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
Friday, March 19, 2010
Paperasse
Taking cues from its former colonial power, Senegal has in place a bureaucracy almost as asinine as the one I encountered in France. No surprise. But here, insisting on the formal where the informal reigns is futile. And so getting my residence permit renewed in Senegal was in no way like the organized, if complicated and unending process of doing the same in France.
Here’s how it went:
March 10:
PCVs receive a text message reminding us to renew res permits. For my stage, expiration dates are coming up; get on that.
March 14:
Deciding to head to Kaolack to get this out of the way, I make the mistake of sleeping in on a travel day. I’m rewarded with 6 hours of crowded, squishy transportation during the hottest part of the day. And my first bus broke down twice en route.
Why Kaolack? I’ve been informed that the office in my region’s capital hasn’t opened yet – no further explanation. And Dakar is a more expensive trip.
March 14, p.m.:
Upon arriving at the PC regional house, I’m told by 3 other volunteers that I am doomed to fail. The guy who signs off res permits is a dick; he won’t do it before the actual expiration date. And no one knows where the office is anyway, not even the PCV (M~) who lives in Kaolack.
March 15:
Tempting fate (my permit expires the 22nd), I head downtown to find this mysterious office and confront the evil troll guarding my legal status to be in this country.
M~ and I navigate trash heaps and construction pits before stumbling into a jail – no joke – which we then realize is exactly the building we need. We run as fast as we can past the incarceration area to an admin doorway. There, we find the Troll quite literally guarding the hallway.
I explain my quest, wave my soon (so soon!) to expire permit in his face, and get hit with the verbal equivalent of a cascade of arrows: each tip a sharp Wolof phrase insisting the renewal can’t and won’t be done before March 22.
Smiling, I pull out my two secret weapons: infinite patience (public transportation in a developing country requires it) … and a hand-written note to the Kaolack commissaire from my counterpart.
Residence permits can’t be renewed until the very day they expire?
“I understand, really, I do,” said in every language I know. “But can I please just speak with Mr. Fall for a moment, briefly, just to say hello? You see this note with Mr. Fall’s name and phone number? My counterpart will be furious if I don’t. Just to say hi. Salutations only, I swear. Nuyoo rekk.”
Eventually the Troll, weakened by my insistence on saying hello in a country where greetings are so important, caved. I was shown to Mr. Fall’s office where, a moment of name-and-note-dropping later, I found myself waiting while he went back out to smoothly request the Troll’s assistance in such a minor bureaucratic task. Seconds after that, I was in possession of the prized residence permit, renewed to the end of 2010.
I thanked Mr. Fall effusively and quickly snuck out the side door so as not to disgruntle the Troll again.
Just like that. Easy.
Telling this story later to my host-sister E~, she said, “Wow. You’re work like a Senegalese person now.” Yikes. Come December 31, 2010, though, I know how to navigate this bureaucratic mess again. Step 1: head to Dakar…
As an aside, I spent a lovely 36 hours in Kaolack. Post-adventure, M~ and I visited the local artisanal market and spent the rest of the day catching up in a restaurant. Nice.
Here’s how it went:
March 10:
PCVs receive a text message reminding us to renew res permits. For my stage, expiration dates are coming up; get on that.
March 14:
Deciding to head to Kaolack to get this out of the way, I make the mistake of sleeping in on a travel day. I’m rewarded with 6 hours of crowded, squishy transportation during the hottest part of the day. And my first bus broke down twice en route.
Why Kaolack? I’ve been informed that the office in my region’s capital hasn’t opened yet – no further explanation. And Dakar is a more expensive trip.
March 14, p.m.:
Upon arriving at the PC regional house, I’m told by 3 other volunteers that I am doomed to fail. The guy who signs off res permits is a dick; he won’t do it before the actual expiration date. And no one knows where the office is anyway, not even the PCV (M~) who lives in Kaolack.
March 15:
Tempting fate (my permit expires the 22nd), I head downtown to find this mysterious office and confront the evil troll guarding my legal status to be in this country.
