Holidays, etc.

Happy Thanksgiving, Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year! I guess it really has been that long since I’ve updated the ol’ blog… but I have some good excuses, which I will now present to you. First up:

This year, instead of doing an American Thanksgiving with my friends at Tamba house, I decided to do “Village Thanksgiving” – which, I’ll be honest, was mostly motivated by “village guilt,” an affliction suffered by most (if not all) Volunteers at some point. I’d been spending a lot of time out of village, working on grants and perfecting my crouton-onion-egg-MSG soup (a delicious invention). So, in order to make myself feel better and also to bring a bit more American culture to Bira (PC Goal #2!), I bought 5 kilos of onions, a kilo of carrots, 3 kilos of potatoes, 3 kilos of rice, and 3 kilos of vermicelli. Back in village, I bought 3 chickens – figured they equaled one turkey – plopped the whole mess in front of my family and said, “Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. It’s like American Tabaski. Please cook all this food.” I even tried to explain the meaning of Thanksgiving – but in Jaxanke, it ended up being something like “So you say ‘thank you’ to Allah for…things…that you like.” “Like vermicelli?” “Uh, yes.”

 The preparation took five hours and was really fun. The whole family was out in the yard, talking, joking, butchering chickens with dull knives, and laughing at me as I tried to dice onions sans cutting board. And it was delicious. True understanding of Thanksgiving aside, my family certainly appreciated the feast, whose likes are seen in village only twice yearly.  You can be sure that they’ve marked “Fete Amerik – when Fanta brings us food” on their mental calendars for next year.

Christmas was spent in Benin, visiting my friend Eric. Since this was my second visit, we decided to dispense with the touristy agenda and just chill – we spent almost the whole time in Parakou, where Eric is now PCVL – Peace Corps Volunteer Leader. Parakou was easy to hang out in for long periods of time. Here’s why: food. Mind-blowing food choices. Also, the Parakou regional house (or work station, in Benin speak) is amazing, and so is Eric’s house.  Needless to say, ten days passed quickly and we bussed down to Cotonou for Christmas day, where we spent the afternoon eating turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, side dishes which were less important to me than turkey, gravy, and mashed potatoes, and dessert at the house of the PC Benin Training Director, who is American. I’ll ignore the food I was able to procure in Benin for long enough to say that it was also very interesting, after nine months of service in Senegal, to compare the two countries – their culture as well as the PC programs. But I’m too lazy to make a list right now. Later, I promise. I left Benin on the 27^th, arriving back in Dakar only one day before…

Becky! Yes, my best friend from America decided that 22 years of friendship means that if one of you lives in a distant, weird country, the other one is morally obligated to visit – or, really, she was just being awesome, as usual, and bought the ticket. We spent a couple days in Dakar in a nice hotel, a Christmas gift from my parents. It was amazing - beautiful construction and rooms, with a rooftop restaurant and bar overlooking the ocean. Traditionally, our New Year’s Eves are pretty low-key, and this one was no exception. We had a picnic in bed while watching some zany French NYE comedy special, then went up to the roof to watch fireworks at midnight. Let me tell you, it was unlike any fireworks show I’ve seen, but it may be my favorite. Since fireworks were being sold everywhere in the street, everyone and their blind old grandmother was snatching them up and setting them off with a passion.  For days, poppers that sounded like gunshots echoed through the city every couple seconds. The second the sun set on the 31^st, the real fireworks started going off sporadically. As we stood on the roof at midnight, we had a 360 degree view of the city, and the amateur but extremely enthusiastic fireworks displays being fired off from every neighborhood, seemingly every street, some of them directly over our heads (and worryingly low). It was a magical cacophony of noise – fireworks exploding city-wide, kids yelling, adults cheering, taxis honking, and every Dakarois dog with a voice barking manically in the streets. Very, very cool.

