Apparently I can be sort of productive and wreck havoc on the internet while stuck on my tiny delta island without electricity.
Go to wikitravel (English version) and type in Mar Lodj. Or if you're lazy, click here. You will see my handiwork. All eco-T volunteers in Senegal (11 of us!) have to put a wikitravel site together and then train a local counterpart to do the same in French. It's going to be one hell of a challenge doing the second part with the aforementioned electricity obstacle. Nevertheless, I'm still one of the first to get this English portion done. Go me!
Don't mind any typing errors, missing info or general stylistic blandness. I'm doing the best I can with limited connection time!
PS Anyone feel like visiting me now? B/c according to wikitravel, this Mar Lodj place sounds pretty frickin' amazing.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Creak creak creak
Rusty old blog.
I'm going to recycle a little bit of an email (sorry, Kim!) just to have something to put up here and let you all know that I'm still here, mucking around on my little island (quite literally, in fact, during the rainy season):
Things in Mar Lodj are good. I still haven't found really inspiring or fulfilling work projects, but I'm coming to terms with that aspect of Peace Corps. Not every site has a big, remarkable, scene-changing project. And, I just keep holding on to the thread that even my boss has told me she doesn't expect much to happen in Mar since I'm the first volunteer there; I'm mostly laying the groundwork for future volunteers. It's not comforting, and you can't put that on your resume, but at least I know it's not my failing (a cop out, yes). In the meantime, I'm working with one sand-painter artisan on product development: I'm trying to get him to switch to making greeting cards in addition to his plywood paintings. Ideally, I'll sneak in some lessons on costing and pricing and record-keeping, but that, too, will happen very slowly. Also, I continue to randomly hover around one of the very active women's groups, helping them when I can with minor admin stuff. Plus, I'm helping to put together some marketing material for a big PC-Senegal-wide travel guide book which will target the expat community in Dakar. The idea is to get them out vacationing at sites in Senegal that they might not otherwise consider, but which us volunteers know are awesome and safe and worth visiting. And I help Thomas, my counterpart, with IT stuff whenever he gets confused about transferring photos from his digital camera to his computer. Yes, he's exceptionally hi-tech.
Rainy season clouds
I'm going to recycle a little bit of an email (sorry, Kim!) just to have something to put up here and let you all know that I'm still here, mucking around on my little island (quite literally, in fact, during the rainy season):
Things in Mar Lodj are good. I still haven't found really inspiring or fulfilling work projects, but I'm coming to terms with that aspect of Peace Corps. Not every site has a big, remarkable, scene-changing project. And, I just keep holding on to the thread that even my boss has told me she doesn't expect much to happen in Mar since I'm the first volunteer there; I'm mostly laying the groundwork for future volunteers. It's not comforting, and you can't put that on your resume, but at least I know it's not my failing (a cop out, yes). In the meantime, I'm working with one sand-painter artisan on product development: I'm trying to get him to switch to making greeting cards in addition to his plywood paintings. Ideally, I'll sneak in some lessons on costing and pricing and record-keeping, but that, too, will happen very slowly. Also, I continue to randomly hover around one of the very active women's groups, helping them when I can with minor admin stuff. Plus, I'm helping to put together some marketing material for a big PC-Senegal-wide travel guide book which will target the expat community in Dakar. The idea is to get them out vacationing at sites in Senegal that they might not otherwise consider, but which us volunteers know are awesome and safe and worth visiting. And I help Thomas, my counterpart, with IT stuff whenever he gets confused about transferring photos from his digital camera to his computer. Yes, he's exceptionally hi-tech.
So that's the run down. I still miss home and my family EXCEPTIONALLY. No matter how comfortable I am slowly becoming here, there isn't a single day when I wouldn't rather be back in the States. I know that's not the case for all volunteers - many are quite content in Senegal, to the point of extending their service - but I'm just not in that place. That said, the place where I am is stunningly beautiful and paradisaical and I appreciate that.
Sunset over the mangroves
Rainy season clouds
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
The Middle Ages Want Their Pilgrimage Back; or, Popenguine: Not as Hard as I Thought
I've often thought that religion inspires people to do silly things - things like pilgrimages. It turns out you don't even need religion to do silly things - things like pilgrimages.
A few weeks ago Catholics observed Pentecost. In Senegal, a country which prides itself on religious co-existence, the holiday was observed nationally with government offices closed; otherwise, it was an unremarkable occasion for the country's Muslim majority (95%). For Catholics here, however, Pentecost also marks the time of year when the Black Madonna was spotted in a nature reserve in Popenguine some time back. To recall said sighting, there is a pilgrimage to Popenguine every year at Pentecost. Most pilgrims arrive by car, bus, and taxi from all over the country. When I heard there was an environmentally-friendly option, I jumped at the occasion to integrate with my family/community (Catholic) and to experience whatever the heck made pilgrimages so popular in the Middle Ages.
