Santa's Lil Helper

Tis the season...
to be jolly. for family. for gifts. for trees. for lights. for snowman. for holiday cheer. and most importantly...for giving. It seems that from the end of Turkey Day till the last of the wrapping paper has been ripped off of the presants, we are overwhelmed with expectations and the sensation to give. We shop till we drop, searching for the perfect gifts for loved ones. Baking cookes for neighbors. Slipping spare change into the Salvation Army donation cans. It is part of what the "Spirit of Christmas" is all about, right?! Being in Senegal, I found myself reminiscing and recreating the holidays of yore. I miss the snow, being bombarded with images, lights, and constant Christmas music, the hustle and bustle of it all, but I have had a recent revelation. The good cheer, the peace on earth, good will to men, the giving-all the most important aspects of the holidays-are among me; especially here in Senegal.
I recently spent the afternoon at Daowda Fall's home. Daowda is a pharmacist. An intellectual. A father. A husband (of three wives!) A healer. A "man of all religions". A seer. Some say a "witchdoctor". Some just say doctor. I'm lucky enough to call him a friend, and most endearingly, he is a giver.
As we're sitting in his dimly lit room, and he is about to tell me what is in store for my future, a woman, a patient, comes in to say goodbye. Daowda, without hesitation, without prompting, pulls out money and slips it into her hand. I watch the transaction and he begins...
"You haven't been giving the sugar away on Fridays like I advised."
I was called out. A year ago I'd come and he told me that every Friday I needed to give sugar-no matter the amount or to whom-and I hadn't given it away for fear of seeming silly, or from simply forgetting.
"You see here, you have a lot of good things to come in your life but you have this barrier. The giving of sugar will take down that barrier and open all the doors. You know, we gain by giving. It is better to give than to receive."
This is a man who came to Arame with nothing and through the grace of something, he has created his clinic and home, studied abroad, owns a car, and at the same time is spreading his wealth. His office gives free consultations, and his natural medicines are free. People only pay for the western medication. People come from all over West Africa, and even as far as Italy, to wait and see him. Because of that, he opens his home, people stay the night (or week), and everyday he feeds those that are at his house. He advises everyone to give more, and to give something (sugar, dates, etc) one day a week. His giving is so effortless and truly has been 10-fold for him. The more he gives, the more he receives.
In fact, as a whole, over the past two years, I have discovered that giving is Senegalese. Not a day goes by that I don't profit from the generosity of someone. My friend inviting me into her home for lunch, my favorite banana lady slipping me a few extra, the stranger in the car buying me a cold creme during a long ride. Not a meal goes by that I am not asked to join, and everyone else in the proximity of the food, is invited as well. Nor do we not give to the young talibe boys that come to beg for food everyday. And this giving is just so ingrained. There is no complaint, no question...if you have it, why would you not give and share it with someone else?? It is so incredible and such a beautiful aspect of my life here. It can make it like Christmas everyday!! There is no snow in Africa this Christmas. There is no hot chocolate. No fat, jolly man in a red suit. There is noone ringing a little bell incessantly to remind one to give that extra buck, but, luckily, I do have Daowda Fall as my constant reminder of what I aspire to be, and to give some sugar to make life a little sweeter.

I should have known that it wasn’t going to be good when we opened the door to find three men standing there. It was evening, and I was visiting the other volunteers in my village, two Brazilian girls. I was on my way out, in fact, when the knock came. Being that they were three men, and that my Pulaar language skills are a little better, I agreed to stay…power in numbers. The men asked to come in, and we treated them with Senegalese hospitality. Cushions, cold water, “Bismilah!”
It became obvious that they were there with a purpose. They began asking about the soccer class that the Brazilians have in town. I was relieved! “Maybe they want to collaborate!” I thought. The girls explained that Ibrahima, the boy volunteer, has a class for boys, and that they have one for girls. Expecting to hear interest or praise, we were taken aback when they wanted to know why they were handing out books on Jesus at the soccer class.

“Books on Jesus??! I assure you, sir, we have not given out books on Jesus!”

“But you are missionaries? You are Christians? What do you do here??”

“Yes, we are Christians,” Crisea calmly explained. “And I have never given out material, but if someone asks me about my religion or beliefs, I answer honestly.”

And then it became evident why these men were here…

“Well, these young girls are very impressionable. It’s better if you don’t discuss those things with them. They may start to get ideas. And also, it is not a womans place to be playing soccer. To wear pants. Etc. She should be at the house, doing her work there.”

[WHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAT?! Did I really just hear that?!]

