News and a new name

Hello. Kor tanante!  

I got my permanent site! The name of the village is Missirah Bira. It has 1500 residents, not counting the ones with four legs. It’s about 50 kilometers south of Tambacounda, halfway between Dialokoto and Missirah, if you’re looking at a very detailed map. It has no electricity, running water, or cell phone reception (noooo!) It is off the main road, 5 or 20 kilometers down a dirt path, depending on how far you’ve already biked, how hot the sun is, how much water you remembered to bring, and if your bike is working properly. Since my first visit to my site was after a (25 kilometer, very very hot, not enough, back wheel shaky) ride, I was kind of in a daze while meeting and greeting my future coworkers/friends/nemeses. More on that later.

I have an allergy to mango skin! Yes, it figures that I have escaped the common curse of stomach ailments and viral fevers that have plagued my staging group so far, only to be struck down by a fruit. My lips started swelling last Saturday, and it slowly got worse. When I woke up at the training center Monday morning, I didn’t even recognize myself in the mirror. When I showed my roommates, I got horrified “OH MY GOD!”s. It was truly disfiguring, not to mention embarrassing. I hid in my room that morning, and called the PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer). She told me to “stop hiding immediately and find a car to Dakar!” It was a miserable ride, even though I was in an air-conditioned Peace Corps vehicle. The Senegalese guard that was driving me kept glancing back and asking “Tu es malade?” NO, I just look like plastic surgery gone horribly wrong ALL THE TIME.  Watch the road, you nearly hit that goat, you jerk.

Anyway, the medical staff in Dakar was on it, and they got me an appointment with a dermatologist that very afternoon. It took two seconds for the guy to look at my lips and diagnose it as a contact dermatitis, or allergy, or whatever. Turns out those four mangoes my family gave me a couple days before were the culprit. The good news is that I can still eat mangoes – just as long as I don’t touch the skin, and put the fruit directly into my mouth without touching my lips. Alrighty. The other good news is that the “health hut” is more like “health heaven” – air conditioned, clean, big rooms, western toilet and shower, full library, amazing kitchen, and a western-style grocery store just 10 minutes away.  “This,” one of the PCMOs told me, “is not Africa. “ The second day, I spent half an hour wandering the aisles in stupefied amazement before finally selecting French bread and cheese as my lunch. It was possibly worth the temporary disfigurement. There were a couple other Volunteers there as well, and they took me around the neighborhood, ending with a beer on a hotel balcony overlooking the Atlantic and the Ile de Ngor. Pas mal.

Because of this whole deal, I arrived in Tamba for my volunteer visit a day late. I stayed with an older Volunteer who is mid-service, about 30k away from my future site. The entire four or five days that I was living with him, I oscillated between thoughts of “Oh my god, what have I gotten myself into?” and excitement. I have faith that the latter will win out in the end. Spence, aka Babanding Tangian (or something like that…) is an Jaxanke-spitting, hard working, hilarious guy and lives in a village of 700 people and approximately a million goats, sheep, donkeys, cows, chickens, and horses. All these animals just go wherever they like in the village, even sometimes into houses, prompting the owner of the hut to jump up from his seat under the nearest tree and shoo them out. The cows especially are in the habit of plodding sedately around, glaring balefully at you as you swerve on your bike to avoid them and their enormous horns (these aren’t your sissy American cows, these are AFROcows) after they step into your path.

We spend a lot of time watering his garden, greeting people, avoiding farm animals, biking, and laying on the floor of his hut during the hottest part of the day.

The Tamba region is very hot. It must have been 115 or 120 every day, and was 105 degrees inside his hut until at least 10 at night, which made sleeping difficult. At around 4 in the morning it cools down to a more comfortable temperature, and starts heating up again as soon as the sun rises. Luckily, this is hot season. Rainy season is cooler, although mosquitoes and various skin infections thrive, and apparently during December and January it’s very nice. I hear that people adapt to the hot weather well and take lots of midday naps. The weather in Senegal in general, except coastal regions, is pretty rough, so I shouldn’t complain. Although I might in future posts. Just a warning.