And then I found out that the environmentally-friendly option was walking and no one in my family was dumb enough or pious enough to sign on for a 30km walk in the middle of the hot season. I am hardly pious (I'm not even Catholic! ...which leaves us with 'dumb'), but by this time I'd already signed up and paid my hefty 4500cfa ($9 to cover a busride to the starting point in Mbour, lunch during the march and dinner after).
Consoled by the assurance of a local "scout" to look over me and accompanied by the youthful brother-and-sister owners (Bernard and Theresa) of a ML campement, I decided to swallow my fear and aversion of strangers, religion and physical activity. Come Saturday, off I went with an early group to Fimela, where we spent the night at the Catholic Mission. Maybe I'm getting crotchety in my old age (upcoming birthday alert!), but it exasperated me that the eventual grouping of some 75 parish high-schoolers refused to get a good night's sleep before a daylong walk. I snuck in about 2 hours before someone woke me up at 4a.m. for a chilly and rather unnecessary bucket bath. We trundled onto the bus for Mbour already exhausted, and I grumpily began to second-guess my "why not?" decision-making.
In Mbour we were dropped off in a sandy soccer field where groups of marchers from all points south and west were congregating. Mbour to Popenguine is ~30km; the slog ahead inspired grim apprehension. The day started off impeccably organized - each parish trickling out on the route at regular intervals, with group leaders heading prayers and discussions.
Once we wound our way out of the city, it took about an hour before the singing and dancing started. The kids in each group picked up whatever they found - used water bottles, empty tomato cans - and drummed along. In spite of the increasingly unfortunate terrain (red dirt paths through dry millet fields and low scrub), the level of enthusiasm jumped as groups competed in volume with the parishes ahead and behind. Not knowing any religious hymns in Seereer or French or Wolof (...or English?), I drummed along and kept track of my sunscreen applications. The "scout" asked me how my morale was every 20 minutes and Theresa was cheery in her religious fervor.
Dance-pilgrimage
There was universal frustration and anger and hunger-induced irritability. Nowhere more so than from Theresa, who was hungry and starting to feel the beginning of a hip cramp. The remarkable organization at the march's debut degenerated into a mob, with each parish shoving to get back on the path toward Popenguine and put this disaster of a lunch(less) break behind them.
Chaos
We found the ML group, collapsed in a heap of red dirt and sweat, and swallowed dinner (which was unremarkable except in the fact that it existed and was on time). I excused myself to meet up with some other PCVs (who had arrived by less environmentally-friendly means).
We spent the rest of the evening drinking palm wine, wandering the market of religious trinkets and souvenirs, and absorbing the atmosphere of a tiny village thronged with pilgrims. We peered in on the evening mass, but checked out the next morning (Pentecost proper) before the main mass of the event. Thirty kilometers was enough of a non-religious religious experience for me.
The pilgrimage was an awesome experience; I've never done anything like it before. Ultimately it wasn't even as difficult as I expected; although, the blisters on my feet lasted 2 weeks and were unbelievably huge. Back in ML, walking to Popenguine has earned me some street cred among the villagers, so blisters were a small price to pay. All in all, a success.
[Oh, but next year, if JazzFest and the Popenguine pilgrimage coincide like they did this time, I'm opting for the former. Doing a pilgrimage twice - that'd just be silly.]
A few weeks ago Catholics observed Pentecost. In Senegal, a country which prides itself on religious co-existence, the holiday was observed nationally with government offices closed; otherwise, it was an unremarkable occasion for the country's Muslim majority (95%). For Catholics here, however, Pentecost also marks the time of year when the Black Madonna was spotted in a nature reserve in Popenguine some time back. To recall said sighting, there is a pilgrimage to Popenguine every year at Pentecost. Most pilgrims arrive by car, bus, and taxi from all over the country. When I heard there was an environmentally-friendly option, I jumped at the occasion to integrate with my family/community (Catholic) and to experience whatever the heck made pilgrimages so popular in the Middle Ages.
And then I found out that the environmentally-friendly option was walking and no one in my family was dumb enough or pious enough to sign on for a 30km walk in the middle of the hot season. I am hardly pious (I'm not even Catholic! ...which leaves us with 'dumb'), but by this time I'd already signed up and paid my hefty 4500cfa ($9 to cover a busride to the starting point in Mbour, lunch during the march and dinner after).