M~ and I navigate trash heaps and construction pits before stumbling into a jail – no joke – which we then realize is exactly the building we need. We run as fast as we can past the incarceration area to an admin doorway. There, we find the Troll quite literally guarding the hallway.
I explain my quest, wave my soon (so soon!) to expire permit in his face, and get hit with the verbal equivalent of a cascade of arrows: each tip a sharp Wolof phrase insisting the renewal can’t and won’t be done before March 22.
Smiling, I pull out my two secret weapons: infinite patience (public transportation in a developing country requires it) … and a hand-written note to the Kaolack commissaire from my counterpart.
Residence permits can’t be renewed until the very day they expire?
“I understand, really, I do,” said in every language I know. “But can I please just speak with Mr. Fall for a moment, briefly, just to say hello? You see this note with Mr. Fall’s name and phone number? My counterpart will be furious if I don’t. Just to say hi. Salutations only, I swear. Nuyoo rekk.”
Eventually the Troll, weakened by my insistence on saying hello in a country where greetings are so important, caved. I was shown to Mr. Fall’s office where, a moment of name-and-note-dropping later, I found myself waiting while he went back out to smoothly request the Troll’s assistance in such a minor bureaucratic task. Seconds after that, I was in possession of the prized residence permit, renewed to the end of 2010.
I thanked Mr. Fall effusively and quickly snuck out the side door so as not to disgruntle the Troll again.
Just like that. Easy.
Telling this story later to my host-sister E~, she said, “Wow. You’re work like a Senegalese person now.” Yikes. Come December 31, 2010, though, I know how to navigate this bureaucratic mess again. Step 1: head to Dakar…
As an aside, I spent a lovely 36 hours in Kaolack. Post-adventure, M~ and I visited the local artisanal market and spent the rest of the day catching up in a restaurant. Nice.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
I've gotten good at SST (Senegalese Standard Time)
IST is over and I’ve been back at site for almost a week. I’m once again relieved to be “home,” breathing the clean air (pollution-free, but a little dusty), sleeping in my own bed. There is still some residual motivation and optimism from my training. The sense of overwhelming isolation and simple goddamn heat just knock a lot out of me, but there is work to do!
Anyway, some funny things from the last few days:
I. No matter how right you are, if you are a young, toubab (white) girl, you are always wrong. To get back to site last week, I rented a car with a couple of other volunteers. It’s a much more expensive alternative to public transport; but with a month’s worth of luggage, it was an attractive solution to getting home.
The only problem was that the car’s owner refused to take the route I laid out, swearing the paved road was a safer bet than the red bush-road for the last leg of the trip. Except that I actually live here now and I know that the paved road is a wreck, utterly beat up and potholed. What should be a 25-minute ride takes an hour and a half because the cars are forced to slow down and navigate the trenches. The bush-road, on the other hand, is in fine condition this side of the rainy season.
But having three counts against me (my age, gender and skin color), I couldn’t possibly be right. We took the paved road. The driver, unlike his boss, had never even heard of my port town; would you believe he was asking me, “Are we there yet?” every half hour?! The trip to N~ ultimately took an excruciating 3 hours. And topping off the day’s adventures in transport, I then had to wait 2 hours for the next pirogue. When I bitch about being isolated in spite of being this close to
II. On Saturday I went to buy some milk powder and laundry soap.
En route I
a) scared a donkey (hysterical), and
b) saw a charette with a sign reading “Hitler – Mar Salou – 1933-45” (uncomfortable and weird).
Ah,
Ndambe is a bean dish made with onions and spicy red sauce. Wander around any village or neighborhood any morning of the week and you’ll eventually find at least one woman selling homemade ndambe out of a large, shallow bowl. If you’re lucky, you’ll get your ndambe on tapalapa (village bread, as opposed to industrially produced crap) and the vendor might add in kane (hot sauce) or homemade mayonnaise or hardboiled egg. Some families eat ndambe as an evening meal, over rice or millet couscous, often with bread to ensure that you have an overdose of carbohydrates equal to the unusual quantity of protein in the dish. Ndambe is one of the few tricks of Senegalese cuisine worth bringing home. (We’ve already discussed introducing bean sandwiches to the American breakfast diet; it’s our post-service business plan.)