Anyway – my site visit was nice, even if I was on the edge of heat exhaustion during. My hut is still under construction, but I’m already planning color schemes and murals, and trying to decide if I can fit a full size bed inside. (Don’t tell my amazingly artistic mother yet, but I’m planning on roping her into helping me design some decorative and/or educational murals for my village). My host family gave me a name within two minutes of meeting me: Fanta Savane, incidentally naming me both after one of my favorite delicious African escapes AND after the wife of my LCF. Strangely fitting, and awkward. So now I have two full Senegalese names to keep track of. I like Fanta better than Fatumata, personally. I saw the school and health post, both areas in which I will be working, and met the directors of both. My counterpart is very understanding about how difficult it is to learn a new language and integrate into a new community, which will help, especially since I am starting out in a brand-new, never-had-a-Volunteer-before site (many Volunteers replace other Volunteers, so their villages are accustomed to a white person living among them)

Ok, this is long. Sorry. Today was kind of cool – we had a presentation by a woman who works with the US Global Health Initiative and reports directly to Hillary Clinton, and some of her supporting staff. Tomorrow is “Dakar Day,” our first foray into the capital (except I’ve already been, ha ha suckas!)

One more thing – if you haven’t sent me a letter or package yet, or won’t in the next couple days, don’t send it to the address I previously posted. I’ll be moving into the bush soon, and will have a different address. I’ll get that one ASAP. 

Last but not least, I miss you all. I really do. I miss America. I miss driving and coffee shops and brunch and temperate weather and my dog. But I’m also in a good mood going forward, excited to rock the last month of training and develop ideas for projects once I get settled in my village. Life here so far is a series of ups and downs, but so far, the ups have definitely won out, and I think the ratio will continue to shift in my favor in the coming months.

There's a gecko in my mosquito net.

If you are a naturally timid person, Peace Corps will either make you want to jump into a well, or it will bitch slap the shyness right out of you.

After three weeks in my homestay, I have reached a certain level of comfort with my family and in my community. I greet people in the street (aka dirty sandbox between houses), give the “death stare” to any person over the age of 13 who calls me “toubab,” and joke with my host siblings. While eating, I’ll give them a taste of their own medicine: “You need to eat more. Eat! Eat! Eat!” They get a kick out of it. The other day, my 6-year old host brother and I played a quick but furious game of hot potato with a piece of cow intestine. He would throw it into my section of the bowl; I would throw it back. This continued until he threw it at my host mom, who ate it with gusto. However, I still hear two things at the end of every day: “You didn’t eat today” (not true), and “You like to sleep a lot” (very true).

I still feel extremely lucky in my living situation. Many friends have disturbing stories of their own homestays, a few of which are simply too disgusting to put on here.

We're all back at the Training Center for a couple days, which is a relief. Also a relief: I just finished my first oral exam in Jaxanke. (Fun fact: I couldn't even find this language on Wikipedia. Try googling it) It's a little intimidating speaking with the microphone on the recorder staring you in the face, and I'm pretty sure I now have five new facial expressions that mean "???" because I don't yet know how to say "I don't know what you're saying; can you please repeat that?" BUT - it's over. 

Next on everyone's mind is site assignments. Yes, in 24 hours we will learn where we will be spending the next two years. Exciting times. The plan is to blindfold all 46 of us, position us on a huge Senegal map that they've got on the ground somewhere in the compound, then have us all take off our blindfolds at the same moment. The person you are nose-to-nose with will be your closest neighbor. If you are five feet from everyone else, it means hours of travel to see another American face. I'll try to do another quick update before we go back to village with my site name, which is hopefully google-able. What I do know: I will be in the southeast somewhere, and it will be hot. Very hot. Good news: I am unlikely to be stationed in the region where, apparently, "things go to die." (The volunteers there have made a shirt that says as much)

Wish me luck.

Mtoxo mu Fatumata, err, le ti.

