebrated in each of our countries. Apparently, in Senegal, people dress in red and black and throw big parties, but I haven’t seen much evidence of this yet, but the day is still young.

Mom and Dad arrive next Monday and I plan to bring them to class as “Show and Tell”. Won’t that be fun? I’ll have to think of someway of incorporating them into the lesson plan.

On a related note, a Peace Corps Volunteer in Kaolack, a city just an hour south of me, has organized a campaign to raise funds to bring 22,000 books and textbooks to schools in Senegal through a partnership with the NGO, Books for Africa. Many Peace Corps Volunteers are helping to raise these funds (including yours truly) through the Peace Corps Partnership program, which makes it easy for friends and family back home to donate to our projects. This is the first fundraising effort I’ve been involved with here, but may not be my last. As these opportunities arise, I’ll post them on my blog and if you feel inspired to help, please do. If you don’t, then don’t. It’s a simple as that. Click here for a link to our “Books For Africa” Peace Corps Partnership Page.

Part I - Love and Loss in the Information Age

Being 4,000 miles from home poses many challenges, physically, emotionally, and logistically. Moving out of my house with little notice and leaving behind people and pets who I love was just the beginning. Since my arrival, I’ve had to adjust to a daily life filled with cultural and language obstacles. Most of this I was prepared to face, knowing it may be difficult at times. I’d made contingency plans for logistics back home, I faced each cultural roadblock as a learning experience, and I continue to struggle with communication issues, but these are all things I was prepared to do because I expected them.

What I was not as prepared for was the unexpected--the real life things that happen to people everyday, but that you don‘t think will happen to you., especially when you are so far from your support system. I was not prepared for the sudden death of a close friend, my faux-uncle and confident of 20 years, who was diagnosed with brain cancer a few weeks after I left the States. He passed away soon thereafter, and the memorial service which I was very sad to have missed occurred the same day that the long-term relationship that I‘d left behind, hoping it would somehow be strengthened by a temporary physical separation and an exercise in self-reflection, took an unexpected nose dive and crashed to its ultimate demise. I was not prepared for my sister to suddenly have serious health problems taking her in and out of the hospital with no definite diagnosis, leaving my family worried about what might happen next. I was not prepared for my 13 year old dog who I left with a dear friend to develop a malignant tumor that would cause him to be put down, even though I knew in the back of my mind that he might have passed away from natural causes before I returned. And lastly, I was not prepared to be attacked on the streets of Dakar last week, as an mugger tried to take my purse, leaving me with minor physical injuries, but emotional side effects that might stick around a while.

The loneliness and helplessness that come when you can’t actually be with the ones you love in their time of need, or in your own, take on a new dimension when your support network can only be reached through modern technology. It’s the “boy in the bubble” scenario (Travolta, not Seinfeld). I have the ability to speak with people over the phone or on Skype and to chat with people on Facebook and Gmail, which is a luxury Peace Corps Volunteers of the not-so-distant past certainly did not have, but it’s not the same as true human contact. As the world gets more and more reliant on these communication methods, this is a good reminder that these will never replace the need for a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on, or a glass to clink. That being said, this is certainly the next best thing if you’re physically separated so I guess there a balance to be had. Recently, a friend who was surprised at how accessible I was on-line asked me if I thought being so connected took away from my overall Peace Corps experience and I quickly responded, “No, it’s my lifeline.” In retrospect, the answer is really YES, it does change the experience, but in a way that I’ve come to appreciate. Being able to share my experiences, celebrate someone else’s joy, or provide some words of support makes me feel less lonely and less isolated. My intention when joining the Peace Corps was to use the advantages I’d been given in life to give back to others, experience a world unknown to me, and in the process maybe discover something about myself. I certainly had no notions of an “Into the Wild” fantasy where I cut off all contact with the outside world.

This ability to communicate with others has opened doors I never would have imagined. People whom I’ve never met have found me through my blog or through other friends and have reached out to me to thank me for my service or to let me know that they‘ve been inspired to do something new and life-changing themselves. Old friends who I’d lost touch with are back in my life and are cheering me on through my journey. Classrooms of kids are being introduced to a part of the world they’d never heard of before and are becoming inquisitive about their global surroundings. None of this would have been possible had I only the antiquated third world postal system to use for communication.

Part II - Not Letting Go

Women of my generation have been trained from a very early age what to do in the case of an attack. In fact, I’d had a refresher just a few months ago during our Peace Corps Pre-Service Training. Most of the advice you’re given focuses on how to protect yourself from a physical and/or sexual assault and how to alert other people’s attention to what‘s happening. For a robbery, though, the advice is almost always to let the attacker have what he asks for to avoid being physically assaulted. Somehow, probably because my robbery took the form of an sudden attack, my instincts told me otherwise. As is likely the case in most of these incidences, my assailant appeared from out of nowhere. One minute I was walking down the street and the next minute I was being dragged down it. The mugger came running at me from behind and tried to grab my purse which was strapped diagonally across my chest. Since it didn’t just slip off my arm, I was thrown to the ground and my hands immediately latched onto the strap to stop him from taking it. My grip became gecko-like, and my fingers held onto that strap as if my life depended on it. Ironically, had I just let go, I probably wouldn’t be as bruised and battered as I am now because our struggle continued for quite some time. I kicked and screamed and was determined to not let him prevail. My friend who was walking just a stride behind me saw the whole thing tried to hit the guy to get him to stop, but he quickly elbowed her in the eye and knocked her to the ground. People from the surrounding compounds came out in droves to assist us and ultimately chased the attacker off, luckily, without my purse. We were just outside the apartment building where we were spending the night with an American English teacher we’d met when all of this occurred, literally just several feet from the door. The building guard came out and helped us inside as we were both bleeding and in shock. We called our Peace Corps security officer and within a half an hour, the Country Director was there to pick us up and take us to the Med Hut (the medical unit at the Peace Corps office) which was just 500 meters away and where the security office was awaiting our arrival.

Although our injuries were minor (scrapes, bruises, a black eye, and sore muscles), we were both pretty shaken up and stayed in the Med Hut for several nights. The Peace Corps medical officer was great and the security officer followed up on the case first thing the next morning. Apparently, the neighbors who’d come to our assistance recognized our attacker as someone who lived in the neighborhood and had done this before. One of the neighbors accompanied us to the Gendarmerie (the national police) to identify him, which was great, because despite the fact that I’d spent several minutes looking at my attacker straight in the face while trying to fend him off I don’t think I’d be able to identify him in a line-up. It’s strange what the mind chooses to block out.

Unfortunately, our experience dealing with the Gendarmerie was not as positive as our experience with the Peace Corps staff. The intake officer took one look at us and, before even hearing what we had to say, went on a tirade in Wolof about how stupid Toubab women are for walking alone at night and how we should have expected something like this to happen. The officer in charge was not much better, as the first question out of his mouth was, “Why didn’t you have men with you?” Aarrghh!, this patriarchal society makes me want to scream sometimes! Although they were quick to judge us for the incident, in the end, they did take it seriously and plan to arrest the guy.

The process is interesting. First of all, the reason we were dealing with the Gendarmerie and not the Police is because the attack occurred in the Village of N’Gor (a small village within the city limits of Dakar) and the Gendarmerie has jurisdiction over villages. Once our initial complaints were filed, they gave the neighbor who accompanied us an official stamped warrant and asked him to take it to the Village Chief. The warrant requested that the father of the young man who attacked us bring his son in voluntarily. When I asked what would happen if they didn’t come in, they responded that they’d round up a group of people to go get him in the night, a veritable modern-day posse. Wow! We should find out what came to pass on Monday. At this point, I’m not sure if we’ll be called back to Dakar to testify in an actual trial or if they’ll just throw him in the slammer based on our complaint.

It’s been several days now and my wounds have scabbed over and the swelling has gone down. My back, arm, and leg muscles still ache from the struggle, but I suspect that, too, will subside in the coming days along with my headaches. The initial shock that I experienced which left me a bit nauseous with wobbly knees and insomnia only lasted 36 hours or so. What remains, I’m afraid, is a overactive startle-response that’s left me panicked three times already. The day after the attack, my friend and I ventured to a grocery store a couple of blocks from the office to get some food to cook while we were there. It was late afternoon and although we were on-guard, we felt safe enough walking there from the office as this strip of road was heavy populated and it was still light outside. This was the same grocery store I blogged about a couple of months ago that was overwhelming to me when I was in a normal state of mind, so I was a bit over stimulated on this trip and found it difficult to make decisions. We wanted comfort food, but didn’t want to go through the process of having to decide what to buy and then cook it for ourselves. This is definitely where a “mom” would have come in handy. Anyway, that’s the position we found ourselves in, so I was standing at the cheese counter (naturally--all comfort food contains cheese) and the lights suddenly went out. My knees gave out, I gasped for breath, broke out in a sweat, and collapsed into the side of the cheese case. This sudden change in my environment was so startling, yet power outages are daily occurrences in Senegal. The generator popped on within seconds and I quickly recovered. Yesterday, something similar happened. I was able to catch a ride halfway back to my site with the Peace Corps security officer and a team of people who were heading to a meeting in Thiès. They planned to help me at the Garage and put me in a Sept-Place back to Diourbel. Along the way, we stopped at another volunteer’s village for a quick visit. I asked to use her bathroom and while squatting over her toilet, a squirrel jumped from a tree onto the tin roof, clamoring above my head. The same physical reaction occurred, yet I was precariously hovering over a Turkish toilet. I guess this was a prime location to have the shit scared out of me, but apparently (and thankfully) that turns out to be just a figure of speech! I was able to pull myself together. Even today, as I’ve been typing this story, a group of young kids came into our compound looking for my host-Dad. I told them he’d just left for a few hours and they said they’d come back later. I shut the door of the compound when they left, so I could continue writing undisturbed, however, a few minutes later I heard a knock at the door. My room is quite a distance from the door, so it took my a minute or so to get there and the knocking continued as I approached the door. When I opened it, the young girl on the other side was not standing where I had expected her to be, but was in the process of climbing up the door to peer over the top. This caught me so off guard that I jumped back and lost my breath again, hyperventilating and scaring this poor little girl who was just coming back to find out what time my host-Dad would be returning. Yikes! I guess I’m going to have to live with this side effect for a little while, but hopefully, it will pass sooner than later.

It may sound silly, but I’m glad I walked away from this experience without having my purse taken. Somehow, it feels empowering not to have let him have it. I know I’m lucky that he didn’t whip out a knife or seriously hurt me, but if he’d gotten away with my things I would have felt so much more violated. There are a lot of strong women in my life and each of them, upon hearing this story, has commended me on not letting go of my purse. It may not be text-book advice to put up a fight for things that are surely replaceable, but it definitely made me feel less helpless.

Writing about these experiences for my friends and family to read is not the same telling you in person and then sharing a hug, a glass of wine, or a much-needed bowl of comfort food, but it has helped me process what's happened and hopefully will help me move on.

As I know from past experiences, "time will heal all wounds."

Now that Khady (my host-mom) has returned to work in France, I’m eating lunch with the neighbors down the road. For what amounts to about a dollar a day, I have my very own place at the bowl and a spoon reserved just for me. Senegalese families are all about welcoming people into their homes and being hospitable, but they’re also keen on earning a few extra CFAs whenever they can, so this is a win-win situation for everyone. The head of the household is Awa Gueye. She’s the president of one of the womens’ groups that works with Baol Environnement, the ecovillage with which I am partnered. She’s also a Director of a school and a really smart lady. Living with her are some of her children, her mother, her sister, her sister’s children, plus a few other random people whose relations I‘ve yet to figure out. On any given day, there are about 20 of us gathered around the bowls.

Lunch is divided into two bowls, one for the males and one for the females. Eating with the ladies is a pleasurable experience. First of all, my ancienne, who also ate with this family, was a vegetarian so they’re in the habit of loading the bowl with vegetables which works in my favor. Secondly, in a very motherly fashion, they all break off pieces of fish and vegetables with their fingers and toss them in my direction. I just love that. It seems like such a caring gesture. Eating with this family is a nice break in the day for me. I often go a little early to hang out with them. It’s a good way to pick up new phrases in Wolof and to just feel like part of a family.