Consoled by the assurance of a local "scout" to look over me and accompanied by the youthful brother-and-sister owners (Bernard and Theresa) of a ML campement, I decided to swallow my fear and aversion of strangers, religion and physical activity. Come Saturday, off I went with an early group to Fimela, where we spent the night at the Catholic Mission. Maybe I'm getting crotchety in my old age (upcoming birthday alert!), but it exasperated me that the eventual grouping of some 75 parish high-schoolers refused to get a good night's sleep before a daylong walk. I snuck in about 2 hours before someone woke me up at 4a.m. for a chilly and rather unnecessary bucket bath. We trundled onto the bus for Mbour already exhausted, and I grumpily began to second-guess my "why not?" decision-making.
Once we wound our way out of the city, it took about an hour before the singing and dancing started. The kids in each group picked up whatever they found - used water bottles, empty tomato cans - and drummed along. In spite of the increasingly unfortunate terrain (red dirt paths through dry millet fields and low scrub), the level of enthusiasm jumped as groups competed in volume with the parishes ahead and behind. Not knowing any religious hymns in Seereer or French or Wolof (...or English?), I drummed along and kept track of my sunscreen applications. The "scout" asked me how my morale was every 20 minutes and Theresa was cheery in her religious fervor.
Dance-pilgrimage
We reached the halfway point around 1:30 and all happily, hungrily collapsed in a rare shaded grove for lunch and a break. We stretched our legs and waited ...and drank some water and waited ...and loosened our shoe-ties and waited. It was a good hour and a half before we realized someone had made a mistake: lunch was not coming. Senegal's track record of logistical planning failures holds.
This is before we knew about lunch
There was universal frustration and anger and hunger-induced irritability. Nowhere more so than from Theresa, who was hungry and starting to feel the beginning of a hip cramp. The remarkable organization at the march's debut degenerated into a mob, with each parish shoving to get back on the path toward Popenguine and put this disaster of a lunch(less) break behind them.
ChaosThe second half of the day was less pleasant. Certain parishes kept up the joyful singing, but ML got split up in the chaos. Theresa and I slowly drifted to the very back of the march as her leg cramped up and kept her from anything more than a limp. When we finally - painfully - climbed the last hill into Popenguine, I could feel the blisters forming; it was already 6p.m.
Still smiling. Just dirtier.
We found the ML group, collapsed in a heap of red dirt and sweat, and swallowed dinner (which was unremarkable except in the fact that it existed and was on time). I excused myself to meet up with some other PCVs (who had arrived by less environmentally-friendly means).
We spent the rest of the evening drinking palm wine, wandering the market of religious trinkets and souvenirs, and absorbing the atmosphere of a tiny village thronged with pilgrims. We peered in on the evening mass, but checked out the next morning (Pentecost proper) before the main mass of the event. Thirty kilometers was enough of a non-religious religious experience for me.
The pilgrimage was an awesome experience; I've never done anything like it before. Ultimately it wasn't even as difficult as I expected; although, the blisters on my feet lasted 2 weeks and were unbelievably huge. Back in ML, walking to Popenguine has earned me some street cred among the villagers, so blisters were a small price to pay. All in all, a success.
[Oh, but next year, if JazzFest and the Popenguine pilgrimage coincide like they did this time, I'm opting for the former. Doing a pilgrimage twice - that'd just be silly.]
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Harmattan was my wrestling nickname
A few months before I came to Senegal, I remember getting very excited (and a little concerned) when NASA's image-of-the-day website featured a satellite picture of West Africa and the Atlantic Ocean. The shot captured just about everything I knew then about Senegal, which is to say its basic geography.
The disconcerting thing was the dirty smudge that showed up on the screen, like a smear of paint dragged from the Sahara out into the royal blue of the Atlantic, shrouding that western tip of the continent where I knew Dakar to be. I science-geeked out over this, the dry hot Harmattan winds carrying sand and dust and dirt from Africa out across the ocean. Sometime back in an environmental science class, I'd learned that it was because of this annual occurrence, which is sometimes strong enough to reach South America, that the rain forests of that continent continue to exist. When the African dirt finally precipitates out of the atmosphere over Brazil, it replenishes and rejuvenates the depleted soils.
But awe gave way to terror when I imagined how that satellite photo would translate on the ground. Even a windstorm in Colorado isn't all that pleasant to breathe in.
So here we are almost a year later, barreling toward the hottest, driest season of the year. I can't say I've experienced Harmattans yet, but it gets plenty windy. The gusts blow in my window screens daily. From the shelter of my room, I watch the wind pushing mini-dunes in the loose sand. A not-so-fine film of dust covers every inch of everything inside, too; sweeping is a Sisyphean task. Dust is in the air, assaulting lungs and leeching every bit of moisture from throats and eyes.