Again, calmly, she says, “I assure you I have never given anything. I will continue to speak honestly with whomever asks me. That’s my right. And as far as soccer, we have permission from the parents of the girls. And it’s open, anyone can come watch.”

“There are people that don’t really know Islam. And we want you to know that if it were up to us three, girls would not be participating…,” he said.

As this man continued, I could barely believe my ears! In a year and a half, this was the first time anyone had blatantly said that a woman’s role is in the home, body covered, working, not playing. I had noticed inequality amongst men and women, but I had never heard it come from someone’s mouth directly! I was shocked! And more so that these men had the nerve to “put us in our place.” Till this point, I had been actively listening, but I could stay silent no longer when he began speaking of an old Peace Corps volunteer that had been in Medina Ndiathbe…

“After she left, we discovered that really she had been trying to convert people. She wouldn’t let anyone-not even her family!-in her room!”

At this point, I had to jump in. I explained that I was also a volunteer of the Peace Corps. I explained the goals of the Peace Corps: to aid in development, to gain knowledge of another culture, and to spread knowledge about America...and that it is not religiously affiliated.

He looks at me, dead serious, and says…
“What have we gained by her being here?”

[a dagger went straight to my heart.]

I stumbled over my thoughts…
“she had a garden, she did paintings, etc.” but instead what comes out is…
“What have you lost, by her being here??”

I, and many volunteers I know, struggle constantly with reassuring ourselves that we are doing good by being here. And while at times I think that people think I don’t do anything, I had never felt that they disliked the idea of me being there altogether. Is my presence, the presence of a foreigner, that unwanted?

“Well you come here and you learn all about us, and our culture, and live our lifestyle, and then you leave. We know nothing of you. This is just another way for America to dominate the world.”

[Another stab with the dagger.]

I was flooded with emotions. How do you respond to that? I have never had someone express such dislike for me. I felt attacked. More than that, I felt unliked for no real reason.

As the mosque called for the evening prayer, the three men got up, excused themselves, and left. As the door shut, we three girls began to cry and evaluate what had just happened. Had we been told to “know our role”? Were we not wanted here? Did everyone feel this way?? And to say that they are losing by my being here, was perhaps the most hurtful. I don’t do well with people not liking me, and not to “toot my own horn” but I usually don’t have that problem, so to have someone express such distaste, it really stunned me. All night long I thought and thought and thought about what the three men had said. I was shocked that they didn’t think it appropriate for girls to play soccer. I was appalled that they had the audacity to approach us. I was hurt that they thought my presence brought nothing to their community. And then I became rational. Who were these three men? They weren’t sent by the chief (whom I live with). They aren’t anyone official. I hadn’t even seen them before. The fact that three men, out of a town of thousands, don’t like me or want to like me, should not get to me. There are lots of people that like me, and downright love and enjoy me, and that is what matters, and what I have to remind myself. If after two years, people of Medina Ndiathbe can say,
“Oh yes, there was an American girl here. She was so nice.”
I will be content…even if they don’t know exactly what I do here.

Future Farmer of...Africa??