As ubiquitous as bean sandwich ladies are, my family in ML~ doesn’t eat ndambe –or beans in any form – all that often. So when I saw a plate of beans (black-eyed peas, I think) out in the sun the other day, I got excited. Hoping to subtly relay my enthusiasm through overeager curiosity, I asked E~ why she’d put the beans out in the sun, if that was an integral part of the cooking process.
Well, she replied, she’d been storing those beans just a little too long and des petites bêtes (read: insects) had gone and eaten holes into every last been. Placing the metal plate out in the hot sun forced the bugs to crawl out of the beans and die. A quick look confirmed the fact: tiny black bugs were withering next to the precious black-eyed peas. Seeing my face turn what I can only assume was a disconcerting shade of green, she added, “All good beans have bugs. That’s how you know they’re good.”
…
That night we ate ndambe with shrimp, using tapalapa in lieu of utensils. It was one of the best meals I’ve had in 7 months, petites bêtes notwithstanding.
And here is how wext (dried sea urchin, I think?) is prepared:
Dried, chopped and salted to keep away the flies, on a cinder-block in the middle of the compound.
Monday, February 22, 2010
More training sessions
Today we had a couple of interesting guest presenters: one from the US Foreign Agricultural Service and another from the West African Trade Hub. They talked about exporting to the US and opportunities for volunteers to get involved on the ground, at the local level (like with farmers or something). This was cool because a) it made me optimistic about work possibilities when I get back to my site, and b) it reminds me that there is life after Peace Corps and it doesn't have to involve a boring accountant job or whatever. Hell, I almost applied to a pretty sweet FAS internship back in 2005. [I'm currently playing the "What if...? game in my head.]
But I'm wavering here (between optimism and depression) because the prospect of going back to my site, feeling so goddamn isolated and frustrated and dealing with jerks/creeps and other generally poor work partners, does not inspire the enthusiasm and motivation to go back. Argh. And I'm still really, really tired... which might explain why this post is so uninspired. [I probably stayed up too late watching those HIMYM episodes. ;)]
But I'm wavering here (between optimism and depression) because the prospect of going back to my site, feeling so goddamn isolated and frustrated and dealing with jerks/creeps and other generally poor work partners, does not inspire the enthusiasm and motivation to go back. Argh. And I'm still really, really tired... which might explain why this post is so uninspired. [I probably stayed up too late watching those HIMYM episodes. ;)]
Sunday, February 21, 2010
WAIST+IST = sleepy
Ok, so it's a little unusual that I should be so sleepy right now (it's only 9pm on a lazy Sunday!), but the last two weeks have been exhausting. The All-Volunteer conference in Dakar was very interesting and, more importantly, WAIST (West African Invitational Softball Tournament, read: drunken softball party) was an absolute riot. I'll post some pictures from that part of the week to Picasa.
We've been back in Thies for almost a week now and our training sessions have been going fairly well. Some have been less successful/informative/worthwhile than others. [Note to self: don't try to teach about the importance of intimacy in an adult classroom while you yourself are wearing dark sunglasses and ignoring questions.] A session we had on food security and the process for certifying artisanal food products was fascinating. We learned that only 30% of market transactions here are in the formal sector, so any effort to formalize more of it could be kinda cool. I'm just grateful to finally get some relevant training to take back to my community; hopefully I CAN do something productive in the next 21 months.
And...I'm starting to lose focus (a bed and an episode of How I Met Your Mother are calling me). Anyway, we are staying in the center this weekend instead of our homestays. This morning a whole bunch of us took advantage of the day off to go to a nearby monastery known for its goat cheese. We sat through an exceptionally long Lenten mass and were rewarded with delicious, delicious goat cheese. We all ate too much and were happy happy happy (I swear I'm not just speaking for myself here).
Ok. That's all I can do. Goodnight!