Week one of CBT (community based training) is over, and we all survived. Well, except for one girl who already skedaddled back to the USA. It’s been an intense experience. From the moment they booted us out of the minibus into the arms of our new Senegalese families (usually 20 or more arms; families here are biiiiig), we were no longer in the oasis-like comfort of the training center, or “Amerigal.”

I got lucky with my family, I think. It’s relatively small – a mom, two sisters, and four brothers. In comparison, the guy sitting next to me right now has a father, three moms, a brother, and something like ten other sisters in the household. My family is well off, and the older sister (22) was friends with another volunteer at some point, so she knows how strange us toubabs (strangers) can be. They are all very patient with me as well, repeating phrases such as “I need to go to my room to take my anti-malarial medication now” in Jaxanke until I pronounce it correctly. They speak French as well, which means most of the communication from my end falls into the “Fraxanke” category. Oh, and my name here is Fatumata Cissokho. I’m named after the older sister, which is fine by me cause she’s pretty sassy.

I had a slightly traumatic dining experience the very first night. The food was pasta, some sort of sauce, and chunks of meat. Since I was a guest, they were all throwing the good parts (meat) into my section of the bowl. I go for one of the ambiguous chunks, and this is my thought process as the food gets closer to my face: “Hmm, this looks ok, I’ll take it..  uh oh, doesn’t look so good up close…oh no, oh no, it’s too late now, can’t put it back, we’re going innnnnnn…” I spent the next five to ten minutes chewing, trying not to upchuck into the communal bowl/embarrass Peace Corps/Senegal, and trying not to think about which part of which organ of which animal I had in my mouth. I decided on enormous cow, stomach lining. I was on guard after that, but the rest of my meals have been pretty good. Fish bones have been the most unpleasant item I’ve found in my mouth since then. After a couple days of using a spoon, they told me I have to learn to eat with my hands because eeeeveryone in the Jaxanke region eats with their hands. Two nights later, they give me the spoon back and tell me I’ll have to buy one myself when I get to my village. Senegal: 1, Anne: 0. Another aspect of the Senegalese dining experience: they will try to force you to eat, as it brings them honor if their guest gets fat. The dialogue at the end of meals goes something like this:

Family : Eat! Eat! Eat!

Me: I’m full.

Family : You don’t want to get fat? EAT EAT EAT YOU MUST EAT! (shoving food at me)

Me: I’M FULL I’M FULL I’M FULL! (in Jaxanke, Mfaata Mfaata Mfaata!)

In other news, I have my own room with a door that locks, which is a Peace Corps requirement for homestays. I have a mosquito net and a lightbulb that works whenever the electricity isn’t cut off, which happens multiple times per day. Mbour, the town that me and about 6 to 10 other trainees are in, is a tourist town on the coast, but you wouldn’t know it from the quartiers we see daily. Imagine lots and lots of sand, trash, fish guts, goats, sheep, and kids running around with apparently nothing better to do than scream “Toubab!” at you. Cute with the 3-year olds, super annoying with the 15- year olds.

Other things of note…

- Found a goat leg in the middle of the road. Just a single goat leg. How does this even happen?

- Roadkill rats the size of cats

- Horse and donkey carts sharing the roads with decrepit cars and buses

- I realized, 4 days in, that my family has both a roof and a goat family living on it

- Cold soft drinks = something appropriate to get overly excited about on hot days.

- A pelican chilling in a doorway. Lost? A pet? Who knows. It was alive, we checked

- I received three full outfits from my family. I think it means they like me. Two are made of material that resembles outdoor tablecloths, which was convenient when I was attempting to eat with my hands.

- Confusion among PCTs: “I can’t tell if it’s his third wife, or visiting cousin”

- Hand vs. spoon, toilet paper vs. water: pros and cons

- Bucket showers are heaven after a couple hours in the garden

- Getting to said garden requires ten minutes of pushing through groups of elementary school children

- 3 hour long, super intense language courses after which we can’t think straight until we take a nap

Anyway, after our first 6 nights there, we headed back to the training center. The day before, texts were circulating among the trainees, all of which read something like “Sooooo ready for a beer.” Upon arriving in Thies, the general consensus was “drink before shower” which resulted in us buying out them out of every beer they had.