By now, Becky has seen Dakar, Tamba, and my village. She has survived taxi rides, charette rides, sept place rides, alhum rides, and bike rides. She has survived strange food and pit toilets. She’s a trooper. We’re heading up North again tomorrow with a couple other Volunteers (and one visiting sister) to camp in the little desert of Lampoul and ride camels before Becky heads back home. I’ve made her promise to do a guest blog post about her trip. I think it will be interesting to hear about Senegal from someone with a fresh perspective… as I once had (cue long-suffering sigh) (cue your eye-roll). 

In other news: In the beginning of December I volunteered at an eye clinic run by “Right to Sight and Health,” an organization that sends American eye doctors and nurses to third world countries to do free eye surgeries and train host country doctors at the same time. This one was located in Bakel, in the northern-ish part of the country, and focused on cataract surgeries. I worked for a week in the OR, loved it, and started researching careers in the medical field as soon as I got back to Tamba. My parents have been telling me to look into it for years, but I was never really interested – funny how one week can change your mind.

Also, check out my Appropriate Projects grant! (slight changes have been made since):  http://appropriateprojects.com/node/920

And also the video some of Team Tamba made about the marathon: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ia8xgXyXBo4

‘Til next time – and Happy New Year! 

Yeah! Yeah!

This month, I am prouder than ever to be part of the PC/Senegal/Tambacounda family. Here's why: we're planning a marathon. And not just for "shits and giggles," as my beloved high school rowing coach used to say; we actually aim to do something great for Senegal's girls. The name may not be witty, or an alliteration, but it gets the point across:

(courtesy of Mika, graphic artist extraordinaire)

The idea came from one of my neighbors, Amanda, but our entire region has jumped to help. We're all very excited. I have been set to work writing various explanatory and fundraising emails to PCVs, PC admin, RPCVs, expats, companies, etc. And, of course, you are all cordially invited - to help us fundraise, or to come pound the pavement. What better excuse to visit a country that you, honestly, never really wanted to visit? Here's some incentive: adorable Senegalese babies (definitely), Senegalese food (the good kind), mild verbal abuse (makes you stronger), monkeys (yep), good beer (not really), me (duh), lions (I wish), helping empower Senegalese girls (yeahhh!), getting to boast about your Senegalese marathon experience (we will also have shorter distances, so no excuses). If you do want to make a donation, run (!), or have any questions, feel free to email me - aschier87@gmail.com

For a more thorough explanation, here's a shortish article I wrote for PC/Senegal's website.

Dear PCVs, RPCVs, friends, family, and noble internet passers-by,

Greetings from Tambacounda, Senegal! We are a group of Peace Corps Volunteers with jobs ranging from urban agriculture and preventative health education to small enterprise development. No matter what sector we are assigned to, however, we all want to work in one common area: girls' education and empowerment.

In Senegal, especially in rural areas (where we primarily live and work), girls are often taken out of school at a young age to work in the fields, or marry. They have little say over their futures or the future of their daughters, and the sustainable development work that Peace Corps strives toward is possible only if the women of Senegal can make their voices heard. The best way to empower women is through education, and that is why we are so excited about this opportunity.

Work centering on girls’ education has been a Peace Corps initiative since… well, since the beginning of Peace Corps. However, this time we are planning something different - the first ever Peace Corps-related marathon, to take place in early March. The race will be run in the spirit of continuing girls' education, with emphasis on informing and changing local attitudes and, hopefully, inspiring girls to think of themselves as capable of continuing their studies, having a career, and balancing that with family.

We have been overwhelmed so far with the positive response from our fellow PCVs – not only are they committing themselves to going the distance on foot, they are also asking how they can help us in our awareness and fundraising efforts. However, we need all the help we can get! Even if you aren’t living in Senegal at the moment, and can’t picture yourself flying over to West Africa to run with us, there are ways you can help out from the air-conditioned comfort of your own home, take-out Mexican food and a chai latte close at hand (my current Amerik daydream; don’t judge).