We've been back in Thies for almost a week now and our training sessions have been going fairly well. Some have been less successful/informative/worthwhile than others. [Note to self: don't try to teach about the importance of intimacy in an adult classroom while you yourself are wearing dark sunglasses and ignoring questions.] A session we had on food security and the process for certifying artisanal food products was fascinating. We learned that only 30% of market transactions here are in the formal sector, so any effort to formalize more of it could be kinda cool. I'm just grateful to finally get some relevant training to take back to my community; hopefully I CAN do something productive in the next 21 months.
And...I'm starting to lose focus (a bed and an episode of How I Met Your Mother are calling me). Anyway, we are staying in the center this weekend instead of our homestays. This morning a whole bunch of us took advantage of the day off to go to a nearby monastery known for its goat cheese. We sat through an exceptionally long Lenten mass and were rewarded with delicious, delicious goat cheese. We all ate too much and were happy happy happy (I swear I'm not just speaking for myself here).
Ok. That's all I can do. Goodnight!
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Permagardening
I'm in Thies right now for a few days of Food Security-related Permagarden training. For a SED/Eco-T volunteer, this has actually been loads of fun: a chance to get dirty and green and actually feel productive. If I'm especially motivated, maybe I can take some of this stuff back to my site and start a small garden there. [Ha. You never know...]
There are pictures on Picasa. You can check out the permagarden plot my group prepared today. You can see what happens to a white shirt when you're dumb enough to pick up a sack of charcoal. And you can see just how happy an Eco-T vol can look when she has something to show for the day's work.
Next up: Dakar for the All-Vol conference and some drunken softball playing. Back to Thies next week for the rest of our In-Service training.
There are pictures on Picasa. You can check out the permagarden plot my group prepared today. You can see what happens to a white shirt when you're dumb enough to pick up a sack of charcoal. And you can see just how happy an Eco-T vol can look when she has something to show for the day's work.
Next up: Dakar for the All-Vol conference and some drunken softball playing. Back to Thies next week for the rest of our In-Service training.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Gratitude
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I am so grateful (and lucky!) to have this surrogate family.
:D
I am so grateful (and lucky!) to have this surrogate family.
:D
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
La lutte
January – ‘tis the season for la lutte! That’s a style of traditional Seereer wrestling, and the season is in full force. Every week, the competition is held in a different village. What used to be a weeklong event is now a more modernized, compressed, high-energy weekend with three nights of wrestling. Sunday night is the culmination with the heavyweight finals and the presentation of the champions for the other two weight classes. The lutte was quite possibly the coolest thing I’ve seen in my village so far.
Having suffered through another excruciating hour with my language tutor with only the solace of the excitement to follow, I headed into town to meet E~. I found her at a friend’s house, where the buzz of anticipation was decidedly less high-pitched than I expected. In fact, the women barely seemed to register the loud speaker noise coming from the village square and they were in no hurry to head in that direction. It took the time to make and drink tea (at least an hour) before E~ and I took our leave.
Saturday night was the continuation of the lutte. This time, E~ and I and a bunch of children showed up early, before the lutteurs even, to snag some good seats behind the organizing commission. To our left was a dozen tam-tam drummers; to the right, half a dozen hefty female musicians who spent the night chanting praise-songs of the various wrestlers and notable village-people. The noise levels were beyond intense; the crowd’s reactions to the back-and-forth between the drummers and singers was almost as loud as the music itself. Again, there was some wrestling…which was ever-harder to focus on.
Sunday night was the most anticipated night of the lutte. Even all of the toubab tourists from the campements came, sprinkling the crowd with white and random camera flashes of light. The light- and middle-weight awards were presented, again with lots of praise-chants from those lady singers. And the winners took to dancing outrageously in the center of the tam-tam circle, much to the crowd’s delight.
Africa , right? The Discover Channel has me convinced they materialize from nothing like storm clouds.) E~ yelled for me to get out of the arena, to get away and get safe.
Senegal
Pictures and videos are up on picasa.