Heading back to the village on Wednesday, for 13 nights this time. The bar might want to get a bigger fridge in the meanwhile.

Oh, and my mailing address for the next two months, if you so desire:

Anne Schier, PCT

Centre de Formation Corps de la Paix

B.P. 299

Thies, Senegal

West Africa

Remember to send it by air, as land packages/letters have been known to take months, occasionally years. Mail here is a big deal, and I would be excited to receive anything :) If you figure out some way to send me thai food, I'll love you forever.

Training so far

Ok, this post is going to be super quick becuase A) I procrastinate, B) socializing has so far taken precedence over blog writing, and C) I'm leaving for my home-stay village in about twenty minutes! Kind of an exciting time. A couple things about the last five or so days we've been here in the Thies training center...

1) Meals - most are eaten around a huge bowl on the floor, four or five people to a bowl. The food consists of some sort of rice with sauce, with a huge chunk of meat or fish in the middle and usually some veggies. It's delicious. I'm told this are not the kind of thing we'll be eating daily at homestays, but I'll fill you in on that later. There are a bunch of social rules centered around eating, such as in which position you can sit (differs for men and women), what part of the bowl you can eat from, how many ingredients it's acceptable to mix together (none), and what to do with your hands (eat with your right, since doing nearly anything with your left is horribly, inexcusably rude) It's funny to watch my left-handed peers struggling to adapt. Meals are also taken in complete silence, which will both be a relief (since I can't speak the language) and kind of awkward (since I'm American)

2) Technical/Cultural/Medical training - We've had quite a bit of this. No time to go into detail now, but expect them later. I'll just say now that I can prepare some awesome tree sacks.

3) Language - There are about 49 of us PCTs (Peace Corps Trainees) and we are learning 8 languages between us. These include Wolof, Mandinka, Jaxanke/Malinque, Sereer, and three different types of Pulaar. I'm learning Jaxanke/Malinque, which are similar enough that I should be able to switch between them easily. It ain't easy. 4 hours into classes, we've probably covered the equivalent of a couple weeks in high school language classes, and my brain is having a hard time coping. Time to locate some flash cards, stat. Some examples: Mtoxo mu Anne le ti = "My name is Anne" Mman futuu = "I'm not married." We also learned to explain why we aren't married ("I don't know") I'm fairly sure that I'll totally blank when meeting my host family tonight, and it will be an amusing and awkward clash of cultures. Can't wait.

4) The people - All I'll say is that the training staff is amazing, and we all feel like we're in excellent hands. My fellow PCTs are also an awesome bunch. Everyone here is genuinely a hugely adventurous, open-minded, decent person. Advice to the guys out there: join the Peace Corps if you want to meet a girl. There are 10 boys, 38 girls.

Ok, gotta run. More to come later. Wish me luck!

How I actually met Africa

So right now I am chilling in my Peace Corps-subsidized Holiday Inn bed, complete with pillows labeled "soft" or "hard" so I don't have to actually feel them to decide which I want to use. I fully realize how much I should be enjoying this luxury. Tomorrow is staging, which is when all the people in my training group get together, turn in registration forms, have a brief orientation, then get a bunch of vaccinations en masse and fly off to Dakar. BUT - I can't write about staging right now, having not yet experienced it. Instead, a short recap of the last couple weeks, which I spent mostly in Europe and West Africa.