For all of you who knew me back at EHS and may have scoffed when I became a member of the FFA, I have news for you…never did I ever think those Ag classes would come in handy, but, in fact, FFA (for me) no longer stands for Future Farmers of America. I have decided to change it to Future Farmers of Africa. That is right; I’ve been hittin the fields, and let me tell you, I have a whole new appreciation for farming, especially farming in Senegal.
For the past month and a half, my normal solitary early morning run has been interrupted by throngs of “Medinanaabe” going to work in the fields. The rains have ended and the once flooded area past the bridge (the waalo) is being transformed into millet fields. As I run to keep up an exercise routine, I encounter people exercising as well: carrying their tools, water, and whatever else they may need, the 5km walk to their fields where they will spend the day. I’m greeted and most people call out to me,
“Come help in the fields!!”
“Come on!! Help plant!”
And while I know they are mostly kidding, I have a guilty feeling they are not. I think that they think I am unable to work in their fields, or that I am “above” working in the fields. And it is not just the strangers in the road; even my host family teases me,
“Salimata, tomorrow we are going to the fields. You’re going to plant. Early morning! No stopping till lunch!”
But when I respond with,
“Okay! I want to go!!”
they just laugh and say
“A waawaa” (you can’t) or,
“So Allah jaabi,” (if Allah agrees).
So last week when they told me I was going, I told them I would go and made it certain that they knew I was serious. I wanted to see what it was like, help my house plant their fields, and participate in what everyone else in my town was doing. I woke up early, went running, and as I came back, the charet was leaving me, so I ran after them and jumped on the horse drawn cart. We had passed up those walking and those already in the fields working away and 5km out we stopped at our fields.
Now…my house has three fields. The boys had already gotten the land ready to plant, which is when the women help out. We started in, quickly forming an “assembly line.” Bending, swinging, planting, bending, straightening…Heading it was a boy with a hoe to create a divot. Next, a girl with a long stick with a point at the end that she stabs into the ground to form a hole (Loude). Next (the hardest job of all! The job any idiot, or Toubab, can do!) came Salimata, to bend and drop 4 or 5 seeds into that hole (Awde). And finally someone to put dirt in the holes that I had just dropped seeds. There were four girls in total, and 6 boys, so we rotated every two lines. I had tried to “loude” but my arm strength and hand and eye coordination slowed us down, so I resigned to putting the seeds. Time passed quickly considering the actual pace of our work. Between the singing of the man in the nearby field, water breaks and the never ending jokes of my sister, Ramata, line after line we planted the millet by hand, and by the time we ended, we had only finished about 3/4ths of one plot. I couldn’t believe the amount of work that goes into farming here, and how slow it seems to take! They asked me,
“Salimata, do people plant fields in your country?”
And I felt guilty replying,
“Yes, but we have machines that do the planting, and fewer people have fields, but their fields are larger.”
I looked around at the fields, and the households out to farm; literally doing back breaking work, so that they will have millet for the next year. I saw it as exhausting: sun on your back, bending, straightening, line after line. But I found it cool to be a part of it. I felt a part of my community and my home. It was time well spent with my host brothers and sisters. And it was nice to yell across the fields to neighbors when they greeted me
“AH! Salimata Touak! You came to work in the fields today!!”
I felt it has given me a little bond with people, and I plan to go back out when the harvest comes to give my family a hand, and because you reap what you sow, and the seeds I have planted of millet and friendship, will be bountiful.

One of the students in the class I write in the States once asked,
"Why do you call the village chief your dad??" Good question.
My response was this...
in coming to Senegal, the land of hospitality, it is very normal to be welcomed with open arms. My first encounter with my host family in Thies involved my "mom" talking to me in Pulaar, which I did not understand, and then resorting to grabbing her breast and jiggling it. I was told that she wanted to tell me that she was my mother, that I was her daughter. And in Medina I live with a family, and since day one, Amadou Baidy, Chef du Village, has been my Baba. I can see how it is a weird concept for some to conceive, and no, he is no replacement for Harold, but while here, he is the head of the household, the man inquiring where I am going, the one I answer to. And there are times I feel conflicted.
"For Gods Sake, I am 24 years old, do i HAVE to report where I am going? Can I really not go out at night if he tells me it is late??"
My "sisters" and I had to scheme to go to a concert in my town, and I did, I felt like I was a little girl with her sister, plotting against her parents...
"Just run and tell dad that we are going out, we will be back later!"
"YOU do it! I am scared!"
"He will say no! But he won't if YOU ask!"
It feels ridiculous to me at times. I have not had to ask permission or check in since I was in high school, but here is a different story. And personally, I have come to find it endearing.
Recently, I had an incident...
I had a student from Dakar staying with me in Medina. I was taking her to a town called Ndioum so that she could meet with the other students and travel together back to Dakar. I planned on being back the next day. We left around 3:30 to go to the road. Ndioum is only 60km away. But being that travel in Senegal is what it is (read previous blog!) we did not get a car till 7. BUT...we got a car! And then, it stopped. In the armpit of the Fouta, Aere Lao, and we were told to get out, that it was going no further. Annoying-yes. Typical-yes. Going to get to Ndioum-not so sure. So this poor student and I sit at a roadside restuarant (our equivalent of a Denny's) and wait. And wait. And wait. And it is getting darker. And darker. And darker. I am apologizing, and she is being great, and we are playing the alphabet game with British accents to pass the time, and as the shops are closing, and night is in full effect, I decide I will call my home and get the number of their friend here ( a man that wants me to be his third wife.) and we will stay there. I call my brother Samba, explain the situation, and he says to call back because he has to ask Dad for the number. As I am waiting, a FFR comes, and I flag it down, and the nicest man agrees to take us, and this guy we were waiting with, all the way to Ndioum. I call Samba to tell him I got a ride. No luck. So I call three more times. Again, no answer. I'm just so happy to be on our way, and am tired since it is 10 at night, so I forget about calling again.
And I get to Ndioum and decide to stay another day...that trip just wiped me out! :) And I do not callto inform my "family".
So when I return to town the following day, I am hit with questions from my brother and mom...
"Where have you been?? You didnt call? Did you get out of Aere Lao? What happened?"
So I explain and make no deal of it...and then they say...
"Your dad has been worried sick! He didn't sleep last night! He didn't have breakfast! He went straight to Ramata's house and the dispensaire this morning to see if anyone had heard from you. We did not know what happened and you didn't call..."
In walks my dad, "Salimata! Where have you been? I was scared! We didn't hear from you, and I don't have your number! You need to call and let us know where you are and if everything is okay!"
I felt terrible! I felt like an irresponsible teenager that had worried her parents all night...and let's face it, that is exactly what it was. And thhhhat is why I call him Baba. Because he cares for me like his own child, and when I don't call, or when I don't come home, he worries. And while he does not replace my father, he is a great fill-in. And while I feel ridiculous and like a child at times, it is great to know that I have someone that cares and is looking out for me.