To meet the goals we’ve set for ourselves, to really achieve something special with this marathon, we need donations. PCVs, RPCVs, family, friends, American or Senegalese companies, school clubs, famous celebrities, the guy who goes through your trash every morning – you get the picture. Anyone can lend a hand. Marathon T-shirts are being designed, and will be available for purchase – we’ll let you know when and how. Fundraised money will be used in a couple big areas. One is our Michelle Sylvester Scholarships, in which we reward high-achieving but economically disadvantaged girls with funds to pay for school and supplies, something their families cannot always afford. Another are Peace Corps Senegal’s country-wide girls’ leadership camps, in which girls are able to talk to and learn from successful Senegalese women, think outside the “village box,” and develop their own personal identities, life skills, and self-confidence. Funds will also be used for other GAD (Gender and Development) activities.

This is going to be a game-changer, people. We have high hopes of not only facilitating a successful event this year, but of even making it an annual affair. Girls’ education and empowerment, of all things, deserves a yearly reminder. Join us in making this possible!

Also, find us on facebook! Or, here, I’ll make it easy for you: http://www.facebook.com/senegalrunforeducation

And now, Tamba’s own Amanda Lyon will explain how to make donations:

As of right now, we will be doing everything through the country fund.  Friends and family, American businesses, Senegalese companies, and so on, can donate at:

 https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=685-CFD

From there they click on Donate, which prompts them to fill in their credit card information.  On that page there is a comment section where we would like all donors to comment, "Marathon for Education," so that we will know what funds actually belong to us...whoopee!  PS:  TAX DEDUCTIBLE.

If you have a Senegalese Company or anyone else that cannot donate online or via credit card, they can write Peace Corps Senegal a check.  If you are in this situation contact me because PC is not sure how they want the check addressed thus far.

For comments, questions, concerns, etc. – email us at senegalrunforeducation1@gmail.com

Sincerely,

Team Tamba and the rest of PC/Senegal

Still alive!

Ok. It’s been a while since my last post (as always) and a lot has happened. Actually, that’s a lie. We’re on Africa time. However, enough has happened to merit a blog update.

In mid-September, 8 fellow Tamba Volunteers and I embarked on a 4-day “tourney”. The purpose of this one was to educate villagers about the causes of diarrhea, how to prevent it, and how to treat it. Due to a lack of basic knowledge about proper hygiene and sanitation, diarrhea is extremely common, especially among children. And although it is easily treated, parents often wait so long to take their sick child to the health hut - many times because they cannot or do not want to pay the small fee – that by the time the child IS seen by a health worker, it’s too late. This is actually one of the biggest health-related problems I’ve seen, and it frustrates me beyond belief.

Anyway – three teams of three (each team speaking a different local language, depending on the village) performed educational skits and demonstrations. Using a flavored drink powder, we were able to demonstrate how germs are spread, and the importance of using soap while washing your hands. Once damp, the powder (representing germs) stained a village volunteer’s hand. Shaking hands with others showed how it was passed easily from person to person. And afterwards, the only way to get it off was with soap – water alone didn’t cut it. After that, we showed them how to make ORS – Oral Rehydration Solution – by mixing certain quantities of sugar and salt with clean water, and explained how to use it. Simple, cheap, and enormously effective.

Side note: Every PCV is supplied with ORS in their med kit, and we have a large supply here at the regional house. Great for intestinal distress, also good for quick rehydration after a wild night. It’s said that if your ORS tastes like candy, you know you’re in trouble.

Over the four days, we visited 12 villages, five of which were Jaxanke speaking, including my own. It was a great experience. It gave me some new vocab, more confidence speaking the language, and it allowed me to see friends’ sites, which was really fun. It was also exhausting. The best part, though, has been catching my villagers reciting lines from the skits to each other, or the ORS recipe, or how important soap is – even weeks after the tourney. Talk about a warm, fuzzy feeling. I can’t wait to do another one – we’re thinking family planning would be a good topic (but really, the possibilities are endless – nutrition, malaria, the American boy band phenomenon, etc).

