Being here I have a lot of time to think. I have given a lot of thought to my life, my friends, my relationships, etc. Before arriving in Senegal I had no idea what to expect as far as communication. I was moving away for two years.
“I’ll miss you all! Please write! Stay in touch!!”
For all I knew I could be in the middle of nowhere with no phones, no e-mail, and letters may be scarce. Basically, I was prepared for the worst; expecting to be cut off from my world and those that I love for two years. What a pleasant surprise to find myself in Senegal…COMMUNICATION AVAILABLE and EASY! I mean, day 2 I phoned home. Week 2 I bought my own cell phone, as everyone (volunteer and Senegalese alike) does. I e-mailed my number and address to everyone I knew. I mean, in Thies for an hour of e-mail I had to pay the equivalent of 50 cents. How comforting to know that I would be able to keep in touch with everyone!!
Granted, I got to my site and to my dismay, no internet. But I am one of the few. It’s just a little too far and it’s a pain in my butt to get there regularly. All others can do day trips to the internet because it’s that close. There are some people with internet in their town, on their street. They can check www.people.com DAILY to discover the hot, juicy gossip that we all crave to know. And now there is www.skype.com which has allowed my friends near the internet to call home for like…noooothing. Or chat through VIDEO! How exciting it was when, after a year, my friend got to see her parents in FL waving to her on screen. They now chat online frequently. This is also the friend that has a wonderful, always updated blog, with pictures. (www.kierstin.typepad.com). And she regularly chats with friends through the computer. It’s true, I’m insanely jealous.
BUT, it is not the computer issue only. As I’ve said, I have a cell phone. I’m available. I’m accessible. I have service (usually.) But it’s expensive for me to call people. Texting has been a lifesaver and kept me in touch with other volunteers. BUT as people’s friends have rushed out to discover, there are calling cards in America for about $5, and you can talk for like, 45 minutes! $5 for a call from a friend—priceless. My friends here can chat with their friends (because they buy phone cards) monthly! Kate even gets random mothers of ex-boyfriends calling her just because she’s in Africa and must miss home. Which is also why she’s averaging 2 packages a month—she needs goodies from home. She loves SnackPacks sent from Gretchen, the 80 year old that I, too, have grown fond of due to her generous packages.
Packages are by far the most fun—if you receive them. I love opening Kate’s packages with her to uncover the surprises. Spray sour cherry candy. School supplies. 4 jars of Peanut Butter. 16 Snack Packs. 2 singing stuffed animals…it goes on and on. The other day we made Mexican Chicken and Rice and Green Beans in her bathroom with water heated over burning trash. It was DELICIOUS! Who knew that freeze dried camping food could be so great?!
And (surprisingly) packages aren’t a problem to receive. They arrive a month after sent, the post calls, I pay 1,000 cfa, and I’m on my way. Some people rely on packages for “necessities”: toothpaste, deodorant, soap…(nothing here is as good as American products!) Others need food: who can live for two years without cheese, for example. Therefore, anything cheese flavored is sent to people. Cravings must be met. I have been able to keep up my Orbit gum addiction thanks to Harold. I used to chew sparingly, but thanks to my stash, I can put two pieces in at a time (like currently.) My needs have varied from: pink velour suit (it gets cold!), music, clothes (Mary knows what’s up!), to food, books on tape, a headlamp (who comes to Africa without a flashlight?!). But as fun and wonderful and happy that packages make me and other volunteers, they still can lack something…information, a personal note.
A box full of American goodies is just as gratifying as an envelope full of American gossip, news, words of kindness. Hence, it is the letter, good old-fashioned snail mail, that I crave. Believe it or not, things YOU think are boring I find interesting. Photos are great! I can “be there” and visualize what you are talking about. I loved getting Dad’s pictures of the house in the springtime, Mom’s Christmas tree, Julie’s B-day outfit. And I love getting letters because I can just hear people saying these things. It really is like a conversation. As much as I have enjoyed corresponding with people, I have come to realize it’s a lost art. I realize it takes time. I know people think they have nothing to say. I do too! But I fill pages of babbling nonsense to send to people in hopes that a) they’ll write back and b) so that they realize that I’m still here! As I said, I have time here. Time to think. Time to calculate precisely the number of letters, phone calls, packages received. But I have also given a lot of thought to the fact that this is life…and this will be my life. People grow up. Move on. Get busy. Lose touch. Whatev. So I can use the excuse, “I’m in Africa,” as to why I am not in touch with people, but the truth is, I’m in Africa and can be in touch—EASILY. The world is full of crazy technology, and old standards that keep us connected. So I have decided to really make an effort. I will try to get to the computer monthly. I have started writing 2 letters a week, but it is hard without responses. I call on occasions such as holidays and birthdays. And my new policy is if you write a letter, you get a letter. Send a package, get a phone call. Come and visit, and you’ll get a great time.
And I am writing about this and concerned about this because it doesn’t stop in May 2008 when I am done in Senegal. Who knows where this adventure (my life) is going. Hopefully it includes salsa dancing and Spanish (and I’m not talking Fiesta Charra!) I’ll be off somewhere that demands a little effort in the communication department. Not much- a letter, a phone call, a short e-mail. Eaton to Cleveland. Ohio to New York. East Coast to West Coast. All require us staying in touch, and it demands it be a two way effort. So this is my plea: please keep in touch. Please remember that I am here, and at one time we were close, and we talked, and shared things, and I was a part of your life. And I would still like to be. So please, send a note, a letter, give me a ring, and I, too, will make the effort. I’m not as far as you think…

Marie Steiner
BP 16
Medina Ndiathbe
Senegal, West Africa
*par avion*

Cell: 002214171305

Email: marieinsenegal@yahoo.com

stung.