Point A to Point B-it is a simple equation really. At least it should be if the country you're traveling in is approximately the size of South Dakota. But it is NEVER really that easy, is it?? Even in the states there are traffic jams, detours, road rage, etc. so I shouldn't complain how long it takes to go from Point A to Point B here in Senegal...there are no traffic jams (not enough cars), no detours (there is only one road running through the Fouta), no road rage (unless mine counts), but there are just a million other factors that make traveling difficult.
Ask any volunteer in country and they will tell you their system/tips for travel...
"Go in the morning. Pay this much. Take this car. Go to this garage, take another car. "
It has become an art. Maybe a little competitive even...
"How long it take you to get to Dakar??"
"12 hours!! I had to wait forever in St. Louis. And I had to share the back seat with two women and their 4 kids. What about you?"
"Man, too bad, I got here hours ago. I got a free ride the whole way in some guy's Mercedes!!"

[o.u.c.h.]

To truly understand where I am coming from, one must first understand the modes of transportation. You DO have options! Here they are, slowest to fastest; pluses and minuses.

FEET: Good for short distances, but not so fast. They are pretty reliable, and you get to decide when to come and go. At times better than a bike, and at times you think it would be better than a car. Plus, it is FREE!! Personally, I go between Arame and my town by foot a lot, which is about 4km, just to avoid the hassle of finding another "ride".

BIKE: Peace Corps issued, so they are pretty state of the art as far as bikes. Faster than feet and free. Problem is, in the North there are THORNS like crazy. You are always changing tires, and you have to fix the problems. Plus, you have to wear a heinous helmet and deal with constant, "Hey, white girl!! GIVE ME YOUR BIKE!!" But, the helmet and harassment are worth it and efficient if you have a nice road and going a 40km radius.

CHARET: Ah, the horse and cart. Even better, the donkey and cart. It is pretty cheap, goes short distances pretty quickly, but ya gotta be able to endure the roller coaster effect of it and be able to hold on for dear life. They can pack people and baggage on, which I find to be an easier ride than going solo and flailing around. I have also had to take a donkey charet 25km and it took 5 hours, so the charet can be a toss up. Take your chances, but sometimes feet or bike are a better option.

ALHUMS: Called this for the colorful writing of ALHUMDILILAH on the front of these. They are large, colorful, music blaring vans that are packed to the brim with people, bags, goats, sheep, etc. They pack about 40 people inside, people hanging off the back, babies on laps, baggage and goats on top. If you are lucky, you get there early, get a window seat and claim your territory, otherwise you'll get stuck in the backless seat or beside a goat. BUT these are the most common form of transportation. They run daily on the main roads around Senegal, but they can also make frequent stops to fill up and so it can become the slowest ride of your life. But if you are in no hurry, in a good mood, or if you have no other options, it is an enjoyable way to feel the wind in your hair, listen to Senegalese music, and take in the scenery.

MINIBUS: Larger than a minivan, smaller than the Alhums, and usually in nicer condition. They should seat 11 comfortably, but here we put 4-5 people per bench (not including kids), so we wind up with about 15-20 people. They tend to be faster and a little more expensive. Personally, I find they make me a little claustrophobic.

7-Place: The seven seater. This is the most preferred by volunteers, especially for going long distances. It is a car that "fits" 7 people. 3 in the very back, 3 in the middle, 1 in front (usually a man), and the driver. And an occasional kid on the lap. Here you have to get strategic. Best seat-front, but good luck getting it. After that, the middle bench is good. Can control window and you have more leg room. The back bench is usually a tight squeeze. The best situation with a 7-place is to get to the garage early, get a seat, it fills up fast, and goooooes; Otherwise it is a waiting game. And sometimes they switch cars at garages or stop for lunch, but all in all, they are your best bet and worth the extra money. And if you can always travel in sevens, it is just like having a personal chauffeur!