Adji-Fatou is Awa’s niece, she’s 11 years old and was the first to welcome me to the family. She and my ancienne were close and she’s made it very clear to me that she wants to be my new best friend. She speaks French well and has been quite helpful to me. Her brother El-Hadji (both of these names are variations on the Arabic word for the great pilgrimage to Mecca that is expected of all good Muslims), spent the first 5 years of his life in a hospital, where he underwent 4 surgeries for his cleft lip and palate. He and his mom, Maram (Awa’s younger sister), actually lived at the hospital all of those years while other family members cared for the other children. Among those other children are the twins, Assan and Houseinou, who look to be about 12 or 13 and were both born with malformed limbs. This is fairly common in Senegal but these two seem to be much better off than the folks I see crawling down the street with cardboard strapped to their knees because they can’t walk. That’s a terrible sight to behold. Mané is the oldest of Maram’s children. She’s 21 years old and a newlywed. She and her husband were married 4 months ago, but she’s still living with her family while she finishes school. I’ve heard tell that Awa was seen chasing her down the street with a stick when she said she was going to go to Touba to live with her husband. Awa takes education very seriously and apparently, she got her point across. Awa’s son Papis, and his young wife, Tabara, also live in the compound. They have a one year old son named Cheikh. Tabara, in her role as youngest wife living with family is responsible for cooking all of the meals. She works really hard and doesn’t seem all that happy to me. But then again, I doubt I’d be too happy if I were toting around a teething toddler on my back and cooking for 20 of my husbands relatives everyday. Awa’s mother is a sweet old lady. She’s an ever-present feature on the mat on the porch where we eat, seemingly leaving it only to roll out another mat to pray upon 5 times a day. She sells frozen juice bags to the neighborhood children and is clearly a respected member of the family. She wears lots of bracelets, a big smile, and even sports a couple of toe rings.

Awa Gueye at a training session in Oct

Maram Gueye with El-Hadi, Adji-Fatou and two other kids

The boys playing with make-shift drums (that's Assan in the green shorts)

Ladies Who Lunch (yes I'm the only one who eats with a spoon at this bowl.)

Yesterday, Mané took me to the market to buy materials for crochet and needlepoint projects. She and the other women in the family spend many hours a day making tablecloths and bedspreads to sell with their womens’ group. I just love working with my hands and was so I was excited to start learning this new craft. What an amazing bounding experience this would be. For projects like this, women buy fabric by the kilo (not by the meter), so when we got back to the compound we started ripping my kilo of fabric into manageable pieces. I suggested that I start with a napkin set, thinking a smaller project would be easier to handle. Mané started me off crocheting a border then handed the piece over to me to continue. Ok, let me just say that I’ve been knitting for about 6 years now, but the apparently the skills don’t transfer. The materials and hand movements may look the same, but let me tell you, they are not. I was all thumbs. It took me 4 hours to work my way around the edges of one napkin and the end product looks like some a 2nd grader did it (no offense to any 2nd graders out there). The whole experience was so frustrating. I broke the first crochet needle because my tension was too tight and I kept dropping stitches. The worst part was that I couldn’t properly express my frustration in a language these ladies understood. I thought my facial expressions, gasps of exasperation, and inappropriate swearing, would get the point across, but they just kept asking, “are you tired?” I’m glad to report that today’s needlepoint went a lot better.

My finished border. Ugh.Whew! This was a lot easier and a lot faster.

Other news from the domestic front involves my new kitchen set-up. Those of you who know me well, know that I love to cook. Well, for past 5 months, I haven’t really done much of that. At first, it was kind of a treat to have someone else cooking all of my meals for me, but after a while, I started missing that creative outlet. My weekend at the beach over Christmas really enlivened my desire to start cooking again, so when I got back to site, I started addressing the issues in the kitchen that were standing in my way. My host dad had been asking if he could unplug the refrigerator to save electricity. I hadn’t been using it and it is really old and inefficient, not to mention the fact that each time I opened it, there were roaches crawling around on the inside. I told him to go ahead and turn it off, but asked if he’d help me buy a new one on his next trip to Dakar. We spent an entire Saturday back and forth on the phone and as he looked for second-hand mini-fridges for me, discussing features and negotiating prices with the dealers. I’m so glad he dealt with that part for me. He also had to deal with getting the one I finally purchased back to Diourbel on the top of a taxi. While he was gone, I took “my new best friend”, Adji-Fatou, with me to town to get a new propane tank for the 4-burner stove, bought a few needed pots, pans, and utensils, and reorganized the room a bit. By Monday evening, I had a fully functioning kitchen. Now, my morning walks to town to run errands include a trip to the market where I buy stuff to make for dinner. It’s all starting to fall into place now and I’m feeling better about what I’m eating.

My new refrigerator and organized shelves.

The "Pierre Cardin" cook stove.

Before I sign off, I’d like to draw your attention to the new pages I’ve added to this blog. At the top of the page, you’ll now see new tabs entitled “My Spare Time”, “My Project Work”, and a revised “My Wish List”. Take a look at these new pages to see what else I’ve been up to. Also, if you sent me a package in the last two months and haven’t heard from me that I received it yet, you are in good company. Remember, this a developing country and even government-run organizations like the post office are not run very efficiently. One package I’d been waiting on for a month finally arrived today, so I’m hoping that others will follow. I’ll be sure to let you know.

À bientôt mes amis,

Fatou

After a busy first few weeks of December spent training in and around Thiès & Dakar, I was prepared to spend Christmas back at site watching holiday movies on my computer and nibbling away at the stash of dark chocolate my friends and family have sent. With very little arm twisting, however, some of my Peace Corps peeps convinced me that joining them at the beach was a much better idea. We rented a house in Popenguine, a small beach town on the Petit Côte south of Dakar and spent three days playing in the sand, frolicking in the surf, eating great home-cooked meals, and enjoying a relaxing weekend engulfed in holiday spirit.

Garrison, April, Kelsey, Amy, Clint, and Daisy

Daisy grew up in a traditional Mexican household in Los Angeles and offered to whip us up a Mexican holiday feast on Christmas Eve. We had carne asada with homemade tortillas, empanitas stuffed with cumin gouda and bacon, homemade salsa, candied yams, arroz con leche, and bissap/mint juice. I drew upon my own brown roots and contributed a big pot of frijoles. After dinner, we crowded around a laptop to watch “Love Actually”, a modern Christmas classic, and then changed into nice clothes and headed to the village for midnight mass. Halfway to town, the electricity went off, which was no big surprise until we arrived at the church to discover that it was not only dark, but locked. Apparently, midnight mass was held at 10pm and we'd missed it. We all had a good laugh about it and headed back to the house, stopping along the way to listen to a traditional Senegalese band at the restaurant next door.

Daisy pounding salt

Our glorified camp stove

A failed attempt at Christmas Eve Mass

We awoke the next morning pleased to find that Santa had managed to find us in our little corner of the world. He’d filled our stockings and snacked on the treats we left him. An American ex-pat friend joined us for coffee and Kelsey’s yummy breakfast strata and then we headed back into town a second try at mass. The service was in French, baby Jesus and the Virgin Mary were black, and the choir, which sung in French, Wolof, and Latin, rocked-out with the aid of drums, hand-clapping, and many African percussion instruments. It was so much fun to watch. The tourists from neighboring resort towns joined in to experience Christmas in Africa.

After church we sat by our 6-ft tall wooden giraffe “Christmas tree“ and opened our stockings and presents while eating Kelsey’s cinnamon rolls. We were all like little kids again. For most of the people with me, this was their first Christmas away from home or away from their parents. Their nostalgia was contagious and reminded me of happy childhood Christmases back home. I have to admit it’s been awhile.

Stockings come in all shapes and sizes

Our Christmas "tree"

Garrison took charge of Christmas dinner and impressed us all with his culinary delights. He made roasted chicken with a lemon cream sauce, steamed julienne carrots, and bowtie pasta tossed with pesto. Daisy made homemade eggnog and for dessert I made a trifle. We so enjoyed these tasty Toubab meals mostly because the ingredients are hard to come by and purchasing them requires a commitment to splurge beyond what our monthly stipends will allow, but also because they were not made under the easiest of circumstances. Both the electricity and the water were off more than 50% of the time we were there. We made due using the gas stove, collecting water in buckets when we could, washing dishes in the surf, and cooking and eating by headlamp and candlelight. We’re all learning to go with the flow.

Later that evening we had a bonfire on the beach, complete with s’mores, fireworks, and laughter. It really was a delightful weekend and rejuvenated my belief in holiday happiness.

Christmas DinnerGarrison & Clint by the bonfire

Garrison & Kelsey ashing dishes in the surf

Stained glass at Christmas Mass

Amy, April, Kelsey, & DaisyWe couldn't have asked for more beautiful sunsets

If you want to see the whole array of Christmas photos that I posted to my Facebook page, click here : Christmas in Popenguine

After Christmas, I went back to site for a couple of days and then embarked on my first real project work. At our All-Volunteer Conference at the beginning of the month, I'd gone on a beekeeping field trip to an apiary near Thiès. On the bus ride over, I mentioned that I kept bees back in the States and the next thing I know, the trip leaders asked me to help translate and lead the session. I was so enthralled, that I went back two weeks later, during our In-Service Training to do it again with the Agro-Forestry group. I asked the beekeeper, Abdou Seck, if he’d be interested in partnering on some training projects and not only did he agree but he wanted to begin immediately. So, on the 30th of December, I packed up my bags again and joined him on a 3-day beekeeping tour in the Kaolack region, south of Diourbel.

Leading a discussion on beekeepingAbdou and I with the honey extractor

Inside a hive box

We met up at the garage (car depot) in Diourbel and headed to Kaolack together in a Sept-Place. Aside from the bumpy road, that leg of the trip was rather uneventful. We stopped in at Abou’s sister-in-law’s house for lunch and Attaya (afternoon tea) and awaited the car that was supposed to take us out to our destination village. The driver was delayed and then finally showed up telling us that his car wouldn't make the trip. Our only other option this late in the day was to take a series of Ndiaga Ndiayes, the ridiculously over-crowded public buses that transport people, livestock, and cargo all at the same time, and stop every couple kilometers to let people on and off. We boarded the first bus just before dusk and spent the next couple of hours winding our way through small road towns until we finally reached Wack Ngouna. Each time we stopped to let people on or off was a production. Women dressed in flowing boubous, carrying sacks of bread, baskets of produce, and/or live chickens had to crawl over the people already seated to reach their empty seats. Their pathways were blocked by sacks of rice, cases of eggs, and cases of sodas. As each new person got on the bus, we all scrunched in closer until we were shoulder-to-shoulder and thigh-to-thigh. The farther out we went, the darker it got, the closer Abdou got pressed against me, and the more tired I grew and irritable. I started to doubt my choice to join a man I barely knew on a trip out to the hinterlands, especially with his arm now draped around my shoulders. When we finally arrived in the village it was pitch black because the electricity had gone out. We were dropped off at the door of small office building where we planned to spend the night. The guard showed us in and shined his flashlight on the dingy mattress on the floor in the corner of an office where we were both supposed to sleep. Ok, now I was really doubting my intelligence. What had I just gotten myself into?

Without trying to appear panicked, I told Abdou that I would prefer to sleep in the hallway. I’d brought my Therma-Rest mat and a small Bug-Hut tent with me and would be much happier out there. He looked at me like I was insane and asked why I would choose to sleep on the floor in the hallway when there was a perfectly “good” mattress for us right there in a room that locked. I said that I preferred to sleep alone and showed him my mat and tent. He then pointed to the small space between the mattress and the desk where I could set these up. “No”, I reiterated. “I’d really rather sleep alone. It’s an American thing. We like our privacy” (all of the above being communicated in my broken French, of course.) He gave me that “crazy Toubab” look and helped me carry my things into the classroom next door, shaking his head and stating that someone might step on me if I stayed in the hallway. I quickly set up my sleeping area and was about to settle in when Abdou came into the room, laid his prayer mat at the foot of my tent and started his evening prayer ritual. So much for privacy. I guess he was afraid someone would step on him in the hallway. Who is this someone, I wondered; there was no one there but us and the guard. Anyway, when he was done praying he got up as if ready to go somewhere (in the pitch dark) and said, incredulously, “you’re going to go to sleep now?”. “Yes”, I muttered, and then didn’t add what I was really thinking, “I’m out in the middle of the boonies, in a developing country, with a man I barely know who intended to share a dingy old mattress on the ground with me, it‘s pitch black outside, I haven‘t had dinner, and my headlamp isn’t working, Yes, I’m going to bed now!” Again, he just shook his head and went to his room.