I also just finished a proposal to fund a latrine project in my village. Quite a few people in Bira don’t have access to a pit toilet, which means they’re doing their thing outside, near living and cooking areas. No good, for obvious reasons (see above). So we’re planning on constructing ten new latrines around the outskirts of the community, where most of these bush-poopers (sorry, latrine-deprived) people live. Hopefully this plan goes off without a hitch. That’s too much to hope for, maybe, but this project is meant to gauge the enthusiasm of my community, and single out people who may be good work partners in the future.

Quick story about my dog, whom I haven’t mentioned before: In August, I really wanted a puppy. I bought one off some kids, spur of the moment, in the street for the equivalent of two dollars. I named him Tigo, which means “peanut” in Jaxanke. Tigo was adorable, but quite a handful. When I took him back to Bira, I led him around on a leash for a couple days so he could get his bearings, then set him free. He immediately ran into my host family’s backyard and ate a baby chicken. This is not good, especially in a place where every baby chicken represents possible future food and money. I was mortified. A couple days later, he ate another baby chicken – this time it had pretty much wandered into his vicious, adorable puppy face while Tigo was tied up. Two strikes.  I had to keep him on-leash and under surveillance at all times, which was stressful for both of us, I’m sure. So many other Volunteers have dogs that wander the village happily, managing to avoid killing anything. My only explanation was that since Tigo lived his first 8 weeks in Tamba, perhaps away from small animals, he never learned to leave them alone, as village dogs do. Anyway, after casting about wildly for another solution, my friend Pheobe (my savior) offered to take him. She works with a Master Farmer in a field right outside Tamba. Tigo would have 1,000 square meters of space to roam, and people working there almost all the time to keep him company. And best of all, if any small animals wandered into the field – a demonstration farm, basically – they’d be pests and, therefore, fair game. I’m not sure if Tigo is actually still honing his hunting techniques, but I do know that he is fat, happy, and I had to pull a mango fly larvae out of his tail. You can look it up. Keep in mind that this also afflicts PCVs. Constant vigilance!

Some exciting news: my amazing friend Becky is going to visit me for two weeks right after Christmas! I’m very excited to A) see her, and B) show someone around this country that is now, somehow, my home. Honestly, there are some people to whom I would hesitate to recommend an African trip, but after many travels with her I know she can handle it easily. Maybe there should be a warning on airlines’ websites…

Side effects of prolonged exposure to West Africa may include: excessive use of Imodium, refusal to pay more than 40 cents for a baguette, increased rate of arguing with vendors and taxi drivers, increased incidence of sass (related), redefined definition of ‘shopping,’ ‘heat,’ ‘public transportation,’ and ‘balanced meal,’ sudden desire to spend all your money on fabric, admiration of fake hair and complex cornrows, speaking African French, thinking that African French is what French actually sounds like, decrease in vegetarianism, increase in tolerance for strange meats, increased chance of wearing jelly sandals, intimate knowledge of both tropical afflictions and donkeys’ social habits, thinking SPAM, canned cheese, and fish mash are delicious, strong opinions on international development and NGO work, disdain for money-tossing tourists, indignation when people assume you’re a tourist, increased incidence of hiding money on your person, thinking all of the above is normal, increase of cross-cultural understanding, and of course a huge increase in BADASSNESS.

Til next time!

Cultural Lessons

August is Ramadan, the Muslim holy month. The faithful fast completely from sunrise to sundown – that means no food, no water. They are also supposed to abstain from any other practices that may distract them from worship – nothing pleasurable, basically.  Children are excused from fasting, as are pregnant and breastfeeding women (though many times they do, despite our pleas to think of their babies’ health), as well as the very old or sick. What about Peace Corps Volunteers? Our host villages’ opinions seem to vary, from what I’ve heard. Some of us were told “you must fast!” and others, “why would you fast? You aren’t Muslim.”  Ultimately, of course, it was an individual choice – it’s easy to stock up on “Ramadan food” and retire stealthily to your hut to snack. I did a bit of everything. For a couple days, I breakfasted with my host family at 5 a.m. on bread and coffee, then didn’t eat again until 7:30 p.m. For most of the time, I ate my own breakfast later in the morning, then waited again until sundown. Some days, I did snack around lunchtime. For a couple days at the end of the month, I fasted out of necessity – I ran out of money to buy food! But I always drank water. I wasn’t prepared for that extreme (and unwise) of a discomfort; also, we’d had a discussion about kidney stones during PST that left me with a healthy regard for proper hydration.