FFR: Coined and perfected by Kate Wilke-the Fast, Free Ride. Fed up with garages, over packed cars, waiting, etc. she now likes to do what some would call hitchhiking. And she is good, talented actually, or just overall lucky! Find a deserted spot, put on your best "Im stranded!" look, give a wave, and she has got a ride. Now there are types of FFRs too. Kate seems to get lucky with the tourists driving Mercedes (for my b-day she scored a 2007 Jeep Grand Cheerokee!), or an NGO traveling through. I, on the other hand, get the huge, fish delivering trucks where I have to sit on an 18 year old boys lap, crammed into the cab with 4 men. Hey, it was fast, and it was free!!

The Fast Free Ride is a fabulous thing! A treasure! It can make your day! In fact, any of these vehicles can make or break your day to be honest. It is amazing how travel can affect your attitude and stress levels in this country. If it goes well, and is pretty quick, your golden...walkin on air, feelin efficient! Have a bad ride, and it can turn you into this nasty, mean, foreign person spouting off and stewing about how "this country sucks!" And even the most patient volunteers have fallen to the rage.

I recently had to take a trip 35km (not far! would take like 20 minutes in America) to nearby town to visit a friend. I set off early morning to wait at the road, thinking the early bird gets the worm. This early bird got the snail. First off, I (patiently) waited for an hour for a car to go by. Finally a minibus (noted above) came along. "800 cfa!" the young twerp yells at me. 800 cfa for 35km!!! "He is crazy!" I am thinking, but they love to jack up the prices for the toubaks, and haggling is the norm here, and this guy isn't budging. "It is a holiday!" he tells me. I wanna say, "the holiday ended like 8 days ago," but instead I say nothing and get in. I'm just happy to be movin in the direction I need to be going. I greet everyone and get out my book. (I was feeling anti-social, already irritated, so it is better to avoid talking). And we are 10km out from my village, and 25 from my destination and-clunk clunk clunkclunkclunk-the tire is busted. We get out. There is no shade. ALL the men are assessing the damage. Clearly, we aren't going anywhere without fixing it, and clearly, by the men sitting down to break open and eat a watermelon, it isn't going to be fixed soon. As the sun is getting hotter, so am I. I am annoyed. I needed to get to this town by 11 to catch the car into my friends village, which is 8km from the main road. I'm hot. NO ONE other than me seems annoyed, which ticks me off even more, and NO ONE is in a hurry to solve the problem! Then the driver starts asking for the fare. And I'm like, "Mmmm no. Not paying. I'll get in the next car that will take me. Who knows when you are getting to Pete." Now the scene comes, now I'm feelin the rage. Alas, a car comes, and they will take me! And the JERK of a driver starts yelling, "Don't take her! The toubak's stayin the night. She doesn't want to pay, fine, she'll stay here!!" And everyone in the car starts in..."Just pay. Come sit. Eat watermelon." So my ride drives off and I storm off to stand by myself while the driver continues on and on about the Toubak. And then I see it, an FFR. And I start waving. And everyone is laughing and whispering, and it zooms by...and then stops! I take off running, with the drier at my heels (wanting his fare), and I jump in this car, throw him 100cfa for the 10km and I make it to Pete in 15 min. Sweet revenge! I wanted to yell "HAHA SUCKAS!!" The 15 minute car ride cooled me down and the embarrassment set in...what is WRONG with me?? That is how all the people in the car are going to remember ME and foreigners in their country! And I knew some people in the car!! I was literally embarrassed of my overreaction, yet sweetly satisfied with getting in a car and escaping, or saving face. Like I said, traveling can make or break your day.

I realize that this frustration I feel is MY problem. My American-ness. By now I should know how it is, that things take time, and that no one is in a rush, and that there is nothing you can do about it. But after 18months, I still find myself criticizing and yearning for something to be done quickly, easily, and as painless as possible. A 35km trip should NEVER take you 3 hours!! (Unless you are going by charet, of course!) So often I recall having a conversation with my mom. We were talking about superpowers, and what one you would want to posses. I remember saying, "I would like to wiggle my nose and be anywhere I wanted!" and Mom said, "Oh how sad. Think of all the things you would miss out on! You know, it is not the destination, but it is the journey that is important." She has clearly never traveled in Senegal, but yes, what she said is poetic, and it is true. I would have missed out on entertaining people with my Pulaar skills, or seeing most of Senegal from a car, so perhaps my superpower wouldn't be to wiggle my nose and be anywhere, but it sure as heck would be to be able to travel at lightening fast speed.

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.