With this exhausting day now behind me, I crawled in my tent and hoped that tomorrow would bring better things, as I drifted off to sleep. Not long after that, however, I felt a hand gently rest on my calf. “Aack! Go away!“,…no, I’m just dreaming, I thought. Then I felt the side of the tent press against my other leg. “OMG, there’s someone trying to get in my tent! GO AWAY, LEAVE ME ALONE”, I screamed. Then, I heard the rattling of the metal door and someone trying to break in. A flashlight shined at me and someone was yelling in Wolof. I awoke to find the security guard in his underwear, half asleep, shining his light at me and around the room. He wanted to know what was wrong, why I was shouting, and who else was in the room with me. I was quickly awake and overcome with embarrassment, as I realized that I was just having a nightmare. All I could think to say was “Je dors, je dors” (“I’m sleeping, I’m sleeping”), which the guard thought was ridiculous because, clearly, I wasn’t sleeping. His flashlight shined on several toads that were hopping around the room and had likely jumped on my legs, serving as a catalyst for the crazy nightmare I just had. He called Abdou out of his room to come deal with this crazy Toubab and I explained to him that I had just had a nightmare. When Abdou translated for the guard, they both started laughing at me, and finally left me at alone, both now shaking their heads.

[The next day, I took pictures of the scene to amuse myself.]

The creepy bed on the floor.

My tent set up in the other room.

The toads came back for another visit.

The next morning, the sun was shining and my insecurities were laid to rest. It was a new day. Abdou, as it turns out wasn’t the creepy old man I’d made him out to be in my state of exhaustion. His offer for me to sleep with him, was just good old-fashioned Senegalese “teranga” (hospitality to the nth degree) plus a disparity of cultures--women don’t sleep alone, nor do they live alone, and Senegalese people in general prefer to be in the company of others. I guess I showed him how brave and independent we American women can be! Ha.

We started our day with an egg salad sandwich (well, as close as you can get around here) and a cup of coffee. Sometime thereafter we were met by a guy from the forestry department, several members of the local Environmental Club, and a driver with a truck. As I’ve learned through many experiences here, nothing ever starts on time. We were scheduled to begin our tour of surrounding villages at 8am, but didn’t actually leave until after 10am. I carry a book with me at all times, just for these occasions. Once we got going though, we had quite an adventure. Back in June or July, Abdou had been down in this area to give a beekeeping workshop in partnership with a Senegalese NGO (non-government organization). After the training, men from 36 different villages were given the equipment to start their own apiary (most of them received 8 hives and 4 nukes (smaller starter hives used for capturing wild swarms.) This tour that we were on was a follow-up to that training. We visited each village and inspected the installation of the hives: where they were placed, how many swarms they’d captured, the health of the hive, etc. We also answered any questions that the new beekeepers had. This was a really good experience for me for many reasons. I saw many small rural villages far off the beaten path, visited 225 hives (138 of which were occupied), met some really interesting people who love beekeeping, witnessed an active swarm, and managed not to get stung, even once. Inspecting a hive installation

One of the numerous villages we visitedWe traveled for three days like this (luckily I got a set in the truck)

Bee-“keeping” is a fairly new concept in this part of Africa, whereas bee-”killing” and bee-”having” have been around much longer. Bee-killing involves raiding wild hives found in trees by setting fires next to them, smoking out the bees, and destroying the brood in order to obtain the honey. This practice goes back centuries both in Africa and Asia, results in a smoky-flavored, prematurely harvested honey, and is clearly not a sustainable enterprise. Bee-having is a step in the right direction and is also widely practiced. Bees are housed in man-made containers (logs, gourds, or clay pots), but the comb is fixed to the container, not allowing for inspection nor manipulation/maintenance of the hive. Generally, only the honey comb is removed, which allows the brood comb to stay intact. The hive is protected and the farmer reaps his reward in periodic honey harvesting. Bee-keeping, is by far, the most advanced practice but is not yet widely recognized in Senegal. It implies the management and sustainability of the hive based on an understanding of the bee and can span multiple levels of technological involvement. It promotes honey production and the health and proliferation of the hive.

On our tour, we were surprised to see many of the new beekeepers combining aspects of their former bee-killing or bee-having practices. We found hives stacked up in trees, hives suspended upside down or turned on their sides, and hives positioned without protection. Old habits are hard to break. We gave each beekeeper advice on how to correct or improve their hive placement and spoke to them about the problems that they faced. It really was a great learning experience for me, although I have to admit, after the 200th hive, I was starting to get a little bleary-eyed. It didn’t help that every village we drove into had a crowd of young children who rushed our truck yelling “Toubab! Toubab!” and crowded around me “oohing and ahhing” at the color of my skin. What first felt a little rock-star-esque, quickly became exhausting and downright unhealthy, as everyone of those kids, although quite cute, had runny noses, visible skin conditions, and probably lice, and by culture, each and every one of them felt obliged to shake my hand. I emptied my bottle of anti-bacterial gel by the third day.

A group of kids gathering to see the Toubab

Misplaced hives (they're supposed to be on the ground)

And upright!

Rushing the car to catch a glimpse and touch my skin

We headed back to Kaolack late Sunday afternoon, but this time lucked into a Ndiaga Ndiaye that went straight through. I opted to stay over at our Peace Corps Regional House that night and the next to do a little kitchenware and food shopping since I’m now cooking some meals for myself. There were quite a few other volunteers there who were staying at the house on their way back from various and sundry New Years celebrations, so I was in good company. Abdou and I have lined up some more work in the coming months and I have a few other projects that are starting to take root, so those many months of training are beginning to feel purposeful now.

Please take note of the new Photo-A-Day - 2011 link I added to the left side-bar of my blog page or you can click here. I’m planning to capture a moment from every day in 2011 since it will be the only complete calendar year I’ll spend in service.

Happy New Year to all of you! Jamm rekk (Peace only!)

Fatou

Tabaski

Our Tabaski RamBack home in Virginia, November, brings with it, a chill in the air, an earlier and prolonged evening, and the last of the leaves to fall from the trees. Here in Senegal, however, it’s still hot, there’s been no time change, and the leaves on the few trees that are scattered about are as green as ever despite the fact that everything around them is dry and brown. One thing that does feel the same about this time of year, though, is the holiday spirit. Two months and 10 days after Korité, which this year happened to fall on November 17th, Muslims around the world celebrate, Eid el-Kebir, the Feast of Sacrifice, known in Senegal as Tabaski. This holiday recognizes Ibrihima’s (Abraham’s) willingness to sacrifice his son Ishmael as an act of submission to God. At the last minute, however, the Archangel Gabriel made a little switcheroo and replaced his son with a ram. Lucky for baby Ishmael, apparently it was just the thought that counted. In celebration of this miraculous event, Senegalese save up their money and purchase one (or many) rams, goats, or cows (depending on their wealth) and slaughter them in the name of Allah. Families travel great distances and spend more money than they actually have to be together for this celebration. Even my host mother, Khady, opens her doors to welcome her family of 30 who live next door even though the rest of the year she prefers they stay behind the wall that divides the two households.

Freshly ground pepper over onionsPeeling potatoes

Our ram waiting its fate.

The kiddos watching the sacrificeCarrying the marinade

Transferring the meat to the cauldronA feast to behold

Holiday preparations started the night before when Khady and I sat at an outdoor table in the courtyard and peeled and chopped 10 kilos of onions and 15 heads of garlic. The next day, we continued with the food preparations: cooking, peeling, and mashing a sack of potatoes, pounding pepper, and making marinade with her nieces. [NOTE: THIS IS WHERE YOU SHOULD TURN YOUR HEAD AND SKIP DOWN TO THE NEXT SECTION IF YOU HAVE A WEAK STOMACH.] Mid-morning, we were summoned next door, where our ram had joined three others, and watched as my uncles said a prayer and, in turn, laid each ram on it’s left side with it’s head facing Mecca, and slit it’s throat over a hole in the sand. Sorry, sounds gruesome I know and it pretty much was. Like sleeping dogs dreaming about chasing rabbits, the rams kicked their legs well after they should have stopped moving. Ghastly noises came from their severed tracheae as their carotid arteries drained into a pool of blood, while, young children gathered round the perimeter to watch. I hid behind my camera to document the event, hoping that peering through the 2” x 3” screen would make it a little less awful. The men then very skillfully skinned and gutted the animals and brought the meat back over to our compound for cooking. Khady and the girls hacked away at the large carcass sections with machetes to make manageable pieces for cooking.

[OKAY, IT’S SAFE TO COME BACK NOW.] We marinated the mouton (French for sheep) in a blend of Dijon mustard, onion juice, vinegar, and pepper (both black and red); the onions were pulled out of the marinade and cooked to make a sauce. After tossing the meat in the marinade, we put it in large cauldron to stew over a wood fire before grilling each piece over charcoal. The meal was served on platters artfully arranged with a big heaping pile of meat in the center, surrounded by onion sauce and dollops of mashed potatoes, then peppered with green olives. We ate in segregated groups of men, women, and children and used our hands and pieces of bread to feed ourselves. At my platter, it was not uncommon to see two women tugging at either side of a big piece of meat to free it from it’s bone. I have to say, tearing into freshly-killed meat like that felt a little barbaric.

After lunch, and I mean immediately after lunch, the food left on the platters was consolidated to one tray and a subgroup of people started eating once again, leaving nothing to spare. Soon after that, one of my cousins tasked herself with picking meat from the bones of some other pieces that had been stewing all day and another group of women started deep-fat frying innards. It was a veritable meat-fest all day long. Throughout the day, most people were wearing and showing off the new clothes they’d had made for the occasion and almost all of the women were sporting new hair extensions. These are really big here in Senegal and come in all shapes and sizes. To my surprise, in the late afternoon/early evening, people began changing into formal attire--I’m talking sequined ball gowns. Neighbors came a-calling and little kids went house-to-house requesting small treats and money. As my mom and her nieces sat around her salon de vivre (living room) all dressed up with no where to go, I recalled a now-infamous statement my grandmother once made on Thanksgiving morning several years ago when hours had been spent prepping for an outdoor brunch on a very cold Oregon morning. After we ate, we were all huddled around a fire, wrapped up in our coats and scarves to keep warm when she looked up and exclaimed, “well, this is just stupid!” Acknowledging this at some point in the day has become a holiday tradition in my family.

So, that got me thinking about whether Tabaski really is very different than the holiday that we’re used to celebrating at this time of year? Granted, Thanksgiving is not a religious holiday, but aside from the brief prayer said before the sacrifice (and don‘t most families say some sort of grace before carving into the turkey?), this didn’t feel very religious either. Families and friends gather together to spend quality time with one another, love is expressed through the sharing of food, and we all put on our fancy clothes to remind ourselves that we can clean up every once in a while. As Americans, we just tend to sweep the icky part under the carpet and let someone else do our slaughtering for us. I went to college in Rockingham County, VA, which proclaims itself to be The Turkey Capital and recall watching the horrifying daily migration of semi-trucks loaded with commercially-raised live turkeys headed to the processing plant. I won’t get on a soap box about eating locally vs. commercially grown foods, but even I, who already has strong feelings in that direction, had my eyes opened a bit as I watched my Senegalese family buy, feed, and care for their meal well in advance of bringing it to their table. Slow food at its finest.

Click here to view a play-by-play (uncensored) album of my Tabaski experience (Come on, be brave. There are a lot of great pictures in this album.)

A fancy ThanksgivingThanksgiving

Well, lucky for me, I also got to enjoy celebrating an American Thanksgiving here in Senegal. About 60 Peace Corps volunteers and staff members joined the Ambassador at her residence for a delightfully civilized Thanksgiving feast. This was my first trip into Dakar that wasn’t an organized event, so that in itself added to the festiveness of it all. Everyone who came into town traveled individually or in small groups so the arrivals at the regional house were spread out over a couple of days.