Having suffered through another excruciating hour with my language tutor with only the solace of the excitement to follow, I headed into town to meet E~. I found her at a friend’s house, where the buzz of anticipation was decidedly less high-pitched than I expected. In fact, the women barely seemed to register the loud speaker noise coming from the village square and they were in no hurry to head in that direction. It took the time to make and drink tea (at least an hour) before E~ and I took our leave.
Saturday night was the continuation of the lutte. This time, E~ and I and a bunch of children showed up early, before the lutteurs even, to snag some good seats behind the organizing commission. To our left was a dozen tam-tam drummers; to the right, half a dozen hefty female musicians who spent the night chanting praise-songs of the various wrestlers and notable village-people. The noise levels were beyond intense; the crowd’s reactions to the back-and-forth between the drummers and singers was almost as loud as the music itself. Again, there was some wrestling…which was ever-harder to focus on.
Sunday night was the most anticipated night of the lutte. Even all of the toubab tourists from the campements came, sprinkling the crowd with white and random camera flashes of light. The light- and middle-weight awards were presented, again with lots of praise-chants from those lady singers. And the winners took to dancing outrageously in the center of the tam-tam circle, much to the crowd’s delight.
Pictures and videos are up on picasa.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Thanks, Jackie!
My friend Jackie brought this article to my attention. Unfortunately, I'm inclined to agree with most of its conclusions.
http://www.foreignpolicy.com/story/cms.php?story_id=4295&page=0
http://www.foreignpolicy.com/story/cms.php?story_id=4295&page=0
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Another king-sized post, now in 100-calorie portions!
Maybe as I get further into my Peace Corps service, arbitrary time markers will become less important. At some point, I'll probably stop counting months in Africa or weeks since install. Invariably, there will be an inflection point where the end is in sight, when I'll be counting down months, then weeks. (I know at least one volunteer clever enough to have a running count of both time into and time left in service.) But for now, I'm still counting up - and you can expect I'll continue noting those arbitrary time frames. As of this past Thursday, I've been in Senegal for 5 months.
Seereer training
My Seereer crash course was a hit: in 3 days we covered many of the key grammar points my ML~ tutor hadn't yet considered necessary. You know, obscure complex things like conjugation in the future tense. Plus, I got to visit a different corner of the country for a few days and break up the boys' club that was my language group (Byron, Jack, David and our teacher Assan). Someone had to roll her eyes in exasperation when they started fighting with sticks in class. (Seriously.)
Family reunion, Africa-style
Last Saturday I went to a family reunion. True to every stereotype of Africa I've ever heard, kinship is essential here. Childcare, social security, old-age care: extended family and friends (who are probably not-so-distant family anyway) are the providers of all those services; and you can't really rely on the government or private sector if your social circle falls through. People cultivate their family-and-friends network assiduously. It's why greetings are so important; why many Senegalese seem to have impeccable memories of acquaintances they met once twelve years ago; why finding a common relation, no matter how many generations back, is as important in the ritualistic greetings as asking "How's the family?"
It sometimes seems excessive. This family reunion, for instance, was region-wide and open to everyone sharing the maternal lineage Traboor. Not that maternal lineage is something I understand; it's not as simple as finding a common last name (since that'd be the paternal lineage, right?).
My host-father in the village is called Faye, but he's a Traboor through his mother. My host-mom is also a Faye, but she's a Wagadoo through her mom. My host-sister and I got to attend the reunion as children-of-a-Traboor, even though maternally I think we're Wagadoos...Maybe? In any case, we got matching dresses with other children-of-a-Traboor (a different color from the actual Traboor women). There was an extraordinary amount of cooking and food and talking. And, somehow, by the end of the day, a huge regional family rift had been resolved. Neat.
School
My grand plans for having a project to do in January - namely, computer workshops with the teachers at the public school - has been thwarted. Why? The Coupe d'Afrique soccer tournament. According to M.-the-creepy-as-ever-Directeur, until the Africa Cup finishes on January 31, the teachers have to get out early on the days when there is a match; they tack on a token half-hour to make up for lost time on the other days. Who would demand such a disruption to the school calendar? The staff, of course.