How did my village cope during Ramadan? Everyone still worked in the fields in the morning, but by 11 or noon they were all back, lounging in the shade, napping or doing small chores. The kids, (unfortunately) fully fueled, ran screaming circles around their exhausted and grumpy older relatives. Come evening, everyone waited for the call from the mosque, the sign that one more day’s deprivation was behind them. We all broke fast with mono, or monoo, or whatever (Jaxanke isn’t a written language, so I get to invent spellings) It’s a type of weird porridge – their customary breakfast – made with flour, water, and sugar. Easy on the stomach. Later on, a proper dinner was also consumed. My counterpart liked to tell me how he would get up each morning at 2 a.m. to eat more. He was also very fond of shouting at a daughter to bring him water, gulping the entire liter-size cup in one go (reminded me of my brother drinking milk as a child) then setting the cup down with loud emphasis and proudly telling me with his fingers how many liters he’d downed so far that evening.

As for me, I learned that not eating for 14 hours is hard, but doable. Sure, by 7:30 I was listening as hard as everyone else for the mosque’s permission, but I discovered that (temporary) hunger itself is – I don’t really know how to put it – not so dire. While after 8 hours back in the States I would have probably declared that I was “starvinggggg” and gone to the fridge, here that milestone passed without me really acknowledging it, and I went about another 6 hours or so without suffering too much. Of course, the fact that eating was simply not an option probably had something to do with my mental (and physical?) fortitude. Nevertheless: on August 30^th at around 7 p.m., the slightest slice of a moon was sighted over the village, a drum was sounded, and everyone was suddenly very happy. Ramadan was over! It took me a while to actually locate the moon myself, and my family made sure that I saw it with my own eyes before they let me alone – after all, if the moon hadn’t been sighted that night, there would have been another day of fasting. Thank God it was a clear night. “Tomorrow, eat only! Eat and drink only!” my host mothers gleefully told me.

Korite is the day following Ramadan. Every woman undid their cornrows and then had them rebraided, some with luxurious fake extensions. Littler girls had so much black yarn weaved into their short braids that after everything was done it looked like life-size dolls come alive were running around the compound. The women bent over their cooking fires all day, and the food was delicious – bread and sweet potatoes and macaroni and onions and meat. The cow they had killed, distributed, and cooked several days prior, so the meat was tough, but meat is so rare in my village (despite the feeling that I’m living in a petting zoo) that it was indeed a joyful holiday. I privately dreamed of my dad’s barbequed tri-tip. In the afternoon packs of kids roamed around the village, dressed to the nines in brand new clothes and, in the girls’ case, makeup, glitter, and sassy attitudes. The women looked stately and beautiful in their new complets and braids, while I just looked like I was at a questionable costume party. Yes, I did wear a traditional outfit and let them cornrow my hair. I’d had one previous traumatic experience with this, at the hands of a sadistic teenager, and it took many, many assurances of painlessness for me to submit again. But it was fine. I guess my own host sister doesn’t feel the need to test the limits of my pain tolerance. While this was going on, girls kept coming up to stroke my hair, so different from their own.  Later in the night, there was music and dancing. I went to bed at 9:30, a good hour past my usual bedtime. Impressed? I was.  

In other news…

A girl died a couple days ago. This isn’t big news in itself; at least two or three children have died in my village since May, but this was the first death that exposed me to the rural Senegalese attitudes about it. She lived in the house directly across from my hut, so ever since I installed she’d been, along with the other 17 kids, a daily fixture in my compound. She was one of my favorites – three or four years old, the smaller of a pair of twins, very quiet and shy. I was just starting to make social inroads with her; she liked high-fives.