I arrived from Thiès with my friend Jackie after we’d both attended a short French workshop earlier in the week. She was able to show me the ropes on getting into and around Dakar. Our journey was short (it took just under 2 hours from Thiès), but that included 1) pulling off the highway 6 times to lift the hood of the car to wiggle a few wires so the engine would start again, 2) waiting while the driver got a ticket for going the wrong way down the street, and 3) being yelled at by a street vendor for running over a shoe, luckily there was no foot in the shoe, but the vendor was irritated nonetheless. Taking all of that into consideration, we made pretty good time and the driver took us directly to our destination--a hotel bar downtown that was serving 2-for-1 happy hour drinks…halleluiah, a real glass of red wine (well, 2 actually!) I tried my best to ignore the fact that the wine was served cold, because it was served in a real wine glass, with a stem and everything--plus one does not turn down anything cold in this hellaciously hot country. We met several other PCVs there and one of them had a friend visiting from home (NOTE TO FRIENDS & FAMILY: This is a mighty fine idea for next year, so give it some thought.) We dined in a neighboring hotel’s restaurant and had Thai Beef Salads…a nice change of pace from our current diet of rice and fish.

One artichoke = $7 US, aack!The following day we all planned our side dishes for Thanksgiving dinner and, after a trip to the Peace Corps Headquarters for meeting, we descended up Casino, the French super-grocery store down the street from the office. O--M--G! It was glorious. I’ve never been so dumbstruck in a grocery store before. By American standards, I have to admit that this was really just an ordinary nice medium sized grocery store, along the lines of Kroger or Giant, but to our deprived eyes, it was like wandering into Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. Everything was so bright and shiny. There was a large deli case full of nothing but cheeses and there was a full size produce aisle with things other than carrots, cabbages, and manioc--green things, many many green things. We spent over an hour in there just wandering up and down the aisles with our mouths gaped open. A lot of what was offered was ridiculously priced, but it was nice just to know that it’s there, if ever I really want it. In the end, I maintained restraint and bought only the few things I needed to cook a couple of meals at the Regional house while I was there and make my side dish for Thanksgiving. I also splurged on a bottle of wine, some hair product, and face lotion.

We arrived back at the house just in time for a regional house costume party. The invitation requested that we “come dressed as would have been appropriate at the first Thanksgiving ”. We had some interesting interpretations to that theme and if I had to give out prizes they would have been to:

1st Prize - Small Pox -- a person covered in colorful hole punch reinforcers who spent the evening “spreading the disease”, targeting the Indians first, of course.2nd Prize - The Niña, The Pinta, and The Santa Maria -- 3 people decked out in African waxcloth duds patterned with tall ships….and yes, it took many people several hours to realize that they had arrived to dinner a couple of centuries too late.3rd Prize - A Center-Piece with accompanying candelabra -- this 3-person costume centered around a bridesmaid‘s dress that arrived in a care package too late for the wedding.Runners Up - to all the Pilgrims, Indians, and Turkeys because they were so creative in the construction of their costumes, and to the Macy’s Day Parade Charlie Brown Float, cause that was thinking outside the box!!

Small Pox scoping out the Indians

PCVs being as un-PC as we can be

The Niña, the Pinta, & the Santa Maria

Waddle she think of next?

Note the traced-hand turkey skirt

Centerpiece with Candelabras

A mighty fine pilgrim hatA Macy's Parade FloatWe make due with what we have..

The next day volunteer and staff kitchens around the city were all aflutter in preparation for our big meal with the ambassador. I made Moroccan Carrots (see below for recipe), and we had a variety of other tasty vittles, including casseroles, roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes, cornbread, salads, pies, etc… Although we’d all cleaned up well for our arrival to dinner, the pots and pans we transported the food in had been seen better days. Luckily, the ambassador’s staff transferred everything to china serving platters and it all looked as lovely as it tasted. Her Excellency, Madam Bernicat, not only opened her home and provided us with her good company for this event, but she also supplied three golden brown turkeys and an endless supply of chilled wine and freshly brewed coffee. Ahhh, what an enjoyable evening. Thank you from the bottom of my heart to all of you good tax-paying American citizens. That was just the dose of home that I needed.

Making Pasta Salad

Finding our names on the Guest List

A beautifully set table.Enjoying pre-dinner cocktails

The buffet

Plating up!

Her Excellency capturing a shot

Moroccan Carrots

1 lb. carrots, peeled and sliced

3 cloves garlic, minced

¼ cup olive oil

¼ cup white wine vinegar

½ tsp. cumin

¼ tsp cinnamon

½ tsp. cayenne

¼ tsp. salt

Chopped parsley and/or cilantro

1. Cooked carrots until just fork tender (al dente).

2. Mix remaining ingredients (minus the parsley/cilantro) and marinate the carrots in this mixture at room temperature for several hours.

3. Stir in chopped parsley/cilantro just before serving.

This dish was passed down from my father’s boss Candace. It’s easy to prepare and carry to a pot luck and is ALWAYS the hit of the party.

Flower outside my windowNow that my agenda is not packed full of daily training courses and Peace Corps-sponsored activities, it’s all starting to feel a bit real. The days seem longer and hotter and without other Toubabs around, I have to admit, it’s downright lonely at times. My compound welcomes many neighbors and eco-village members throughout the day and we usually serve 8-10 people lunch, so it’s not that there aren’t people around; I’m just still struggling to communicate with them. I spend a few hours a week at my tutor’s house conversing in French, but most people around me prefer to speak Wolof. I know several PCVs who drew the line in the sand at the beginning of their service and refused to learn two languages while they were here, choosing to only communicate with people who would speak French to them. This seems very tempting, but also pretty isolating, so it’s become clear that I need to commit to learning them both. Two other PCVs who live within a 2 hours drive will be joining me and a Peace Corps language teacher for a Wolof training session next week. Hopefully, that will strengthen my foundation and help me understand the people around me a bit more.

My pen pals at PeabodyThat being said, I received my first letter from my French pen pal class in Charlottesville. I’m participating the World Wise Schools Correspondence Match Program with my friend Maryline and her 6th - 8th grade French classes at The Peabody School for Intellectually Advanced Children. Thirteen kids wrote me a short description of themselves and each asked a question about the Senegalese people and their culture to which I’ll respond in my next letter back to them. We’ve scheduled a Skype call later in the month so Khady and I can talk with them on-line.

Since I’ve not begun any kind of structured, regularly-scheduled work yet, my days are filled with rather mundane things, like reading, cleaning my room, and drinking tea with the neighbors. I did two weeks worth of laundry this week and got a big ol' blister on my thumb from wringing my clothes out--that was fun. I also tried to electrocute myself. I bought this water heater coil thing that plugs into the wall and heats up a cup of water. I stuck it in my stainless steel French press coffee maker and then, like an idiot, after about 2 minutes stuck my finger in the water to see if it was hot. I was thrown up against the wall with a powerful jolt and water (yes, it was hot) spilled everywhere. I thought to myself, "well that was just stupid", water--in metal container--with a submerged electrical device, duh! Of course I got shocked. Not to be defeated, I got up, brushed and dried myself off, and tried again, this time using a durable plastic coffee cup. When the water started to rumble, I stuck my finger in it again (yes, I really did) and BAM, against the wall I went a second time. So clearly, I'm thinking, it wasn't the metal vessel that caused the problem, and a few more brain cells died. I'm beginning to wonder what anyone here is actually going to learn from me.

Thankfully, now that November is here, there’s s finally a touch of coolness in the morning air (that lasts for about an hour or two), so I’ve started doing a 20-min yoga pod cast routine every morning. That’s been really good for me, as I haven’t had much exercise since I arrived in Senegal and it helps clear my mind and ground me. The day quickly warms up after that; it’s been well-over 100 degrees everyday since I arrived in Diourbel. Several times a week, I take a mid-morning walk to the Post Office to see anyone loves me (hint hint) and along the way, I usually treat myself to a hard-boiled egg that the bean sandwich lady at the train station sells. After that, I wander aimless through the market trying very hard to embrace my new surroundings but am quickly turned off by all of the vendors who push their wares on me. The market is not really a place for window-shopping. You've got to know what you want, where to get it, and get in and out of there fast.

À la Gare (at the train station)À la Poste (at the Post Office)

My host mother went to visit her sister in Saint Louis this week, so I got to experiment a bit with cooking. I found some no-boil lasagna noodles in a Toubab store in Kaolak last week when I traveled there for a meeting and decided to try making lasagna in our solar oven. This was no easy task and it ended up costing me about $20 in ingredients (which is a fortune here). I have to say, it turned out pretty tasty. I’d made an entire pan of it and only Ibou and I were around for dinner that night, so now I’m dealing with the leftovers, which is a little tricky because even though we have a refrigerator, the electricity goes out for hours on a daily basis. The next night I made Salad Niçoise, which also cost a pretty penny, but was equally impressive. Trying to eat like an American here is not cheap, nor is it easy. Cooking in Senegal is like cooking while car camping. You’ve got pots and pans at your disposal, but have to cook everything over a one-burner propane tank in the sandy courtyard, with limited prep station room (I used plastic chairs as my counter tops), and running water but no sink. People are so in the habit of eating a shared communal platter and welcoming anyone who shows up at their door to eat with them that I was caught off-guard the second night I cooked when two work-mates of my Ibou’s appeared after I’d already plated up two lovely salads. The invitation I extended for them to join us seemed a little insincere, which I guess it was. Why hadn’t they shown up the night before when I had a pan full of lasagna? I couldn't even pull that out for the fridge to heat it up them because our only oven is the solar oven and it was already past dark..

My prep stationAssembling the lasagna in the sand

The result of leaning over the saucepan

Falou helping me with the ovenThe finished product.

My salad Niçoise

On Halloween, my Ancienne (the PCV whose site I took over) was here helping us with the Solar Oven Marketing workshop, so she and I went to the market in search of pumpkins or squash to carve. Unfortunately, the squash that is served in Thiéboudienne this time of year is usually sold in individual pre-cut chunks and we couldn’t find a whole one, so we opted for a couple of watermelons and carved those instead. We explained the concept of Halloween to the workshop participants and they all encouraged us to eat a lot that day, since holidays here are often centered around feasting.

Eco-villagers admiring the Jack-O-Melon

Khady convincing her niece not to be scared

Everyone here is gearing up for the next big holiday, Tabaski, known across the Muslim world as Eid al-Adha (“Festival of Sacrafice”). According to my Cross Cultural Journal, “Tabaski commemorates the willingness of Ibrahim to sacrifice his son Ishmael in obedience to God. At the last minute, God provided a ram to be sacrificed instead, in reward for Ibrahim’s commitment. In commemoration of this event, Muslims around the world celebrate by slaughtering a ram (or goat, cow, etc. depending on the family’s wealth), dividing it into shares, and celebrating with family and friends. Tabaski occurs approximately two months and ten days after Korite, the end of Ramaden.”

So, in anticipation of this big day, Khady bought two rams last week. They’re tied up in our kitchen area (because someone thought that was hygienic!) just on the other side of my patio wall. As one would expect of any animal-loving American, I’ve grown quite fond of them. They’re tied with short ropes to poles that they keep wrapping themselves around, so I listen for their cries of “Hey, I just wrapped myself around the pole again” and go to their aid. Aside from their short ropes, they’re treated well by the family. They’re fed twice a day and are given regular baths. Last night, I had vegetable scraps from my salad-making and tossed these into their feed tray (the wheelbarrow) thinking I was doing them a favor. I think one of the rams got a piece of potato skin stuck in its throat as it coughed and make choking noises periodically throughout the night. It would be just like me to unintentionally kill the Tabaski ram with a touch of kindness. Thankfully, today, he seems a lot better.

This is our kitchen area. Note the propane cook stove (red).

My new friends

My tutor's kid with his kid.

Dakar - The Big City

Until I arrived in Senegal, all I knew about Dakar was that Ofeibea Quist-Arcton, NPR’s West African foreign correspondent reports from there and signs off on all of her stories with a melodic pronunciation of the city’s name. Aside from that and a quick turnaround at the Leopold Senghor International Airport before the crack of dawn the day we arrived, Dakar and all it had to offer was a big mystery to me. It was reportedly, the land of plenty. Whenever anyone asked “can you get X or Y in Senegal”, referring to some creature comfort from home that someone failed to bring with them, the answer was always “yes, you can get that in Dakar” We’d also learned that getting in and out of Dakar was a traffic nightmare. Situated just 70 km (44 miles) from Thiès, it often took our trainers 2-3 hours to commute.