Throw in the afternoons off for Friday prayer and there's simply no time for the teachers to learn basic computer skills this month. Without even acknowledging a connection, the directeur launched into a tirade bemoaning Senegal's lack of a meritocracy vis-a-vis the U.S. I could barely hide my frustration.
The tailor
I'm not really big on clothes shopping. Put me in a kitchen store and I might never leave, but fashion has (quite visibly) never been a big concern. Here, though, buying cloth and having it tailored is fun. Yes, so most of the cloth comes in colors that absolutely do NOT compliment pale skin. The prints can be ...creative - who doesn't love wearing a dress plastered in a hundred blue chickens, or dollar signs, or pictures of Jesus? And, honestly, white people look 100% ridiculous in 100% of Senegalese clothing 100% of the time. None of this has stopped me from expanding my Senegalese wardrobe.
Most recently, I bought some fabric in Thies to make another pagne (wrap skirt). [Alyssa, I think they get easier to walk in as the fabric softens.] I decided to take it to Issa, the village tailor who made my stylish family reunion dress (a purple potato sack with arm-holes). In order to avoid being charged a jacked up toubab price, I confirmed with Fa, the woman who rents a room in our house. "He'll probably say 5000 (francs)," she said, "and you negotiate him down to 2000. They're used to people asking for a lowered price, so he'll start high. That's how it works here."
Back in my training village, I'd paid my uncle the tailor 2000 for a pagne - a price I felt must be good and honest since we were family. Now that I'm in a much smaller village, 2000 seemed a decent non-family price, too.
So, off I went to see Issa about a pagne with pockets. Issa doesn't speak much French and I don't speak much Seereer. But prices are usually discussed in French, so with the other pagne as a visual aid, I was sure we'd figure out the transaction. Here's how it went:
Me: Hello. How is the morning? Where is the family? How is the work? How are your kids? (Etc.)
Issa: Hello. It's morning. They are there. Peace only. They are there. Only peace. (Etc.)
Me: I'd like to pay for the potato sack dress. And to make a pagne with pockets like this one.
Issa: With pockets?
Me: Yes, with pockets.
Issa: Like this one?
Me: Yes, exactly like this one.
Issa: The same size?
Me: Yes. You can use the exact same measurements. They are both mine. How much will this cost?
Issa: 500 francs.
(Here my stupidity and failure to listen get in the way. Convinced I am being taken advantage of, I become indignant.)
Me: 5000?! That's expensive! I paid only 2000 for this other one.
Issa: You paid how much? (He is confused.)
Me: 2000. 2000 is good.
Issa: Ok. (Exasperated.) Fine. How about 1000?
...
Me: Wait. Did you say 500?
(Then I realize 1000 is still better than 2000, and I don't have the language skills to backpedal and explain my confusion.)
Me: When will this be ready?
Issa: Tonight.
Having integrated quite well into Senegalese Std Delay Time, I went back the next morning. I paid 1000 for the pagne. As I handed over the money, a woman smirked and gently chided Issa for charging me a toubab price.
Le Serpent Noir
A serpent noir made an appearance in our family compound. Fa and her kids startled it coming in late the other night. Just as I thought I was finally getting comfortable with the threat of cockroaches and mice and other creepy crawlers, now I have to worry about poisonous spitting black snakes that are only active at night and attract to warmth and lights?! Seeing them during the rainy season is apparently common enough to be no big deal; right now, though, it's considered a bad omen. Lovely.
And to end on a positive note...
Someday I'll have to share the hilarious story of the day I was convinced I had malaria for 12 hours...
Seereer training
My Seereer crash course was a hit: in 3 days we covered many of the key grammar points my ML~ tutor hadn't yet considered necessary. You know, obscure complex things like conjugation in the future tense. Plus, I got to visit a different corner of the country for a few days and break up the boys' club that was my language group (Byron, Jack, David and our teacher Assan). Someone had to roll her eyes in exasperation when they started fighting with sticks in class. (Seriously.)