At 5:30 one morning, I woke to the sounds of crying. It sounded like one woman, and one older child. The crying sounded anguished, and it scared me. I’ve never witnessed a grown Senegalese woman expressing grief before. I lay in the dark, eyes wide open, wondering if someone had really died. I’d heard that the women set up an eerie wailing in the occasion of a death, but this sounded like natural, bitter grieving. No wailing. The sounds died down soon after, and I went back to sleep, thinking that for a death there probably would have been more commotion.

Later, ducking out of my hut, everything looked normal except for a couple extra people sitting silently outside the house. I walked the 20 yards to my host family’s door. “The girl died this morning,” my counterpart told me. The verb one uses is “xa ban,” which is also used in the context of “There’s no more water” or “The water is finished.” “Jio banta.” Who? I asked. “The twin, the small twin.” Why? “She was sick,” with a shrug. Did they take her to the health post? “Yes, but the doctor was not there.” I’m going for a walk. “But nobody is going to the fields today!” I’m still going for a walk.

A surreal experience. Not twelve hours before her death, I’d seen the girl sitting on the concrete bed outside with her siblings and neighbors, swinging her legs and eating with great relish a bit of meat. She looked like herself – quiet, but very much alive. What sickness killed her? Malaria? Some random fever? I’ll never know. When I got back from my walk, a man was carrying the tiny body out of the compound, wrapped in a mat, the father and a couple other men in tow. A little while later they returned, mat empty, and women started filing by to greet and console the mother. By midday everything seemed back to normal. The women joked and laughed and did their chores. The father fanned himself and greeted passers-by. The lone twin came over to play with the other kids, smiling and chewing on some meat. Is she too young to understand what had happened to her sister? Business as usual. The only sign that a child had died that morning was the sadness of her mother, imperfectly concealed. Dry-eyed most of the day, in the afternoon she briefly lost her composure and was quickly escorted, sobbing, into the house. I asked my counterpart why nobody was crying. “They did cry, at 5 a.m.” 5 a.m. only! “Well, 5 to maybe 6 a.m.” In America, when a child dies, everyone cries for a long time. “But it is because God wills it! If the mother cries, everyone says, shush! Calm down! It is God’s will” It’s because God wills it, or because the only doctor skipped town?

This is just one more incident in a long string of incidents and conversations that frustrates me beyond belief about A) the medical care available, and mostly B) the Senegalese attitude towards seeking care. It’s too big of a subject, and I have way too much to say, to include it in this post. I tend to get exasperated and angry just thinking about it. So, I’ll deal with it later.

Also, for those of you who are wondering when I’m going to do some “actual” work: coming up soon, I promise. 

America, Senegal

I love your dress! Where’d you get it?

I love your dress! Which tailor did you use?

I’m kinda craving M&Ms. I think I’ll drag myself to the store.

My mom is sending me M&Ms in a package in a couple weeks… BEGIN THE COUNTDOWN!

It’s 100 degrees today? WHY GOD, WHY?

100 degrees today? Thank God.

I mean, that’s pretty expensive for a cup of coffee, but okay.

WHAT? You’re giving me the white person price. PREPARE TO FIGHT.

I’ve worn this shirt twice. I should probably throw it in the wash.

I can’t really smell this shirt when held at arm’s length. All good!

I can see your butt in that skirt. Scandalous!

I can see your knees in that skirt… you may be a prostitute.

This taxi looks dirty. Gross.

I can’t see the road through the bottom of this taxi! Fancy.

She killed a chicken?!  Awwww, poor thing.

She killed a chicken? Delicious!

Look at the cute fluffy sheep!

Can someone please eat this mangy loud annoying animal already?

Put on your shoes. Your feet are getting dirty.

Put on your shoes. You’re getting parasites.

OMGOMGOMG he proposed!

You’re proposing again? For the fifth time this week, NO.

The mosquitoes here are killer, man.

The mosquitoes here will literally kill you.

There’s a cockroach in my bathroom! Call the exterminators!