October 4th was Dakar Day according to our training calendar. Early that morning, we loaded up in Peace Corps buses and headed into the city. On the outskirts of town, we stopped along the side of the road to transfer some passengers; those folks that had fallen ill (a weekly occurrence during our training period) were shuttled in another vehicle and sent directly to the Med Hut (the medical facility in the Peace Corps Senegal office) and several 3rd year Volunteers who are now living in Dakar jumped on board our buses to give us a guided tour of the city. Their commentary went something like this,

“Don’t come to this section of town or you’ll surely get mugged.” “If you want to by a sheep or cow, this is the place to do it, but get here early for the good ones.”“On Saturdays, this street is lined with used clothing for sale; you can pick up ratty old clothes donated to a charitable organization in the US and sent over here in a shipping container, however if you have the patience to pick through it you might just find something really cool.”“This is the stadium where the big football (soccer) matches are held, but we’re not allowed attend them anymore because last year there was a huge riot and several volunteers had to be rescued from the crowd by the Gendarmerie (the National Guard) after trying to flee the attacking crowd in a taxi and running over and killing someone."“Here’s a cool club where we go out dancing the first Saturday of every month and stay up until all hours of the morning”. Oddly, all of this sage guidance was said with the same tone of voice, as if each statement carried equal importance. Ahh, the perspective of youth.

Our guides were quick to point out Chez Ass

After the bus tour, we parked our vehicles within the US Embassy gates and split up into groups to tour the downtown area. The streets were bustling with modern cars, businessmen headed to appointments, and people enjoying food and drinks at sidewalk cafés. Tall modern buildings lined the avenues and fountains sat inside traffic circles. It was trés moderne and reminded me of European cities I’d visited in the past. Having spent 7 weeks at this point in interior Senegalese towns and villages, it was hard to believe we were in the same country.

A bustling city street in Dakar

A fountain in the traffic circle

From there we drove along the Corniche, the wide boulevard that parallels the coastline, and were also warned to stay away from its wide sidewalks after dark to avoid running into bandits that prey on Westerners. After passing the recently unveiled African Renaissance Monument, we soon arrived at Club Altantique, otherwise known as the American Club. It’s a small country club of sorts that caters to American ex-pats and their families but waives the annual membership fee for us poor Peace Corps volunteers. It has a pool, snack shack, volleyball court, bar, and themed dinner nights and serves as a nice oasis of familiarity where we can go when we’re in the area (without fear of bandits, muggers, or overpriced second-hand clothing). The rest of the afternoon was spent attending debriefings from the Embassy’s security and legal departments and touring our Peace Corps office before we convoyed back to Thiès in time for dinner.

Along the Corniche--brave soul or potential bandit?

A pool to enjoy when I'm in Dakar

Controversial boondoggle and the gaudiest statue in the world

Our second trip to Dakar, was less than 2 weeks later for our grand swearing in event at the Ambassador’s residence. They pulled out the red carpet for this fête, escorting us into the city with a three cycle motorcade with flashing lights. At one point, the Gendarmerie diverted our convey to other side of the divided highway where we completely usurped a lane of oncoming traffic. Our Ambassador, Marcia Bernicat (an African American woman - yeah!) resides across the street from Dakar’s Club Med. She opened her home to us, some local dignitaries, and news agencies that came to see us be inducted. After a formal ceremony full of speeches, pomp, and circumstance, we enjoyed fresh juices and appetizers on the patio. From there we headed back to the Peace Corps office to finalize some paperwork and get our bank cards, then stopped by Club Atlantique for quick dip in the pool and a beer (or two) before hitting the road again. Truth be told, I look forward to a day in Dakar without an agenda.

The Ambassador's residence

All spruced up for our induction

Her Excellence Marcia Bernicat welcomes a few new volunteers. A patio receptionWe arrived back in Thiès to find out that the moment we swore in as official volunteers, our figurative umbilical cord had been cut. No longer were we Peace Corps trainees, attached to the womb of our training center and reliant on it for all of our physical needs. The dining hall was closed, we had access to our monthly stipends, and we were expected to feed ourselves. So we did what any group of formerly cooped up, highly dependent people would do, went out to the nicest restaurants in town and all blew a week’s worth of living allowance in just one night. No regrets. A plate of Osso Buco and a half carafe of red wine was a well-deserved treat after 10 weeks of intensive training, and boy did it taste good.

Farewell to friends Diourbel

That last weekend at the training center was filled with good-byes. Departures started on Saturday afternoon, with groups of newly appointed volunteers leaving for their permanent sites. I was one of the last to leave and headed to Diourbel on Monday afternoon with three Peace Corps officials who drove me around and introduced me to the local authorities before dropping me and all of my belongings off at my new home. My host Mom and Dad and several members of the Eco-Village where I’ll be living greeted us with fresh-baked millet cake and cold sodas. They’d baked the cake in a solar oven on the roof. Making, selling, and training women’s groups on the use of solar ovens is one of the many sustainable ventures in which the Eco-Village is involved. We’ve got a handful of these on our rooftop and in my first week here we’ve cooked, beef stew, Ceebu yaap (a traditional rice and beef dishs), baked fish, roasted peanuts, Nyebe (spicy beans), and more millet cake. It feels good to make use of the extreme sun and heat that plagues us all day. The temperature in this centrally located city reaches 100 degrees F daily this time of year.

Solar oven on roof

Roasting peanuts

A rooftop view of my neighbor's compoundThe entrance to Baol Environnement (my new home)

This weekend, the Eco-Village will be sponsoring a solar oven workshop and I’ll participate in my first training experience, co-teaching marketing and accounting classes to the women’s group so they can promote and manage their own solar oven businesses. I also plan to work with my counterpart (who’s also my host Dad and president of the Eco-Village) on a Feasibility Study for a Volunteer House that the city of Diourbel wants to open that will serve as a work/meeting place and resource center for volunteers from many different countries and non-government organizations (NGOs) that come to Diourbel. This idea has been in place for some time, but it’s lacking the organizational structure for it to actually happen. I attended an all-day meeting regarding this venture the third day I was here and it was painfully clear that they need some help on this project. That’s what I’m here for, right? So, one week at site, and I’ve already identified some work. Not bad considering that I’m supposed to be focusing on settling into my community and not looking for work until after my In-Service Training in December. I’d probably go stir crazy if I waited that long.

I’m also doing a lot of reading for a seminar our Country Director is hosting on Development Theory and Practice. About 25 volunteers are participating. We have an extensive reading list and will meet a handful of times (via teleconference and in-person) over the next 4 months to discuss the factors leading up to the current economic status of the world’s poorest countries, what attempts at aid have failed and why, and what new approaches to development might prove more effective. So far, the reading has been interesting and having the opportunity to learn more about the big picture of the poverty that surrounds me helps make some sense of it all, even if it’s still daunting.

Mboro

Group headed to Mboro (note flat of eggs)In our last few weeks of Pre-Service Training, we were able to break free for a bit of R & R. The first weekend we were officially allowed to venture out on our own, the other 3 trainees from my village and I met up with 8 trainees from a neighboring village and rented a beach house in Mboro for the night. Mboro is a relatively short distance, yet a far cry, from Tivaoune, the Islamic holy city that 4 of us have called home for the past 9 weeks. Mboro is supported mainly by an Indian-owned phosphate factory that employs most of the town’s inhabitants, plus quite a few ex-pats. It sits just 15 minutes inland from a lovely beach and fishing village. Although only a 45 minute drive from Tivaoune, the vegetation is remarkable different, much greener and with palm trees peppering the landscape. When we arrived, we met up with the other group and spread out in the market to buy food and drinks for our overnight stay before crowding in several sept-places (7-passagener taxis) to find our beach house. In hindsight, it was a mistake to assume that the 15 young twenty-something’s that I was traveling with had coordinated a plan for group meals. Acquiring liquor and mixers, however, had of course been top priority, coordinated days in advance, and this plan thankfully included a bottle of red wine for me. Food, on the other hand was a free-for-all, which having not been well-communicated, left my group of 4 with just a 2.5 dozen flat of eggs, a bag of mangoes, and 4 grapefruits to eat--food we’d purchased thinking it would be our contribution to the group meals.Finding the beach house was another challenge. The rental had been arranged by a current volunteer who had to leave town for a project and couldn’t join us. She left instructions with her uncle to escort us there. He delegated the job to someone else who took 3 of our group in advance, dropped them off on the beach and pointed in the general direction of the beach house. When the rest of us arrived, an hour later, they’d still not found the place. Nevertheless, after a few phone calls and the arrival of the missing uncle, we finally made our way to the house, only to find that a young Senegalese couple had converted one of the rooms into a secret little love shack. The man renting us the house seemed not as surprised to find them as he was to see 12 of us, as he’d been led to believe that there’d be just 4 of us and therefore had only supplied four foam mattresses on the floor, and one of these, which we’d all just witnessed, had been freshly test-driven. He also told us that there was not currently any running water, but directed us to the well and bucket out back, that the electricity was not hooked up, and that there was no propane tank to use for cooking. Then and there, I knew that this was bound to be an interesting night.Charet in the foreground,

bobbing toubabs in the background

Mboro Beach House / Hut

Yet, once we looked up from our surroundings and saw the beautiful beach, we put all of these worries aside and enjoyed a swim in the ocean and some very sub-standard libations. The Atlantic over on this side is pleasantly warm and the waves entertaining. When dinnertime rolled around, and it became clear that everyone but my three village-mates and I had assumed we were fending for ourselves in the food department, we broke out my Swiss Army knife and started slicing up mangoes. When that didn’t satiate us, we started looking longingly at the flat of eggs we’d bought and wondered how difficult it would be to find a way to cook them given our current limitations. Being Americans, our first thought was, “we’ll pay somebody to cook these for us,” but that attempt failed when we discovered that the neighboring houses also had no gas, in fact we were on the cusp of a country-wide gas shortage that lasted for the next two weeks. So, with no other choice, we started gathering kindling and driftwood to make a fire and salvaged one of the empty cans of tuna from which our housemates had feasted without us to use as a cooking vessel. Surprisingly, the eggs were edible, once you got past the bits of sand, ash, and pine brush that made their way into the can while they cooked and we ate them by stabbing at the bits of eggs chunks with the point of the knife.

Making fire

Eggs on the embers the next morning We saved the remaining uncooked eggs and grapefruit for breakfast which we supplemented with bean sandwiches a woman was selling a little way down the beach. Bean sandwiches are an affordable Senegalese delicacy and are available on most village street corners throughout the early part of the day. Other simple, yet delightful, sandwiches often found at these little stands contain sautéed onions, stewed peas, seasoned spaghetti/macaroni, or stewed beef with French fries (or any combination of these that you desire). When I say these are affordable, I‘m not kidding. A half baguette costs 75 CFA (there are ~ 500 CFA to a US $) and, aside from the beef/French fry combo (which will run you 400-500 CFA), each topping costs only 50 CFA each. So, basically you can be enjoy a bean, spaghetti, and onion sandwich for just 225CFA (about 50 cents). I love the bean sammy ladies! Sorry they're shy and wouldn't let me take their picture. After breakfast we enjoyed a lazy day of swimming, reading, and lying about. Most people were exhausted from staying up late dancing the night before. I, however, the token “mid-career” trainee (Peace Corps tries to make it sound so much nicer than middle-aged) was equally exhausted from lying in my tent just 10 feet away from all of the late-night activities trying unsuccessfully to get my beauty rest.

When I returned to my host-family later that evening and told them the story of our weekend adventure they all got a big kick out of the fact that I couldn’t feed myself properly without them (mangoes and eggs for dinner sounded absurd to them) and that we’d all survived 24 hours without consuming rice (which may actually be a record here in Senegal). “Silly Toubab“, they thought, using the moniker assigned to all Westerners (sometimes affectionately, sometimes not).

Popenguine

One of our Al-Hams

Just one week after that beach adventure, the entire training group (all 61of us) piled into 2 rented Al-Hams (rickety old buses that have Al-Hamdoulilah (Thanks be to God) painted on them) and headed to Popenguine, a beach town on the Petit-Côte just an hour south of Dakar, for a celebratory gathering to mark the near completion of our training. Popenguine is the prized Eco-Tourism placement site of Peace Corps Senegal and has been assigned to Kelsey, who’s been living in Tivaoune with me (that‘s good for me and anyone who wants to come visit be while I‘m over here). It’s an incredibly scenic beach neighboring a hilly nature reserve. The beach is much more built up than the one in Mboro, frequented by both locals and vacationing Europeans, but still not overrun with commercialism. We rented two houses this time--one reserved for 10 people (the quiet house) and the other for the remaining 50 or so (the party house). Both were lovely and catered to weekly renters, with fully stocked and operating kitchens, a few bedrooms with mattresses and mosquito nets, and indoor plumbing. By request, I was assigned to the quiet house, which was good on so many levels, but mainly because I was taking medication for amoebic dysentery that had decided to wreak havoc with my insides and apparently drinking alcohol while on this medication produces ghastly side-effects. There were other people who also chose to spend the weekend in a calmer environment so I was in good company. It was nice to all be together away from the training center and just play in the water for the day. There were rocks to climb, the nature reserve to explore, and a sweet little Catholic village with Toubab stores just down

the hill.