Weddings: Senegal VS. America

Weddings...one thing is for sure...they seem universal. They are quite the festivity. They bring excitement. Join two people. Require a lot of planning and money. And are the thing to do these days.
Just by chance I had the good fortune of going to my friend's wedding while home in America. What better occasion to get to be reunited with my old college friends?! Weddings are such a joyous occasion! How happy they will be! The wedding and festivities were absolutely perfect. My friend had planned a beautiful wedding. Everything just right. She looked stunning in her white dress. The bridal party was gorgeous, in a buttery yellow...perfect for the outdoor setting for their summer wedding. The reception was wonderful...perfect mix of class with fun and festivities. The food was delicious, the drinks were flowing. A good time was had by all. I felt lucky to be included in this event. The "beginning" for Jess and Jamie. Glad I got to wish them the best in their future together. Glad to see and feel the love between the two. Happy to share in their joy.
Upon returning to Senegal, I was happy to hear that the double wedding planned for my brothers had yet to take place. I had been to weddings in my village (aka had lunch at the wedding) but this was different. THIS meant that I got to see it beginning to end, be a part of it, and see what the customs really are. I was excited. I even braided my hair. Yes, imagine these Steiner ears poking out from behind my braids. I looked like a mouse, but they all thought I was really pretty.
Regardless, the wedding was...interesting.
And to write every detail would be veeeery long and tedious, therefore I am opting to do a comparison. To put it into perspective. Mind you, this perspective has been skewed after enduring a week long Senegalese celebration...but it's all true nonetheless...
*while young women in America rush out to have a crazy, drunken bachelorette party with their closest friends, Senegalese girls have a hair braiding party to see if she cries. It's all women, and the bride to be is in the middle of the circle getting her hair braided in "cosan," a traditional style that includeds gold earrings being put in the hair. which brings me to my next point...
*Americans are lookin for a rock, but there are no wedding rings in Senegal...just in the bride's hair.
*There's no need to rent the country club, church, or local VFW, it's all outdoors, all at your house!
*While American women diet like crazy to fit in their dress, Senegalese women are fed gossi (a rice, milk, and sugar porridge) every night after the wedding to fatten em up for their husbands.
*No stressing out about who to ask to be your bridesmaid, if you're lucky and have enough money, your friends and family will do "hotesse" and wear the same boubou.
*No having to cut the guest list down, we like em big, and we like people to come from Dakar to Mauratania. Thousands of people coming to your wedding...that's just normal.
*Instead of having to invite your annoying family members/inlaws, you have the griots which go around singing your praises and demanding money. Trust me, these griots are way worse.
*Our brides do white dress, white veil...Senegalese prefer dark, and head covered and face covered with thin black veil.
*Instead of getting walked down the aisle by your father or family member, you arrive in a bundle at night to be brought to your new husband's mother.
FOR THE RECEPTION...
*Fancy feast, killing a cow...same difference. Lots of meat...lots.
*Instead of open bar, there is lots of sugary, cold, cow's milk (kossam)
*There is no buffet style, but it is BYOB (bring your own bowl). Everyone brings a lunch bowl to my house, and then everyone gets one of those, and one of meat and rice, which is from the groom's house (that is as long as the bowls last).
*And instead of waiting for the bridal party to arrive, we sit on mats with 50 people on top of you, waiting for lunch to come.
*You don't throw rice at the new bride and groom, rice is thrown by the talibe boys fighting over the left over lunch bowls.
*No DJ or string quartet, but get someone a bowl, and get to clappin and you got yourself a party.
*There's no introduction or dance of the new Mr. and Mrs., it's more like..."Where are they at all??" The bride's confined to a room, and the groom is MIA so he doesn't have to give money to people and can avoid the madness.
*Crying cause you're happy is replaced here with giving money away to people. LIterally everyone is asking for money, and people of the groom's family are supposed to give money.
*Where we spend lots of money on finding the perfect wedding gift, they bring over the "bagage" which means a million bowls, pans, clothes, etc...all gifts for the family, and most will be given away to extended family and friends.
*Going on a tropical honeymoon destination is ALMOST the same as a month long stay in your sweltering hot new room. (You can leave in the evening to get ready for the night with your husband.)
*Finding a Holiday Inn to house your guests isn't a problem, they'll just stay at YOUR place.
*Last but not least, when in doubt...invite a foriegn, white girl to dance, entertain with her language skills, and give money out because we all know...those American girls just LOVE a fairytale wedding...

And fairytale it is...
whether here or there, one thing is true...thus far, as crazy and chaotic and different as these weddings are, or are from the wedding I shall have (Inshallah), they have turnned out successes, with two people joined. Families and friends happy, full, and wishing the newlyweds the happiest of happy...