Europe was great. I got to bum around myself for a few days in London and Paris, then I met some good friends for adventures in Germany and Austria. London was rainy and I was jet lagged, which means I slept through most of it. I was so happy to be back in Paris (and it was sunny!) that I found myself grinning stupidly as I walked along my favorite stretches of the Seine, took pictures, and got a panini from that place across from Notre Dame where I once accidentally insulted the lady behind the counter, oops. Munich has always been a city attached to some favorite memories, and this time was no exception. Salzburg was absolutely beautiful - if you want my advice, go in the winter. I don't think it could be any prettier without a blanket of snow.
As for Africa, I visited Eric in Benin. Because I'm lazy, I'm going to link to the guest post I wrote on his blog, which sums up my experiences pretty well. But I will say that the trip was eye-opening and probably the best thing I could have done before heading off to West Africa myself. Instead of stepping off a cliff into the unknown in the next couple days and weeks, I sorta have an idea what to expect at the bottom, and I know I can handle it. I'm even kind of looking forward to going back.

http://newtoninafrica.blogspot.com/2011_02_01_archive.html

Til next time!

Here goes..

Hello all, and welcome to my blog – something that is, it seems, as vital to Peace Corps Volunteers everywhere as water filters and anti-malarials. Most people start these things as soon as they send off their initial online application, but as you might know, I am a procrastinator. Plus, I didn’t want to jinx myself. That would have been embarrassing. Sorry for the length, I’m sure future posts will be shorter.

Deciding to Apply

I had actually seriously considered Peace Corps back in 2009 when, about to commence my senior year at UCLA, I thought to myself “Oh sh[ucks], what’s next?” I thought of the Peace Corps, which seemed to combine a bunch of things that I wanted to do – travel, new languages, cultures, and of course invaluable work and leadership experience. I even started my online application. But then, the time commitment – 27 months – seemed too much for me, and I abandoned the idea. I felt like I would be putting my life on hold to serve, an idea that now seems ridiculous. But hey, I was young and unwise back then.

Things changed when I discovered that a good friend of mine, whose opinion I value greatly, and whose values I, um, also value - was himself in the middle of the Peace Corps application process. I clearly remember exchanges that went something like this: Me (whining) “What am I going to do after I graduate?!” Him: “Well, you know what I think you should do after you graduate…”

I don’t know whether it was his experience that demystified the whole process for me, or whether he was just very persuasive, but I started to come around. I realized that I wouldn’t be putting my life “on hold” for two years – far from it. I would be learning, working, teaching, adventuring, and coming back to the US with that much more under my belt. So I re-accessed my barely started application (coincidentally, exactly 365 days after I had first begun) and began again. I finished while sitting in a hotel lobby in Philadelphia, where I had accompanied my friend on his pre-departure staging, and the next day, sitting in NYC’s Central Park. And here I am, almost exactly 6 months later, having just received my invitation to serve, and more excited than ever. So a huge shout-out to Eric Newton, PCV Extraordinaire, for giving me the push(es) I needed. I am extremely grateful.

The Application Process

I’ll make this part short and sweet. For those of you know who know me well, you know that I am not the most patient person in the world. So, the last six months have been trying – short bursts of action followed by long stretches of silence.

Here are the basic steps of the application process:

Online Application

The initial app is filled out online and very extensive, including personal essays and letters of recommendation. There is also an amazingly long medical portion, where they ask you about every imaginable illness or ailment that a person could have, save “death.”

Interview

Assuming you didn’t mess up your online app too badly, you get an interview with a local recruiter. Mine was in Oakland, lasted about 90 minutes, and was really relaxed – even though my recruiter, Travis, was typing everything I said. Whenever I stopped talking, he would pause, and look up at me – a new experience, as nobody has ever seemed that interested in what I was saying. Tip for applicants: speak French, they love it.

Nomination

My recruiter called me soon after that, and said, word for word, “Sooo, how do you feel about getting some volunteer experience in environmental education?” I said “So does this mean you’re nominating me for an environmental education program?” “Yeah, I was thinking about it. Sound good?” “Cool.” I got a letter in the mail a couple days later, saying I was nominated for a program in francophone Africa, leaving in March. I found a volunteer organization called “Environmental Volunteers” (how perfect is that?!) where I took a training course, and realized that I was the only volunteer trainee under the age of 40, most of the rest being retirees and scientifically dedicated mothers of third graders. I learned a lot of stuff, including the properties of salt water plants, and how not to totally bore kindergarteners.