Some days, like today, you can't make out the sun until 9-10a.m. (it rises hours earlier); the haze that veils it reminds me of the fog on a snowy morning back home. It's extremely disorienting.
The sun had come up when I took this...
I should hedge this. It's already May (the Harmattans are a winter phenomenon). If I've survived the worst, perhaps this isn't so bad. The peak of the hot season and the dreaded rainy season are bigger menaces right now. A moment of silent gratitude is in order; island-life imposes a constant humidity on life. Yes, I'll be cursing the skies come mosquito season (er, more-mosquito season), but for now it's a blessing that keeps the dust down (relative to the poor folks farther inland, closer to the source of all this airborn grit).
Nevertheless, the science-geek still thinks it's fucking awesome that you can see this stuff from space. Here are links:
Last June's Nasa pic!
Another cool NASA shot
And wikipedia on Harmattan
The disconcerting thing was the dirty smudge that showed up on the screen, like a smear of paint dragged from the Sahara out into the royal blue of the Atlantic, shrouding that western tip of the continent where I knew Dakar to be. I science-geeked out over this, the dry hot Harmattan winds carrying sand and dust and dirt from Africa out across the ocean. Sometime back in an environmental science class, I'd learned that it was because of this annual occurrence, which is sometimes strong enough to reach South America, that the rain forests of that continent continue to exist. When the African dirt finally precipitates out of the atmosphere over Brazil, it replenishes and rejuvenates the depleted soils.
But awe gave way to terror when I imagined how that satellite photo would translate on the ground. Even a windstorm in Colorado isn't all that pleasant to breathe in.
So here we are almost a year later, barreling toward the hottest, driest season of the year. I can't say I've experienced Harmattans yet, but it gets plenty windy. The gusts blow in my window screens daily. From the shelter of my room, I watch the wind pushing mini-dunes in the loose sand. A not-so-fine film of dust covers every inch of everything inside, too; sweeping is a Sisyphean task. Dust is in the air, assaulting lungs and leeching every bit of moisture from throats and eyes.
Some days, like today, you can't make out the sun until 9-10a.m. (it rises hours earlier); the haze that veils it reminds me of the fog on a snowy morning back home. It's extremely disorienting.
The sun had come up when I took this...
I should hedge this. It's already May (the Harmattans are a winter phenomenon). If I've survived the worst, perhaps this isn't so bad. The peak of the hot season and the dreaded rainy season are bigger menaces right now. A moment of silent gratitude is in order; island-life imposes a constant humidity on life. Yes, I'll be cursing the skies come mosquito season (er, more-mosquito season), but for now it's a blessing that keeps the dust down (relative to the poor folks farther inland, closer to the source of all this airborn grit).
Nevertheless, the science-geek still thinks it's fucking awesome that you can see this stuff from space. Here are links:
Last June's Nasa pic!
Another cool NASA shot
And wikipedia on Harmattan
Monday, April 19, 2010
Well hello!
It's been awhile since I've written here. Contrary to that fraudulent email you may have received, I am not in London where, desperate for funds, I might still be taking advantage of cooler temperatures, electricity and decent internet.
Nope, tempted as I was to take a return flight home with my eema, I'm still in Senegal. And, actually, my mom's visit replenished my hug quota enough to tie me over at least another few weeks. I'll put some pictures from her trip on Picasa eventually so that you can see the wonderful things we did while she was here. Maybe you'll even be inspired to plan your own trip. (Seriously. Come see me. It's only Africa. I need hugs.)
On the work front, things are slowly picking up. More people are starting to talk about doing a waste management project. Starting to talk is not starting to do, but I take what I can get. There's also talk about me tutoring some middle school girls in English (can't shake that damn ling nerdiness) and that might develop into an English club next fall (maybe.) And finally, for shits and giggles, I've offered to paint a mural at the Catholic health post. Oooh, arsty.
And that's about it for now. I'll try to post this week about more interesting goings on.
Nope, tempted as I was to take a return flight home with my eema, I'm still in Senegal. And, actually, my mom's visit replenished my hug quota enough to tie me over at least another few weeks. I'll put some pictures from her trip on Picasa eventually so that you can see the wonderful things we did while she was here. Maybe you'll even be inspired to plan your own trip. (Seriously. Come see me. It's only Africa. I need hugs.)
On the work front, things are slowly picking up. More people are starting to talk about doing a waste management project. Starting to talk is not starting to do, but I take what I can get. There's also talk about me tutoring some middle school girls in English (can't shake that damn ling nerdiness) and that might develop into an English club next fall (maybe.) And finally, for shits and giggles, I've offered to paint a mural at the Catholic health post. Oooh, arsty.
And that's about it for now. I'll try to post this week about more interesting goings on.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
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