If you shine your headlamp at the cockroaches that live inside your pit toilet, they’ll usually stay away from your feet while you’re using it.

Don’t walk alone after dark. You never know what creeps are lurking out there.

Don’t walk alone after dark. You never know what creeps or hyenas are lurking out there.

My puppy ate my shoes.

Rats ate my shoes.

There’s only rice here… where’s the chow mein?

Plain rice again? Lame.

The garbage trucks woke me up soooo early this morning.

I was woken by roosters, then the call to prayer, then donkeys fighting.

She got married at 20? That’s way too young.

She got married at 20? I’m so glad she could wait!

Let’s have a wine and cheese party!

Someone got Cheez Whiz in a package. PARTY TIME.

This rain is making traffic pretty bad.

This rain prevents me from leaving my village.

Ewwww, why do I have a rash? Google it!

You don’t have staph yet? How’d you manage that?

Hitting children is wrong, so wrong, totally morally inexcusable.

…Undecided.  (just kidding!...)

Village life

Imagine yourself in a rural Senegalese village. It’s 3 p.m., the hottest part of the day, and the family is hanging out in the shade, both adults and kids relaxing in a sweaty, post-lunch haze. The women and girls are busily cracking peanuts (all day, every day) and, being a girl yourself, you’re helping out. You’ve become rather good at it, actually, which is probably not a cause for celebration, but it helps pass the time. The man of the house is lounging in one of the only plastic chairs, fanning himself. He takes a handful of peanuts, and for a second you think he might- just maybe – for the first time ever – help out, but instead he pops them into his mouth. Of course. One of his sons is busy making tea, which in Senegal is superstrong, supersweet, and served in shot glasses three times a day. The younger children are nursing or playing on the ground with whatever comes to hand – peanut shells, a piece of string. Three horses stroll past single-file on their way to the well. Goats and sheep hang around nonchalantly, looking for their chance to steal in and snatch a couple peanuts. A chicken, with a blue piece of fabric tied around a wing denoting ownership, pecks at ants around your feet. Everything is peaceful.

Suddenly, a kid hits a smaller companion and steals her piece of torn-up paper. An older sister punches the perpetrator. A mother swipes at all three of them with a stick.  The baby on her back screams. The three kids wail. A quartet of wild-eyed donkeys stampede past, kicking at each other and braying, while other adults snatch children from their path, yelling. The tranquil afternoon has dissolved into typical village chaos. You retreat back to your room to nurse your burgeoning headache and raw fingertips (peanut cracking ain’t easy!) and open a book, trying to ignore the flies buzzing around your head and the screeches still echoing around the compound.

So, village life. How to describe it? Village-y, say some of my peers, and that’s about as accurate as you can get. It’s slow. It’s strange that even though most people are continuously working (peanut cracking, cooking, working in the fields) the pace of life just seems… slooooow. Of course, I don’t do much of the work myself, which contributes. I do a lot of sitting around, listening to conversations and trying to respond if any Jaxanke is directed at me. I read, a lot. Thanks, Dad, for building up my library – a sanity saver. I pull my own water. One bucket per day, used for filtering, showering, brushing my teeth, etc. I use unfiltered water for everything except straight drinking – figure that if I’m going to get a parasite from brushing my teeth with well water, I’ll just learn my lesson that way. I do my laundry out by the well, with the rest of the women, while they laugh and ask me over and over again “Kuuro ke? I kusanta!? I kusanta?!” Laundry? You can do it?!  “Mkusanta!” I tell them repeatedly, shooing away the cow trying to drink from my laundry basin. I go to bed early, usually by 9 or 9:30 every night. This is for a couple reasons – there’s not much to do after dinner, so after a bit of sitting around in the dark I excuse myself. Also, reading or doing anything else with my flashlight just attracts bugs of all kinds. Therefore, it seems like the most reasonable and safe decision is to go straight to bed. I sleep outside every night because of the heat – when it rains I have a fancy shmancy shade structure with plastic to keep the rain off my cement bed, which I can hook my mosquito net to. I realize that rain AND wind together will be a problem; I’ll deal with that when I come to it. Maybe I’ll retreat inside. I don’t like the idea of sleeping inside, though. I’ve only done it once or twice, and besides the heat, there’s the constant scurrying and scratching that tells you there are unwelcome creatures sharing your hut/bed. Not very conducive to a peaceful sleep. But then, neither are the nighttime village sounds, inside or out. One night, I woke from a Jurassic Park-themed nightmare, half-convinced that the donkeys’ wheezes were really velociraptors on the hunt, and I’m pretty sure my mosquito net was not made for dinosaur repelling.