Medical Evaluation

This was by far the longest and most frustrating part. The sheer weight of the package, when I pulled it out of the mailbox, was slightly terrifying. What followed was weeks and weeks of scheduling appointments, paper robes, shots, TB and blood tests, and even (this is embarrassing) my first cavity filling in 22 years. That’s right, boys and girls, my record was perfect until now. Although it was funny going to a voice lesson with half my face immobile from the double dose of novocaine I gladly received. And then, a month after I sent off the whole thing, I got an email requesting more forms. A bit more scrambling around phone trees and doctor’s offices, some more unusually helpful nurses getting gifts of French pastries.

Finally, fiiiiinally, two months later, I was medically cleared. But not the simple way, oh no, that would be too kind and easy. Instead they posted a vaguely menacing “A decision has been made. Please look for a letter in the mail” on my online toolkit, prompting another suspenseful couple days before it actually arrived. Sigh of relief.

Invitation

The last couple weeks, ever since I was medically cleared, I’ve been waiting to hear something from the placement office pertaining to where and when I might be departing. I was starting to think they might have missed my nominated program in March (a common occurrence), since the 6-week deadline for invitation was swiftly approaching. I wasn’t happy about that possibility. I kept my phone on me at all times.

So last Thursday, as I’m making someone’s drink, my phone starts vibrating in the pocket of my sexy blue apron. One hand holding the milk under the steam wand, I use my other to fish out my phone and – lo and behold – it’s the Washington, D.C. area code. Obviously I can’t answer my phone at work, even less so with this beady-eyed old woman staring me down across the counter (hate it when they do that), so I finish her (small, half-caf, dry, nonfat, uptight) cappuccino, practically jumping up and down in my eagerness to call them back. A couple drinks later, I tell my supervisor I’m taking a ten and go outside. The placement guy answers and starts asking me the same questions from the first interview – why do you want to join, what have you been doing volunteer-wise, how flexible are you in your choice of region/country/assignment, how do you deal with stress, etc – and my heart is sinking, thinking this will end with yet another infuriating “Well, we’ll look over your file again and call you in the next couple weeks...bye!” To my amazement, after all this, he tells me he’s willing to put me in a program for environmental education, in francophone Africa, leaving in March. He’s sending me the official invitation packet that day. I should look over it carefully, then contact them to accept or decline the assignment. I laugh. After all this time and effort and anxiety, I would have accepted a placement in the seventh circle of hell if he’d placed me there. I tell him this. “Don’t worry,” he says, “We don’t send people there. Too much political turmoil.”

So yeah, it was a long six months. Luckily, I had two jobs to distract me. In one I got yelled at, and in the other, I got to do the yelling, so they balanced out nicely. That would be working in a French café/bakery, and coaching for my old high school rowing team. Both invaluable jobs, in their own ways. From the café job, I learned A) how to do awesome latte art, and B) Don’t get between a suburban adult and their daily fix. I had to tell everyone, one early, chilly morning, that we were out of espresso – decaf only. It was a traumatic couple hours. I had no idea how many people had “death stares” as frightening as mine.

Coaching was an awesome experience, especially since it was my own club and alongside my own old coaches. Among other things, I learned A) be encouraging, understanding, and yell rarely – that way, when you’re really pissed, they pay attention, and B) plain old patience. I admire the people who do this year after year. So much patience. Deep breaths. Hopefully that will help me in my upcoming adventures, as I don’t see me making too many espresso creations in the near future.

So, here I am, headed to Senegal. It’s another 6 weeks or so until I actually leave, but I have something to keep me occupied in that time – a three week trip to Europe and Africa! It’ll be fun, especially with my abrupt change from frigid German winter to tropical Beninese heat. Talk about a bipolar packing list. And a pre-Senegal crash-course in West African survival techniques may come in handy too. Thanks in advance, Eric. Please, stop laughing and let me know if I start breaking toooo many cultural rules right away. I’ll make sure to leave my fishnets and stripper heels at home.

Until next time!