Family reunion, Africa-style
Last Saturday I went to a family reunion. True to every stereotype of Africa I've ever heard, kinship is essential here. Childcare, social security, old-age care: extended family and friends (who are probably not-so-distant family anyway) are the providers of all those services; and you can't really rely on the government or private sector if your social circle falls through. People cultivate their family-and-friends network assiduously. It's why greetings are so important; why many Senegalese seem to have impeccable memories of acquaintances they met once twelve years ago; why finding a common relation, no matter how many generations back, is as important in the ritualistic greetings as asking "How's the family?"
It sometimes seems excessive. This family reunion, for instance, was region-wide and open to everyone sharing the maternal lineage Traboor. Not that maternal lineage is something I understand; it's not as simple as finding a common last name (since that'd be the paternal lineage, right?).
My host-father in the village is called Faye, but he's a Traboor through his mother. My host-mom is also a Faye, but she's a Wagadoo through her mom. My host-sister and I got to attend the reunion as children-of-a-Traboor, even though maternally I think we're Wagadoos...Maybe? In any case, we got matching dresses with other children-of-a-Traboor (a different color from the actual Traboor women). There was an extraordinary amount of cooking and food and talking. And, somehow, by the end of the day, a huge regional family rift had been resolved. Neat.
School
My grand plans for having a project to do in January - namely, computer workshops with the teachers at the public school - has been thwarted. Why? The Coupe d'Afrique soccer tournament. According to M.-the-creepy-as-ever-Directeur, until the Africa Cup finishes on January 31, the teachers have to get out early on the days when there is a match; they tack on a token half-hour to make up for lost time on the other days. Who would demand such a disruption to the school calendar? The staff, of course.
Throw in the afternoons off for Friday prayer and there's simply no time for the teachers to learn basic computer skills this month. Without even acknowledging a connection, the directeur launched into a tirade bemoaning Senegal's lack of a meritocracy vis-a-vis the U.S. I could barely hide my frustration.
The tailor
I'm not really big on clothes shopping. Put me in a kitchen store and I might never leave, but fashion has (quite visibly) never been a big concern. Here, though, buying cloth and having it tailored is fun. Yes, so most of the cloth comes in colors that absolutely do NOT compliment pale skin. The prints can be ...creative - who doesn't love wearing a dress plastered in a hundred blue chickens, or dollar signs, or pictures of Jesus? And, honestly, white people look 100% ridiculous in 100% of Senegalese clothing 100% of the time. None of this has stopped me from expanding my Senegalese wardrobe.
Most recently, I bought some fabric in Thies to make another pagne (wrap skirt). [Alyssa, I think they get easier to walk in as the fabric softens.] I decided to take it to Issa, the village tailor who made my stylish family reunion dress (a purple potato sack with arm-holes). In order to avoid being charged a jacked up toubab price, I confirmed with Fa, the woman who rents a room in our house. "He'll probably say 5000 (francs)," she said, "and you negotiate him down to 2000. They're used to people asking for a lowered price, so he'll start high. That's how it works here."
Back in my training village, I'd paid my uncle the tailor 2000 for a pagne - a price I felt must be good and honest since we were family. Now that I'm in a much smaller village, 2000 seemed a decent non-family price, too.
So, off I went to see Issa about a pagne with pockets. Issa doesn't speak much French and I don't speak much Seereer. But prices are usually discussed in French, so with the other pagne as a visual aid, I was sure we'd figure out the transaction. Here's how it went:
Me: Hello. How is the morning? Where is the family? How is the work? How are your kids? (Etc.)
Issa: Hello. It's morning. They are there. Peace only. They are there. Only peace. (Etc.)
Me: I'd like to pay for the potato sack dress. And to make a pagne with pockets like this one.
Issa: With pockets?
Me: Yes, with pockets.
Issa: Like this one?
Me: Yes, exactly like this one.
Issa: The same size?
Me: Yes. You can use the exact same measurements. They are both mine. How much will this cost?
Issa: 500 francs.
(Here my stupidity and failure to listen get in the way. Convinced I am being taken advantage of, I become indignant.)