The medical world says that...
about 55% of a human body is made up of water.
and Scientists state that...
about 70% of the plant earth is covered in water.
Well, this Peace Corps Volunteer is here to tell you...
about 75%of my day/time revolves around...
you guessed it...water.
I come from the land of America. The land of every house has a spigot. In the kitchen. In the bathrooms. Outdoors. If you want to drink, you can go to these spigots. Or the refridgerator. Or even IN the fridge to grab a BOTTLE if the tap "just doesn't taste right." I come from...ice is a must, not a luxury. Drink 8 glasses a day to be healthy! Shower--daily. Bathe to de-stress. Leave the tap running while you brush your teeth. Swim in the summer, even in the winter! Let's face it...water isn't something we think about, but it's something that is abundant daily. We need it, we use it morning, noon, and night. And I love it.
I'll admit. I shower in the morning. Bathe at night. I drink store bought bottles--like 4 a day. I let it run when I do dishes. When my dad used to complain about the toilet running, I was like, "yeah, what's the problem?" Water wasn't a concern. It just was.
I've never been more aware of water than I have become in the past year. Before coming to Senegal, my friend recommended a filtered water bottle. It would be so handy! I could always have clean water! You never knew when it would be useful. Already I was concered about the water situation. We all know that many of the world's poorest countries don't have access to clean water. I didn't know what to expect, but dang it, I was going to be prepared.
When I arrived for training, it was filtered water only. On weekends when I would be at my house, without access to the training center water, I'd fill up and take it home to save in my room. I had to learn to shower out of my bucket, and how much did I need?? When I washed my clothes, was I wasting too much? And we only had one spigot in the house. Was everyone watching and keeping tabs on how much water I used??
During our med sessions it was all about: DON'T DRINK THE WATER! But DRINK A LOT OF WATER! Don't get dehydrated! And never, ever get in the river! In other words, I was petrified of the water. Who KNEW what I was going to catch. I was NOT going to be sick. I would be a healthy, safe volunteer.
And then there was demyst. My four day "vacation" with a "real" volunteer. Her water situation: a well. A well that was pretty far away. And twice a day she had to walk there, pull water, put the basin on her head, and carry it back to her room. Being that we were new, and this was all "fun and exciting!", Kate and I wanted to pull; wanted to attempt walking with it on our heads without spilling it. But THAT was fun for four days, would I really be able to do it for two years?
And then I got to site.
And I began to change. My water obsession took a turn. Most obviously was that I moved to the desert. Where there is no water. And there hadn't been water for the past 9 months. And it's temperature was over 100 everyday. My obsession turned to, do I have water with me at all times. And everyone thought it was so funny that the new, foriegn girl was ALWAYS carrying water. (Must be Evian, or cold water. She's too good for OUR water.) And I'd politely decline water from peoples "loondes," which is a clay pot to keep it cool. I can't tell you how long that lasted, but I could only drink water that was HOT for so long. So probably after a week or two, I was all over the unfiltered water. (I mean, the nurse in my town said the water was treated yearly...giddy up!) In fact, I didn't filter my water for about the first year being in Senegal (never got sick, I should note!). It was a matter of have a cool drink of water and take your chances, or drink hot water and be miserable. And I will say, I am not alone in this. Most volunteers will sacrifice health for a cool drink. There is nothing better than being able to buy frozen bissap (a juice here--aka senegalese popsicle) or ice. I'd say a major concern of my day is how and where I am going to buy ice. How to get it home without melting, and without my family knowing. I mean, at my house (not all houses in my town, but for mine) ice is a luxury. If we have an extra 25cfa (like 5 cents) or a guest, we'll buy it. I, on the other hand, have that luxury, and don't want everyone to know that there are days that I buy 2 ices-one in the morning, one in the evening. And maybe treat myself to those popsicles, too! I feel frivolous. I feel schemey. I feel refreshed.
Then there's the "robinet", as we call it. The spigot. There is one in my family's compound, and (alhumdiliah!) it works. Occasionally it is slow, and maybe twice it actually got cut off, but I'm lucky. Every morning I fill my bucket. Shower. Then I save the lasting water so that I can shower again in the evening. Again, I feel like I need to be sneaky for some bizaare reason. Like I am a water hoarding freak that has the need to shower twice a day. I will say, I'm not like some of my other friends. Ones that rely on a solar system. No sun, no water. Usually not a problem, but last week, when there was a HUGE double wedding in the village and the thousands of guests needed to drink, people needed to shower, the lunch bowls needed to be cleaned...the water...ran...o...u...t...and my friend and I were left rationing her drinking water, while everyone else was going to the river. The river...right now is more muddy than watery, and there was NO WAY I was going to drink it. Although when brought a bucket of it, while Kate opted for wet wipes, I did bathe with the muddy water (I mean, people pay big money for that stuff in the sates, right?!) Or my other friend, who has to pull water daily at her well, so therefore she opts to bathe in the river, muddy or not. Pulling water, my friends...it's harder then it sounds, and to have to do it daily, multiple times, carry it on your head...it really puts how much water you use in perspective.
Being in the Fouta, we tell ourselves that we have one saving grace...the river. We ARE the Senegalese Riviera. We may not have green. We may not have trees. But we DO have the river. (Most of us.) To this day, it creeps me out. As I said, we were told (repeatedly) do NOT get in. There is schistosomiasis. I was bound and determined to avoid the river. But, the river is social. The river is useful. The river is free water. The river is cool. That is where everyone in my town goes to wash laundry, dishes, bathe, swim, etc. I do all these things at my home. With robinet water. Water that costs money. And this is upsurd to them. Why in the world would I not go to the river?? It's so refreshing. And it has been, like the 3 times that I have been in. My friends have convinced me to go. My nearest neighbor, Kate, is a little fish. You can't keep her out of the river, same for many other volunteers. Again, it's a matter of staying cool and sane or gettin a little schisto.
My current water obsession is the rain. Ah, the glorious rain. Water from above. Cold, cold water. It's wonderful. It's short lived, but there's so much of it. And it is not to be wasted. Two days ago we had a storm that outdid any other storm I have experienced here. It started and just didn't stop. Rains usually last an hour, this was a rainy day. And it was in buckets. literally. Everyone was grabbing buckets, kettles, bowls, etc. They were washing things, bathing, and saving all they could with the water. They were all over the water situation. And it was coming in from all angles. You had to wade through my compound, and in fact, that is the downfall to the rain. The aftermath. The muddy, lake effect it gives the town. I have to reroute where I go in order to avoid the puddles. The water just sits in spots--throughout the entire rainy season. But have no worries, even this is not wasted. Go to the dieri, the side without the river, and you will find women bathing, doing laundry, and cleaning things in the puddle water.
Yes, water is always put to good use. Sometimes we (voulnteers) laugh at the silly things we do. Stand in a pan to catch our dirty bathing water, just to "flush" a clogged toilet. Save your laundry water to clean a floor. Wash your dishes with a cup of water, and then use that water to water a tree. Wash your hands in a dirty bowl, and then clean the bowl. "You still use water to brush your teeth?!" AH, yes...we have become quite innovative with our water. We have come to relalize no matter if filtered, unfiltered, robinet, well, river, rain, ice, or hot...water IS the most precious of commodities, and I can't get enough.