We have this Senegalese dish…gossi…and I have grown to hate it. It is a rice, sugar and milk porridge. It’s not that it tastes bad, in fact it’s kinda good. The problem is that I am a product of weight obsessed America and I hate that as I eat the mush, it’s transforming my thighs to look exactly like the gossi I’m eating. (I know, of all things to worry about, right?!) When gossi became a regular dinner I was annoyed, and I decided to stand my ground and not eat it. I mean, boys at my house don’t eat dinner when it’s haako (a leaf sauce that I love) and it’s not a problem, so it shouldn’t be if I don’t eat gossi. So when my family woke me up at 9:45 one night to come eat dinner (gossi) I responded curtly, “MI HAARI!” (“I’m full!”) And next came the discussion…
“Well what did you eat? You’re not full. Come eat just a little. Why won’t you eat? You’re full??”
Again: “Mi haari tan!” (“I’m just full!”)
I lay there listening to them discuss me.
“She hasn’t eaten. She just doesn’t agree to eat anymore. Nothing since lunch…If she loses weight, people will say we are not feeding her.”
And from down below a grumbling arose. In fact, I was hungry and I hadn’t eaten, but…I was prepared. I had bought a mango that I snuck into my room and planned to devour all by myself. So I got up and got waster to shower off the day’s layer of sweat and sand and went in my room. I got my mango and knife, new headlamp, towel, and went out to the shower. My usual practice is to take off my clothes to eat mangoes as the juice runs everywhere. So I get naked, sit down, turn on headlamp and see…
A HUGE SCORPION!
(wait…a cockroach?!)
NO! SCORPION!
And his tail’s up and he’s scurrying around the edges of my 7X10 ft. bathroom. And I turn into an idiot. “Okay, Marie. What to do? You’re naked. You’re eating in your douche (a practice we volunteers keep veeeeeery secret). Okay, you gotta kill it!!” I take off the shoe, but the scorpion is smart. He knows that the edges make it impossible to get him, and then, I lose it behind boxes. Next solution? Put on dress and get out. Dress goes over head, and “OW!”—a prick to the toe. Minor really, like a pin prick, but I knew what it was, and didn’t know where the scorpion was currently. I yelped and everyone in the house is up. “What is it?! A lizard?!” (Lizards still get a yelp when I find them in my room, much to the amusement of my family.) They’re entering the room. I, pulling my dress down, limping, and pain throbbing up my leg. “A scorpion is in my bathroom!” I tell them. In come the boys, grab a shoe, and slaughter my intruder. And then the laughs come. Even I am laughing at the situation. It was ironic. Only a week before I had made the comment, “I kinda want to know what it feels like to be bitten by a scorpion. Does it really hurt THAT BAD??” And here I was…I know knew…it hurts. It reaaaaally hurts.
My foot started swelling to massive size, so we tied it off and my sister is telling me to “Come on! It’ll start to hurt! You can go, right?!” And I was like, “What? I don’t understand.” (Language is still a barrier.) But I go, thinking that whatever it is will take my mind off the shooting pain in my foot. She takes me to a lady that will get rid of the pain. We’ve all heard of a horse whisperer. I refer to this as the scorpion soother. She says some prayers over my foot, spits on it a few times, tells me to ice it and we go home.
By this time I am in pain-full force. (That soother didn’t do a very good job, hm.) It’s throbbing, stinging, aching all at the same time. So I retire to my room, no shower because I am scared of the bathroom. I am forced to sleep in my oven of a room rather than outside because even though scorpions are known to be solitary creatures, I convince myself there is probably a nest (do they even make nests??) of them in my bathroom. So I put ice on it, take an aspirin and prepare to have a horrible night.
As I lay there in the wee hours of the morning; sweating, wanting to cry, wanting to shower, hungry (never got that mango!), thinking “What if they have to amputate my leg?! Can scorpions sting your face??”, reading Harry Potter, I keep hearing my family laughing.
“Hahahaha…does it hurt Salimata? You’re jom yahre! (owner of the scorpions.) Haahahah, Salimata Toubako got stung by a scorpion!” And I convince myself it’s karma. If I hadn’t been such a nasty hag to my family. If I hadn’t snapped at them. If I had just eaten the darn gossi. If I wasn’t so selfish to secretly eat delicious mangoes in my douche. I would never have been stung by a scorpion!!
The next morning it felt better, although I didn’t get any sleep. I was still the laughing stock of my household and anyone that entered it and got the full story. It’s true, my ego was a little bruised, but I took it like a champ. Didn’t cry. Held on to that pride. But I learned a very valuable lesson that night…Karma’s not a bitch, as some might say, but it’s a scorpion, and you never know when it’ll come back to sting ya.