Ok, honestly, village life at this point, still the settling-in period, is pretty boring. Sometimes the days stretch on impossibly. But IST starts in a couple days, and afterwards I hope to begin some projects, and at the very least give myself a small task every day. I know that once I start feeling productive, and less like a participant in some strange social experiment, I’ll be happier. Thank you to everyone for your support so far!

Until next time!

Hello, Bira

I was installed in my village almost a month ago. I would like to say time has flown by, but in reality it seems to be crawling. One month down, 23 to go. Daunting. Honestly, it’s been harder than I anticipated. It’s not the lack of water or electricity that I’m finding hard to deal with, but rather the feeling of isolation. The people in my village are nice, and my counterpart especially has tried hard to make me feel at home, but it doesn’t change the fact that I am the only white person in the vicinity, definitely not yet capable of having real conversations with anybody in Jaxanke (very few speak French, and many of the ones that do, like my counterpart, speak it even worse than me), and cut off from the outside world by a lack of cell phone reception – although I can find it if I climb a hill a short walk from the village. Another thing that is getting to me is the lack of work. I know we’re supposed to be “integrating” these first couple months, and not starting any big projects, but I feel fairly useless sitting around all day, every day. When I go back to site tomorrow I’ll be bringing paint with me so I can start a couple murals around, just to do something productive (Considering painting some maps, since nobody I talked to can locate Senegal on the world map I brought from home, or even identify Africa. Some people were holding the map upside down). I know from talking to other Volunteers that feeling like this isn’t abnormal, especially in the first couple months, and that it does get better.  It’s a tough transition, but certainly an adventure, and I’m also hoping for a lot of character building!

So, about Bira. I don’t really remember what I’ve written about it so far, so I’ll start again with the basics. It’s located 7k off the main paved road that runs from Tambacounda to Kedougou, and is home to around 1,500 people. Most of them speak Jaxanke, and about 30% speak Pulaar. French is rare among older people, although students learn it in school. There is a school that will educate children until they are ready for high school, at which point they can travel to Tamba for further education or, as is almost always the case, especially for girls, drop out. There is a health post, with a doctor that goes back and forth between Bira and Tamba. It is a farming community, and they eat what they grow – millet or couscous with peanut sauce is the usual fare. Besides an onion here or there, I haven’t seen a single vegetable appear in meals, and I can count the number of times I’ve seen meat or fish on one hand. Although there are a surprising number of villagers working in Spain, and some pretty big cement houses built with the money they send back, the large majority of people are very poor and uneducated. I was talking to the women in my compound, and I learned that the great majority of them hadn’t left Bira in years, not even to travel to Tamba, the fare of $2.50 being too expensive. Some of them had never even been further than 25k from their village in their entire lives! Men travel more frequently, but the women are working 24/7, nonstop, and as it is their husbands who make all the decisions for the family, many of them simply never leave. By this point, discoveries like this hardly surprise me, but the thought of being stuck in this tiny village for 40 years straight fills me with claustrophobia and the urge to run away. But, different cultures, different lives, right? This is their life, and they accept it. If I can’t throw money in the air and yell to them “Go! Travel! Explore! Learn!” then I can at least try to improve their lives right here. That’s my job, after all.

I’ve already got a couple ideas for projects, but won’t be starting anything until after IST (In Service Training) at the end of July. I’ll do a post about my own village life sometime soon. Until then – I miss you all. Send happy thoughts my way!