Life...
well it's true, it's an adventure. And here I am. Senegal has proven to be the most...trying, yet fulfilling experience of my life! I've been here over a YEAR (which while some days drags, I look back and think OH MY GOSH it has FLOWN!) And if experience is the best teacher, then my education is superb because through doing the PEace COrps, the most valuable of lessons have been learned, without me even knowing it! I look at where I started, and where I am now, and I'm not saying I'm jaded or worse, but I am here and more realistic...You come into something like this so whole-heartedly..."IM HERE TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE! WHAT CAN I DO?!" and while that still holds importance, I've learned to realize that my SERVICE will be remembered not by if I "saved lifes" but that I had that human connection-that's become my most treasured part of this whole experience. Some days it hits me in the face of someone across from me on the public bus, or a gooey hand of a kid, but so many times while being here/traveling here it hits me how BLESSED I am--not that I am american. not that I HAVE things, but that WE, as people, are so lucky to be able to interact, and love, and care, and enjoy one another. Being here has only strengthed my relationships--with those near and dear, here and there, and for that, I am grateful.

My life here in senegal has taken the shape of: lazy days. hot suns. long lunch breaks with harder work interspersed. broken conversations, mixed between pulaar, french, and english. laughing (mainly at myself). hard rains. big bugs. crowded cars. daily prayer (5times a day). colorful dresses. colorful people. loud mosques. hand games with lil girls. rice for lunch. leaf sauce for dinner. greeting the whole day through. struggling to make sense of my purpose. realizing it in the sparkle of someones eyes when they say, "salimata tubako!" awaiting packages. reading. bathing in the heat of the day and again by starlight. embracing my americaness while letting my african princess out to play. discussing heat, if i have a husband, and diarrhea. a green thumb turned black. eating with my hand. sweating. procrastinating isn't procrastinating if you really believe you can do it tomorrow (or if god agrees)...schemeing for all things COLD. loving the silent moments that are few and far between. realizing that home IS where the heart is, and the heart can be at lots of places at once.