Inside the fabric fringed Al-Ham

Nicer digs at Popenguine

A view from the deck of the Quiet House

More bobbing ToubabsThe nature reserve on the hill

Having planned ahead this time, I had the makings for a salami and cheese (score!) sandwich so I made myself dinner, treated myself to some juice, and found a little corner in the living room in which to curl up for an early night with my book. In the near distance, I could hear the revelry next door and was glad to have some refuge from it…for a while, that is. About three chapters into my book, one of the party-house guys, Will, came stumbling through the door accompanied by a few concerned friends. He had suddenly, out of the blue, spike a fever of 105 degrees. Burning hot, we threw him into the shower and called the PC Medical Emergency number. While I was on the phone with the medical officer, Pam, another trainee, burst through the door with a bug in her eye, the same eye that she’d had a surgical procedure on the week before. Not ten minutes after that, two other folks who were staying in the quiet house because they felt like they were coming down with something--came down with that something and started lining up to use the bathroom, soon joined by yet another person who was quite surprised by her sudden explosive symptoms. So, one minute I was enjoying a good book, a glass of orange juice, and the sound of the ocean waves, the next minute the house had become a veritable M.A.S.H unit and I was listening for Radar to warn me of more “Incoming!” Because I seemed to be the only one of our entire group who’d heeded warnings from our medical staff to travel with a mini-med kit, I became the Florence Nightingale of the Quiet House, dishing out Ibuprophen, Tylenol, band-aids, thermometers, oral hydration salts, and Immodium to the masses. The following morning we put three of the sick-bay inhabitants in a sept-place to go to the medical office in Dakar where they spent the next few days recovering and the rest of us headed back to Thies and then to our villages for our last two weeks of training.

Florence Nightingale's Magic Box

Googlemania

To all of my gmail friends (and gmail-wanna-be friends),

Gmail has this cool new feature that happens to work in Senegal. Basically, you can send an SMS text, at the local US rate, to my Senegalese cell phone (221 77 673 0064). When I receive your text, a local Senegalese number is created for you that I can save along with your name. I can then text you back at my local rate. Brilliant! If you try this, be sure to sign your name to your text so that I’ll know who you are as the numbers in my US cell phone did not transfer over and I haven't re-entered all of these yet. Hope to hear from some of you from time to time.

Polyglot, by chance

So, as some of you know, ending up in Africa was a bit of a surprise for me. For an entire year, I prepared for life in the Peace Corps in Latin American and spent many studious hours re-learning the Spanish that had been buried in the depths of my brain since high school. Last July, I took a 40-hour immersion course, studied for and passed the CLEP (College Level Examination Program) exam, and spent every Tuesday evening for the next 12 months in a conversational Spanish class. However, six weeks before I was due to depart, I got the call from Peace Corps asking if I’d change my plans and come to Francophone Africa instead. “Sure“, I said. “Flexibility is key, right?” I was so tired of waiting for a placement that I thought, “just assign me already!“ In that flash of a moment, I thought that since I’d studied French in high school and college and had spent a semester in Paris and had successfully re-learned one language that I was up for the challenge. “Bring it on!”

So, five days after arriving in Senegal, I began immersion French classes. Aside from the obvious problems of trying to speak French with a Spanish accent, learning it from someone with an African accent, and trying to replace all recently-learned nouns, verbs, and verb tenses with new ones, I was actually doing okay. Because my host-family in my training village spoke Wolof, and very little French, I got a break from daily immersion each night as I sat around our dinner platter and listened to them speak a truly foreign language. In a way, I was able to shut language out completely and give my mind a rest at the end of each day. I did a lot of smiling, pointing, and nodding with my family and although it didn't promote great conversations, it served as effective communication. Ahh, those were the days.

In a rush to get us fully prepared to live independently and be able to communicate with people in our assigned posts, the Peace Corps, after just 4 weeks of training, decided to move those of us who reached an Intermediate-Low level of French to Wolof classes. Aack! Unfortunately, immediately after this decision, I spent our first day of class sick in bed. When I returned to class, on Day 2 of Wolof training, I felt completely lost. While I was feverishly sweating in bed and making hourly runs (pun intended) to the bathroom, my classmates had banded together in solidarity to master Wolof without me, putting me at a linguistic disadvantage. I kid you not; after just one day, they were carrying on lengthy conversations with each other while I stared teary-eyed at the chalkboard.

What I haven’t really mentioned thus far is that our physical learning environment is a challenge in itself. Language classrooms at the Training Center are concrete-walled huts with thatched roofs and sheets of wood painted black that lean against the wall and serve as chalkboards. In the training village, we usually meet in one or two of our host family compounds. We meet from 9am - 1pm, break for lunch, and then meet again from 4pm - 6pm. Aside for the unbearable heat of the day or the afternoon deluge of rain, there are many other distractions to effective learning, like: 1) family members that walk by one-by-one as they arise for the day to greet us (greeting is very big here and with large families of 10-15 people this becomes a constant activity), 2) flies, which come in many shapes and sizes, that make sport of landing on us and require constant swatting, 3) random animals that wander through the classroom on their way outside to graze for the day, and 4) our teacher who frequently stops to answer his cell phone or return a text. Last week, we actually had this strange old woman wander into the compound, interrupt the class, and ask our teacher for some money so she could buy bread. When I asked him afterward if he knew the woman, he said “No, that’s just what we do here in Senegal.”

Immersion training in actionLanguage Hut @ Training Center

Classroom in Training Village

Sheep wandering through classRooster checking out the lesson

Okay, so now that you have a picture of my daily classroom distractions, let’s go back to imagining me, foggy-headed, dehydrated, and on the verge of tears, trying to absorb my third language in just 12-months. Let’s just say it wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t until the following weekend that I had any grasp of Wolof what-so-ever. But that’s the funny thing about total immersion. Once you have that grasp, as slight as it may be, you can immediately begin communicating. I’ve since had successful, albeit short and elementary, conversations with my host-family and with the women at the market. How ‘bout me?!

My Host-Dad (closest to table) learning Polish

Last week we had a Counterpart Workshop for our Small Enterprise Development team at the training center that was attended by the people we'll be working/living with at our permanent sites. During this 2-day seminar, we had a session on language to help gain some empathy from our local hosts regarding how frickin' difficult it is for us to be communicating and conducting business in another language (in another country) after just 2 months of training. We asked for three volunteers to come to the front of the lecture hall and had them experience a 30-min immersion class in Polish (one of my fellow trainees speaks this fluently). My counterpart and future host-Dad was one of the brave few to participate. It was rather fun to observe them completely lost in words and phrases they'd never heard before and was effective at driving home our point.

Yup, that's me teaching in FrenchAlso at this workshop, we put on an American Cross-Cultural fair to help our host-country partners understand our cultural differences. My group presented Women throughout the 20th Century and outlined things such as the womens' suffrage movement, women taking on industrial roles during WW2, the womens' rights movements, the working woman, and women in politics. We also spoke about the Modern Woman and the concepts of independence, choice, balance, and partnership. This was quite eye-opening session for a group of people who are used to women staying at home to cook, clean, and share their homes with multiple wives. Needless to say, we had lots of questions. Oh, did I mention that we gave this presentation in French? We had six groups cycle through our presentation, so by the end of it we were a bit tongue-tied. In the end, Awa, our Cultural Awareness trainer asked us for our presentation so that she could give it to Language and Cultural Facilitators that join the staff.

We head back to the training village this afternoon for one last week of Wolof. Wish me luck!



a glimpse of the new moon Korité Eve (09.Sep 2010)

We returned to our training villages on the afternoon of the Eve of Korité, although no one was actually sure whether or not Korité would be the next day yet. This holiday marks the end of Ramadan and is as big and as much anticipated as Christmas. The Marabou of each Muslim brotherhood* looks to the sky on the 28th day of Ramadan in search of a glimpse of the new moon. This happens at sunset when people are breaking fast, hopefully for the last time. When and if he sees the moon, Korité is declared and is celebrated the next day. Because each brotherhood’s Marabou declares Korité, however, the holiday sometimes falls on different days across Senegal, which apparently happened last year and caused all sorts of confusion and scheduling conflicts throughout the country.

This particular evening, however, the clouds had broken after a raining afternoon and the sky was fairly clear, The streets and rooftops of my neighborhood were crowded with people searching the western sky for a sighting. When they saw a sliver of the moon there was cheering, laughter, and dancing in the streets. The kids acted as if they’d seen Santa Claus flying through the sky, which I guess, in their own way, they had. Immediately thereafter, everyone rushed inside to watch Koranic television with interviews about the sighting and wise words from the Marabous about the end of Ramadan.

After dinner, my 12-yr old brother Cheikh, my 4-yr old sister Bébé Maty, and I rushed to the market to pick up a top that I was having altered for the big occasion. The streets in the village were filled with people out celebrating and the town took on a new carnival-like vibe. I was immediately sorry we’d agreed to take the my little sister because I was afraid we’d lose her in the crowd. The market in Thiès, earlier in the day, had been like this, too. Everyone was out buying last minute things needed to make their holiday more festive, like gaudy hair extensions, shiny new shoes, and live chickens. We made it safely to the tailor’s shop and waited for an hour while he filled the last of his Korité orders. This is the busiest time of year for tailors as everyone--men, women, and little children alike--all get new clothes for the celebration, or so I was told.

Korité (10 Sept 2010)

I slept in the morning of Korité, since it was just the 2nd day since arriving in Senegal that I did not have any classes. When I walked out of my room, I noticed Cheikh in a penned in area in our courtyard talking to his “new pet chickens” that mysteriously arrived the day before.

OK FRIENDS…THIS IS WHERE THE WEAK AT HEART SHOULD TURN AWAY, OR AT LEAST SKIP DOWN TO THE NEXT CAPITALIZED SECTION THAT INDICATES IT’S SAFE TO COME BACK TO READING.

When I arrived back at my host-family’s house yesterday afternoon and noticed the presence of 3 chickens in our courtyard, I knew that they were not our new pets, but likely, very soon our celebratory dinner. Having raised chickens myself, albeit only for eggs, and having seen the many chickens being carried around by their wing-pits for sale in the market the day before, I knew how this story would end. So, as I was headed back to my room from the toilet, I stopped to watch Cheikh as he grabbed his first victim and reminded myself that I am not here in Senegal to change the customs of my hosts (a mantra I often repeat to myself.) The killing was not exactly swift, but well-practiced. Cheikh turn the hen on its side, stepped on it’s feet with one barefoot and it’s wings with the other and hung its head over a hole in the sandy earth he had dug just moments before. Using a very dull knife (this is where the lack of swiftness comes in), he proceeded to cut the chicken’s throat and drain its blood into the hole. As he grabbed the next one, the third chicken high-tailed it out of the pen. Acting instinctively, I threw down the basket of toiletries I was holding and cornered the hen in the courtyard with my skirt to keep it from escaping. Cheikh smiled proudly and came out to fetch his last victim, my dinner.

After this, my sister-in-law, Fatou, came out to take over from there. AGAIN, IF YOU WANT TO BAIL OUT HERE, NOW’S YOUR SECOND CHANCE……I sat down next to her and we plucked, gutted, and cleaned chickens for about 2 hours. First, she poured ladles full of hot water over the birds to loosen their feathers. This was fairly effective and I’m sure made the job easier, but it was definitely labor-intensive, regardless. Next, we held the chickens over a propane gas fire to burn off the really small hair-like feathers. Then, using that same dull knife we cut open the carcasses and pulled out the insides. We kept the livers, hearts, and stomachs (emptying these out of course) and through the rest in the bucket with the feathers and now-resident flies. Next, we washed the birds, which I was beginning to fear would not be one of our steps. Fatou stepped away to fetch her bar of soap (the very same one she uses to bath with.). When she returned, she cut off pieces from a plastic mesh rice bag for each of us to use as scrub brushes and we soaped and scrubbed the birds until they were spic and span.