Me: 5000?! That's expensive! I paid only 2000 for this other one.
Issa: You paid how much? (He is confused.)
Me: 2000. 2000 is good.
Issa: Ok. (Exasperated.) Fine. How about 1000?
...
Me: Wait. Did you say 500?
(Then I realize 1000 is still better than 2000, and I don't have the language skills to backpedal and explain my confusion.)
Me: When will this be ready?
Issa: Tonight.
Having integrated quite well into Senegalese Std Delay Time, I went back the next morning. I paid 1000 for the pagne. As I handed over the money, a woman smirked and gently chided Issa for charging me a toubab price.
Le Serpent Noir
A serpent noir made an appearance in our family compound. Fa and her kids startled it coming in late the other night. Just as I thought I was finally getting comfortable with the threat of cockroaches and mice and other creepy crawlers, now I have to worry about poisonous spitting black snakes that are only active at night and attract to warmth and lights?! Seeing them during the rainy season is apparently common enough to be no big deal; right now, though, it's considered a bad omen. Lovely.
And to end on a positive note...
Someday I'll have to share the hilarious story of the day I was convinced I had malaria for 12 hours...
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Twenty-ten
Happy belated Hanukkah, Christmas and New Year's to everyone! The last two weeks have been very full and I am only now getting around to writing up a blog.
For Christmas (and more importantly, for my sanity), I went to Dakar and celebrated with my friends. One of the big draws of the regional house there (beyond a washing machine and the hot shower) is the kitchen: there's an oven! We did a lot of cooking and baking (brunch, cinnamon rolls, Mexican, lasagna). And when we were weary of that, we ate out to our hearts' content (Indian, Chinese, fried chicken). Even as SED volunteers with our relatively generous diets, we still crave food variety as soon as we get out of site.
There's no denying that we planned most of our days around food (or grocery shopping), but we also managed to squeeze in some tourist-y activities. Actually, even though Dakar is a big West African capital, there's not a whole lot for a tourist to do; we probably covered the two biggest draws. One afternoon, we took a ferry out to the island of Goree. Goree was the jumping off point for slave ships crossing the Atlantic. It had a very western, colonial feel with the architecture and some beautiful views of Dakar. But the museum at the House of Slaves was unimpressive and we didn't take much away from the visit.
Another day we walked up the hill to the big Dakar lighthouse. It was a gorgeous day and we had a 360' view of Dakar: the PC office, the airport, the hideous new African Renaissance sculpture (look that one up online), downtown, and the expanse of the Atlantic stretching all the way back to the U.S. and home.
Having seen let'sjustsay all Dakar has to offer (we also got ice cream), we took a sept-places ride to Saint Louis. There we met up with about 20 volunteers for the most delicious New Year's barbecue ever (again with the food!), steps away from a wind-swept beach. We sought out and grilled up beef and shrimp kebabs, fresh fish and hamburgers. Someone got bread and cheese and veggies. And then we drank an equally abundant amount before heading to the island of Saint Louis to ring in 2010 at the bars. At the strike of midnight, we were found in a local joint, singing along to a song whose sole lyrics were the oddly repetitive "Bonne annee Africa!" It was an amazing New Year's - not one that's likely to have an equal ever, if only for the fact that it was spent in Senegal.
The only sad thought is that today on the threshold of 2010, I can look ahead and know exactly where I'll be for the entire year. Twenty-ten will be spent fully here, in Africa, barring any hiccups or trips, up until the threshold of 2011. It takes a great deal of the adventure and spontaneity out of the spontaneous adventure that is Peace Corps in Africa. Le sigh.
Anyway, I am once again back in Thies, heading to a 3-day language crash course in a Seereer village with a few other volunteers. I don't have high expectations for what I can learn in three days, but I'm eager to pick up some more grammar to try out on my tutor back in ML~.
Happy 2010!!!
(I'm working on getting pics up from Alyssa's computer... Feel free to check out my friends' blogs, too; they have some good pics when I was too lazy to take out my camera.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