OK. IT’S SAFE FOR ALL TO COME BACK NOW.

preparing the Korite meal

So the big meal of the day on Korité is lunch and we had this lovely chicken dish that I helped prepare. We fried some chicken, and made pommes frites (French fries). We then cut a couple of kilos of onions and marinated them in vinegar, oil, black pepper, and crushed Maggi and Dolci seasoning cubes (a necessary ingredient in all Senegalese dishes). These were sautéed and it was all served together on a big platter and eaten with torn off pieces of baguettes. Greasy, but good (and not Thieboudienne).

Cheikh sportin' his Grand BoubouWhile we were cooking, my little brother donned his best grand bou-bou and went to the grande mosque to pray. The rest of the day was kind of lazy, but we had a lot of visitors. All of the men who’d been lounging around for the past month came out of the woodwork and stopped by in their bou-bous to say hello to the family. Apparently, Korité is a holiday for making amends with your friends and neighbors and forgiving any bad blood between them. I’m not sure how much of that went on today, since it was all conducted in Wolof. In the early evening the young kids get dressed up and go door-to-door asking their neighbors for money. So the holiday is kind of like Yom Kippor, Halloween, and Christmas all rolled into one.

The bedroom dinner hostsSo all day long, with the exception of my little brother who had gone to the mosque, everyone was wearing their everyday clothes. The visitors all donned their new threads, but my family was still just hanging out in their regular house-work quality pagnes (wrap skirts). Later in the evening, Fatou and her husband (my uncle) Darou, who were married earlier in the year, got decked out to have some friends over for dinner. Since families all live together, when just one couple wants to entertain, they do this in their bedrooms. So Fatou and Darou had about eight people piled into their modest sized room with a tablecloth spread out on the queen-sized bed. I suspect they were wearing the same clothes they’d been married in.

As the rest of the family sat down on the outdoor mat to eat a meal of left-over beans and bread from the evening before (as I mentioned, lunch is the big Korité meal), my family all encouraged me to go put on the outfit that I’d had made specially made for the occasion. There was a lot of build-up to this at the Peace Corps training center and everyone had had clothes made. Somehow, at this point, with the day almost over, all of the visitors having come and gone, and no one else in the family dressed for the occasion (aside from the entertaining newlyweds tucked away in their rooms), it seemed kind of pointless, so I politely declined and am saving my outfit for the next grand fête.

Site Selection

Just before heading back to our training villages for Korité, we all found out where our permanent site placements will be once we’re sworn in as Peace Corps Volunteers in mid-October. As per tradition and despite the rain, we were all blind-folded and placed on a map of Senegal painted on the basketball court. You could hear voices of the people who were standing near you before the blindfolds were removed--that was kind of fun. My site will be the city of Diourbel (pronounced jer-belle) and is a pretty big city (130,000 people) located just an hour and a half’s drive east of Thiès. I’m taking over my site from someone who is signing on for a third year and will be moving to Thiès to work with our Cross-Cultural Coordinator, so she’ll be a nearby resource for me.



Oh where oh where will we go?Looks like I'm going to Diourbel

The Sunday after Korité, I was able to spend 4 days visiting with her in Diourbel so she could show me the ropes, introduce me to potential work partners and meet my new host family. We just arrived back from there today and I am happy with where I’ll be living and working for the next two years. Because it’s about 3 hours inland from the coast the weather is hotter but I am living in Africa, so I should just suck it up and anticipate being hot for the duration. Rumor has it that the winter months are much more tolerable, so there is some relief. Diourbel is in the peanut basin so the soil is really sandy, as is just about everything I put in my mouth to eat. The fine sand catches the wind and lands on everything so, invariably, you end up eating quite a bit of it.

My new host family is not the conventional Senegalese family, but I’m going to be quite happy there. My host dad, Ibou, is in his early 60s, loves Jazz music and gardening, and will also be my work counter-part. My host mom, Khady, is in her late 40s, is “trés chic et moderne”, and is a fabulous cook. She owns the house where I will live and works part-time for Baol Enviornment, an organization that is also headquartered in the house. Ibou is its President, Khady is its Treasurer. The organization focuses on finding and implementing sustainable, eco-friendly solutions to development and community-minded activities. They collaborate with all of the women’s groups in the Diourbel region to provide training and organizational stability. They also work with micro-financers and local artisans to support environmentally-friendly project work. It should be a cool to work with this group and I look forward to living with Ibou and Khady. Their French is great and they seem like really down-to-earth people.

Ibou is very techie and loves new gadgets (note new camcorder in his hands)

The terrace garden / afternoon lounging area

Khady master of the double-fisted fan

There’s a lot of work already established in Diourbel that I can jump into after I get there and have finished my Peace Corp training. I’m looking forward to working on these and finding some new projects, as well. I’ve already lined up a French tutor so I can continue my language studies. When we return to our training villages this weekend, I’ll be switching to Wolof lessons. Wish me luck!

My new address is:

April Muñiz (Fatou N’Diaye)

B.P. 566

Diourbel, Senegal

West Africa PAR AVION

List of Fatous:

Fatou Sougou - name given to me by my host family in Tivaouane. This is what people call my in the village.Fatou Torré - my sweet midget aunt in Tivaouane where I'll continue living though mid-OctoberFatou N’Dieye - my sister-in-law in TivaouneFatou Sougou - deceased sister-in-law of my host-mother in Tivaouane and after whom I was named by my grandmotherFatou Diop - nice lady who gives me my weekly allowance at the training centerFatou N’Diaye - name given to me by my new host mother in Diourbel (freakish since she didn’t know my first host mother had named me Fatou). This is what people will call me in Diourbel. All future mail should include this name as well as my real name since that's what the Post Office will know me as.Fatou N’Diaye - deceased sister of my host mother in DiourbelFatou Baldé - my new supervisor in DiourbelFatou Kebe - woman who owns a tailor shop that is interested in some business trainingFatou Mbacke Ngome - woman who owns a small food stand who is interested in some business trainingFatou Kane - Director of a school where I will be teaching basic accounting classesSo, basically every 10th person I meet, including me, is named Fatou.

More from me later...love to all!

Les Toilettes

In case you’ve all been waiting on the edge of your seat for the aforementioned toilet edition, here it is. First, let’s get the obvious out of the way, going to the bathroom in a third world country is not much fun and yet it’s still a necessary part of everyday life. There are three types of basic toilets in Senegal: 1) the English toilet which, rumor has it, looks much like an American toilet, but is “flushed” using a bucket of water no doubt carried from some far-away water-source (I have yet to see one of these myself, so I’m trusting Peace Corps lore about its existence); 2) the Turkish toilet, which is a porcelain shallow bowl with tread on either side for one’s feet laid flush with the ground and has an elevated plumbed tank used for flushing (this is what we have at our training center in Thiès); and 3) the Senegalese toilet which, depending on where you live has the same shallow porcelain bowl as the Turkish toilet, or a simpler poured concrete version, but without the plumbing. Basically, the latter is an indoor outhouse without an elevated seat and is what I have in my house. The floor is tiled and slants towards the hole to make cleaning the room easier. There is always a bucket of water next to the toilet to use for “flushing” and most people carry a small plastic tea kettle into the room with them for “wiping”; this is where the left hand comes into play. The tea kettle is filled with water and held with the right hand while splashing water on and cleaning yourself with the left. We actually received Peace Corps sanctioned training on this process. I’m still opting to sneak toilet paper into the room with me. Please don’t judge me. It’s one little familiar way of life I’m choosing to hold on to (when I can) and also proves useful in swatting the flies away while I’m in there.

The toilet, in all it's glory.

Peace Corps toilet training.

My Batesville Bathroom.

To put things in perspective, I've added a photo of the bathroom renovation I had done at my home in Batesville just weeks before I left. Ahh! What I'd give for a soak in my clawfoot tub.

Les Douches

Showering in Senegal also proves to be a challenging experience. Basically, we take bucket baths, and because of the heat, we do this several times a day. The “douche” is strikingly similar to the toilet in appearance: basic hole in the ground, surrounded by tile slanted towards the drain, and a bucket of water sitting next to it. My douche also contains a very suspect looking but extremely useful plastic box upon which one can sit while scrubbing up and rinsing off. One bucket of water is generally enough for cleansing, shampooing, and even brushing one’s teeth. I often share my bathing experience with a giant palmetto bug or two. They enjoy rubbing their antennae together and making clicking sounds at me and, on occasion, are curious enough about what goes down the drain to run over, get real close, and check it out.

The shower with it's suspect "seat"

Mon petit voyeur

Fatou and the Bride (on right)Le Mariage

Okay, so I feel the need to counterbalance this discussion of basic hygiene with a little socio-cultural lesson. Last week, my fellow trainees and I were invited to attend une fête du mariage (a wedding party ) dans le quartier (in our neighborhood ). My fellow trainee, Kelsey ,and I got decked out in our new complets (traditional and colorful two-piece dresses) and were accompanied by our classmates, Chris and Phil who picked us up at Keley’s host-family’s house where lots of pictures were taken, frighteningly reminiscent of prom-night. The bride is a friend of Kelsey’s host-sister and her family had been involved in party preparation for days leading up to the event. The wedding itself took place at the mosque next to my house earlier in the day and neither the bride or groom where present. Apparently, this is common in Muslim weddings. The Marabou and male congregation are joined by the parents of the bride and the parents of the groom to seal the deal and pray for the new couple. Afterwards, a party for the bride is held at the bride’s parents house with only their friends, family, and neighbors. When we arrived, we were introduced by the family as “the American delegation”, which amused us all. The groom was nowhere to be found (also common) and, in fact, is not even due to come pick up his new bride for another two weeks, once Ramadan has ended. The bride’s fête was a quiet affair, no music or dancing (also because of Ramadan) and was centered around having pictures taken with the bride and everyone breaking fast together. We ate dates and beignets (little donut holes), drank coffee and ginger juice, and shared platters of chicken and onions. Large mats where spread out on the sandy soil for all of the attendees (with the exception of the American delegation) to pray together, which was an impressive site. We’ve been invited back to the official reception (where the groom will finally make an appearance) on September 18th. This is when the husband comes to claim his wife and pay “le dot” (his dowry). According to our teacher Sakhir, it can sometimes take a year or more for a husband to gather the money/gifts needed to claim his wife and/or to make proper accommodations at his family’s home for her and, until that time, they live apart. It’s a very rare occasion that a husband doesn’t bring his wife home to live with his family and for their children not to be raised there. Because of this, and because polygamy is legal and common here, Senegalese households can get extremely large, sometimes 30-40 people all living together in a family compound. I’ll save the topic of polygamy for another blog entry.

The American Delegation

The womenfolk at the wedding party

List of Vaccines Received to Live in Senegal:

PolioMumps/Measles RubellaYellow FeverTyphoidMeningistisRabies x 3Hepititis A x 2Hepititis B x 2Flu/Swine FluDaily Malaria prophylaxis

Back seat of the Sept-Place

On the way to TivouaneLast Monday, after just 5 days at our Training Center in Thiès, we were released into the wild and sent to our first home-stay villages. Thanks to a renewed

interest in the Peace Corps and a grant from USAID, we are the largest Peace Corps Training group that has been to Senegal, since it's work began here in 1963. We total 64, of which 21 of us are in the Small Enterprise Development (SED) Group. During our first few days at the training center, we were assessed and divided into small groups based on our language and technical abilities and then were sent to host-villages within an hours drive of Thiès for language and cultural immersion. My group is small, just 3 other trainees and a Language/Cultural Facilitator. We live in a medium size town, called Tivouane, just 24K north of Thiès. To get there we took a Sept-Place, a beat-up old Peugeot taxi that holds 7 passenger + the driver. I was dropped off at the door of the Touré home. It’s taken me a full-week to figure out the structure of my host-family, which I will explain below, however, it became clear from the first moments I was there that my main family contact would be Cheikh Mbacké, my twelve year old “brother”, as he’s the only one in the family who speaks French with any confidence (and confidence he is not lacking!). The rest of the family, all nine of them, speak only Wolof. As the Sept-Place drove off with my colleagues and trainer, I felt as if I had been left on another planet. Back at the Training Center, we were pretty isolated from our surroundings and, although in the company of folks we’d just met, we at least had a lot in common. The Training Center was kind of like summer camp: shared rooms, group meals; scheduled classes; communal bathrooms, etc. The home-stay experience was completely different. We were suddenly plunged into an existing family structure, very clearly as outsiders who had no idea how to do even the simplest things. We are like children once again. I had to be shown how to use the toilet, how to bathe, how to eat, and how and where to sit down, and when we can leave the house. The Peace Corps had done a pretty good job of preparing us for this culture change and our L/C Facilitator is in the same village to help and support us, but there’s nothing like just being plopped amidst a new family in a foreign land, where everything around you is different from the norm.

My family consists of 4 adult siblings, one wife, and 5 children. Only one of the adults is male and he owns a “boutique” (a small metal shed on the side of the road that sells basic necessities, like small packets of margarine, sugar, and laundry detergent). He’s at work most of his waking hours, but his wife is home with us and very much apart of our daily life. The other adults are all sisters and unmarried. The oldest of the sisters is a “little person” (I think that’s the PC word for munchkin, right?), so that’s different. The next oldest is my “mother”, Bousou, who is just 3 years older than me. She seems to take in all sorts of stray children, like Cheikh the orphaned son of her friend, and Arram, a neighborhood girl who works and also lives in the house. The youngest of the siblings, who’s just 25 is in charge of caring for another sister’s two children while they are on break from school.

Bébé Maty

Seynabou and Arram sportin' their new bou-bous

My room in Tivouane

Since we're in the middle of Ramadan, home life for my family is a bit lazy. Not eating or drinking all day in the African summer heat leads to a lot of napping. This napping takes place on mats in the courtyard or on the vinyl-covered floor in the “napping room”. This room is the only room, aside from my family's bedrooms that contains furniture (like a real couch and chairs) but it is never used. People just seem to go in there and lie on the floor, sometimes all of them at once.

Ramadan brings with it many other interesting daily activities including, loud chanting from a loudspeaker at the mosque outside my bedroom window from 4-5am, followed by the family getting up to eat breakfast before dawn. People walk around at a snail’s pace because they’re refraining from eating or drinking from sunup to sundown and don’t want to exert too much energy. The loudspeaker chanting also carries on at other specific times throughout the day, from cars with speakers strapped to their roofs. There’s also a lot of spitting that goes on because apparently swallowing your own saliva counts as eating. If for some reason you forget that it’s Ramadan and accidentally eat something, swallow large amounts of spit, and/or, Allah-forgive, vomit during the day (also strangely considered eating??--go figure) then you must pay this day back by fasting for an additional day after Ramadan has ended.

Finally, at about 7pm, the family breaks fast together and eats dates and bread with a thin layer of margarine and spicy tuna, and drinks café touba, which is a finely ground coffee containing cloves, cinnamon and about a pound of sugar. This activity takes place as a group on a mat outside in the courtyard while watching TV: first a Muslim prayer session, followed by a half hour Wolof comedy show, and then a really bad Indian soap opera dubbed in French. Dinner is served at about 9pm on a big communal platter that usually consists of a layer of rice topped with a whole stewed fish and several vegetables in a yummy sauce. Dinner varies slightly depending on how the rice is prepared and what type of sauce is used, but the vegetables stay the same from night to night: eggplant, cabbage, carrot, okra, potato, manioc root, and radish. We kneel on the ground around the platter and eat together. There is grand protocol regarding eating here which was quite stressful for all the trainees until we’d done it enough to begin to feel comfortable. We actually had Peace Corps training for this. My "mother" tells me where at the platter to sit. I’m not sure if I’m being place with regard to proximity to some specific food or to some person, so I usually wait for her to tell me. Most of us eat with a large spoon, but my “mother” and my “uncle’s” wife eat with their hand (just the right hand--never the left, but I’ll leave that to another blog entry devoted to toilet protocol.). The women who eat with their hand ball up a small amount of rice with a piece of veggie or fish. They, squeeze out the oil, and pop lick it off their hand. Then they pick off bits of fish or veggies for others sitting at the platter and toss pieces into their eating area. This is generally done for the young children and to me and is the equivalent of cutting up a child’s piece of meat for them. Everyone has a designated eating area on the platter, basically the hand-sized space directly in front of them and it is impolite to reach into someone else’s area for a piece of food. Instead, the big food pieces are tossed back to the center when people have taken off a small piece for themselves. It’s important that the small piece is first placed on the platter in your eating area before you can pick it up and eat it. Taking it straight from the center of the platter to your mouth is rude. Burping loudly while eating, however, is not, and is it is common to hear a belch or two while we eat. I try not to laugh at this, because no one else does. Not to say that dinner isn’t fun. There’s a lot of laughter that goes on, the joking is mostly in Wolof, and I think mostly directly at me, but I’ve learned to just laugh along with them. Whatever the crazy-haired Toubac (common slang for white person) at the platter did probably was funny and I’ll learn why later.

My language and culture classes have been great. It’s amazing how much we’re learned in just one week. The Peace Corps really has an impressive adult-learning program and they have many Senegalese staff-members who’ve been working with them for 10+ years. We have language class every morning from 9am - 1pm (or so), then break for lunch, napping, and homework until 4pm, then return for 2 ½ hours of cultural training. Our classes are usually held at one of two of our host-family homes (the ones who have covered courtyards (aka shade), furniture, and space for us to gather.) Our small class size is nice yet because we're usually in someone's home, we often are interrupted by someone’s little brother or sister who comes over to greet us (greeting is also worthy of it’s own blog entry, so more to come on that later).

We arrived back at the Training Center yesterday afternoon, after having been away a week, and it suddenly seemed so luxurious. Chairs to sit on, cold water that has already been filtered, real showers, wi-fi, and fruit. Many of the Agriculture trainees who are living in smaller villages had less protein then we SEDers did, so we were served a dinner of beef and beans to pump up our protein intake. We also had fresh salad greens and veggies, which we’ve all begun to miss. Before dinner, many of us ventured into town for a cold beer which was a great way to catch up with one another.

List of My Most Prized Possessions Thus Far:

Eventail (woven hand-held fan sold at the markets), used for swatting away flies and creating a small breeze during classOscillating fan, purchased with great fanfare (pun intended) over a 4-day periodFrench press and ground coffee brought from home, and enjoyed every morning “sans sucre”Shower-to-Shower body powder (applied several times a day)PC-supplied 3 gallon ceramic water filtration systemMosquito repellent, mosquito incense coils, mosquito netFrench-English dictionaryBar of anti-bacterial soapQuick-dry camping towelSo happy about my new fan (and my water filter behind me on the left)

My "brother" Cheikh, who tirelessly helped procure my fan

Thank you to the many wonderful friends and family members who joined me for my Bon Voyage Party and to Michael A., Krista, and Brett for planning and hosting it. I felt very loved and appreciated ;-) Also a big call out to Michael H. and Brynne who helped with the party prep and next day packing. You guys rocked!

[This is where a picture of the party would be, but I managed to lose my camera there, so alas, no pictures. After much searching for it, to no avail, my sweet Dad went out and bought me a new one for the trip.]

Brett, Mom, Dad, and I finished our marathon house packing ordeal at 7pm on Sunday Aug 8th. Mom and Dad, although spent and exhausted, immediately got in the car to head back home and Brett and I took the last load to my storage unit and locked the door for the final time. Whew! Can't say I'm looking forward to opening that door upon my return.

My empty houseWow, that's a lot of stuff!

I drove to DC first thing Monday morning for our afternoon Staging event where I met the 63 other Peace Corps Trainees (PCTs) who would be joining me in Senegal. There, we got an introduction to what the weeks ahead would bring. Mom and Dad were able to join me for a final dinner that night and the Tuesday morning the group loaded up on two charter buses and headed over to the Dept. of Health and Human Services for Yellow Fever vaccinations and one last look at our nation's capital. From there we went straight to Dulles Airport and made it through check-in and security without issue.

Goodbye Mr. PresidentUnloading at DullesWelcome to Senegal

Our flight to Senegal was direct and took just under 8 hours. We arrived in Dakar before dawn and were met by our Country Director, a few PC staff members, and some very excited current Peace Corps Volunteers (PCVs) who had been so looking forward to our arrival that they woke up in the dark to meet us. We loaded up in land rovers and vans and made a two hour convoy to our training facility in Thiès, which is a gated compound filled with classrooms, dormitories, and various multipurpose huts.

We were welcomed there by drummers and dancers who also double as our training facility staff. It was such a festive moment and quite an emotional experience after such a long journey. After a couple of hours of much-welcomed rest, we were served a tasty lunch in the traditional Senegalese manner, i.e., big round platters of food served atop mats on the floor around which 5 or 6 of us sit and eat with spoons. This first lunch consisted of fried rice with stewed beef, vegetables, and an amazingly flavorful sauce. Other foods we've enjoyed thus far include, seasoned pasta with grated cheese and a salad, herb-stuffed fish served atop fried rice and accompanied by root vegetables, bitter tomatoes, and cabbage smothered in a tamarind-based sauce, and garlic-grilled chicken and potatoes with shredded carrots, cucumbers, and mustard vinaigrette on the side. Not bad for African hut food, eh? All of the current PCVs attest to the fact that the food we'll experience outside of our training facility is equally amazing.

The Lunch HutDrummersDancers

According to our Training Director, this first week is referred to as Week Zero, as we don't get into the meat of our training until next week. Our first 5 days are filled with basic cross-culture orientation, language and skills evaluations, safety and health training, and vaccinations. On Monday we leave the compound and are assigned to home-stay families fairly close to Thiès, where we will receive the bulk of our language and cross-cultural training in small groups, returning periodically to the training center for group sessions. I'll be focusing on French training during this time and trying to get to an intermediate level by Week 10. Sounds like last summer's Spanish immersion all over again. If successful, I'll be inducted into the Peace Corps at the home of the US Ambassador on October 15th.

Last night began the month of Ramandan, so 94% of the population will be fasting (no food nor water) between sunrise and sunset. This will make our home-stay situation a little interesting, as our families will be making and serving us food while they're fasting. Five times a day, we hear the call to pray from the nearby mosque--it's a haunting sound. I look forward to learning more about this culture.

Random things I learned today:

I will be adding bleach to my filtered water to keep from getting water-borne illnesses Regardless of the bleach, I should expect to have diarrhea a lot during my 27 month stay here and should just get zen with that. Walking around with a stick in your mouth (used for cleaning your teeth) is considered an object of beauty.It costs just 23¢/min for anyone in the US to call my cell phone using Skype (in case you feel so inclined, my number is (221) 77 673 0064). The median age of Senegalese people is 18.7 yrs old and the median age of my fellow PCTs is 24, needless to say, I'm feeling a bit, shall we say, “wise”. Most cows have TB so raw milk is out of the question. The current exchange rate is 1$US:512CFA (Senegalese African Franc). To put the cost of things in perspective, it costs about 350CFA for a soda and about 100CFA for me to text you. Although the mosquito net is effective in keeping mosquitoes out, it keeps all the steamy heat in, so sleeping has been a bit of a challenge.First Letter From HomeReceiving letters will bring great joy, as evidenced by my new friend Garrison

My interest in the Peace Corps started in the early 1970's when my Godmother and her family moved to Kenya to begin their Peace Corps service. Letters and stories traveled across the Atlantic and piqued an early interest in the world around me. I've always enjoyed learning about new cultures and, throughout my life, have jumped at any opportunity to travel the globe. Now in mid-life, I find myself at a crossroads, having left one career and not yet ready to start the next. This seems like the perfect time to venture into the unknown, leave my comfort zone, and explore my innate capabilities.

I leave August 9th (2010) for a one day training event in DC and then am off to Senegal on the 10th. For the first 10 weeks or so, I'll be living with a host family in the city of Thiès (pronounced Chess) and participating in training classes 6 days a week. Training will consist language courses (both French and Wolof), health and safety classes, and an overview of applicable business skills. After that, an evaluation will take place and with any luck I'll be inducted as a Peace Corps Volunteer and assigned a post in one of Senegal's 11 regions. My assignment will be in Small Enterprise Development or Eco-Tourism, both of which sound really exciting and challenging.

For those who care to track my adventure and read about my experiences, check back often and/or sign up (below) to receive my posts by email.

Embarking on this journey would not be possible without the support of my extended family and the encouragement of my friends. I am especially grateful to my parents who worked tirelessly the month before my departure to run needed errands and purchase miscellaneous necessities, to my dear friend Scot and his family who will be providing a caring home for my dogs while I'm gone, and to Brett, my partner and best friend, who has selflessly allowed me the time and space to venture forth to explore this unknown path. You all mean the world to me.