tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66895118838433002362024-03-25T23:47:20.043-07:00Caitlin in the Peace Corps: SenegalHello! My name is Caitlin Givens and on March 13th 2007, I leave for the Peace Corps in Senegal, where I will be working as a Rural Preventative Health Educator. This is my first contribution to the Peace Corps' third mission, to "help promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans." Please follow along, post lots of comments, and enjoy!Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.comBlogger124125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-87425043866651221592009-04-02T10:43:00.001-07:002009-04-02T10:43:42.576-07:00Wendy's Blog EntryI am a New Yorker. I’ve lived in “The City” for almost 9 years now. I have lived the most classic New Yorker life one can imagine: holding multiple jobs, working 16 hour days, living paycheck to paycheck, as a “freelance” dancer, personal trainer, cater, waiter, babysitter, and personal assistant. You name it, I’ve done it. My life is fast-paced. The myth of the New York minute is true. I can fit more into one minute than you can possibly imagine. And I had never been out of the country until I decided to go to Africa.<br /><br />When I told friends I would be traveling to Senegal for my very first trip out of the country, I always got a similar response: “that’s a hell of a trip for the first time out of the country!” And I agreed. But what did I have to lose? Cait would be the perfect tour guide. Lisa would be the perfect travel buddy. There was nothing stopping me. I wanted to experience something so completely different from everything I know, to break farther out of my comfort zone than I ever thought possible. And so, I boarded that plane with no expectations. I was open to anything. Eyes wide, (doe-eyed, I think Lisa called us) heart open, ready for an adventure. And that’s exactly what it was. Lisa’s blog sufficiently described what we saw, how we felt. Her words are as perfect as they can be describing something indescribable. Her thoughts mirrored mine. So I will try to offer other insights into what I witnessed about this family that has left it’s imprint on my heart.<br /><br />By the end of my first day back to work, I felt as though I had never left at all. My clients wanted to hear stories, but I just felt like I couldn’t do any moment justice. How do you describe the trash everywhere? The rotting animals, the sewage, the constant runny noses of the children? The negatives are the things you see first. The filth, the poverty. It made me very somber. As soon as we got to Kanel, I became quiet, observant. It affected me so deeply. I wasn’t necessarily sad or depressed, but it broke my heart. But then I saw the happiness. The simplicity with which they live. Love, respect, hope. That is the essence of Cait’s family. They welcomed us so completely with open arms. Those kids were the most adorable little munchkins I have ever seen in my life. The mischievous boys, the playful girls. They are happy! They keep themselves entertained better than any child in America. They do chores, go to school, eat lunch and dinner with the family, watch their hour of TV in the evening. The adults seemed to always be smiling, proud of their children.<br /><br />Being a New Yorker means, by default, that one must complete 793 tasks by the end of the work day (which is at least 12 hours). As an overachiever, my number is somewhere closer to 1,000. I used to be ok with that, living in a hazy state of exhaustion approaching burn-out. But then I saw what was considered productive in Kanel: waking up, doing chores, going to the market, cooking and eating lunch, greeting the neighbors, washing clothes, cooking and eating dinner. In so many ways I began to desire that life. My new goal is to figure out how to bring these wonderfully simplistic ideals into my maniacal New York City life.<br /><br />I realize it is virtually impossible to work less hours and keep my apartment, but something about my thinking has to change. I have to take those moments for relationships, with family, neighbors, friends. Life should be simple. It should be about the people you love, and doing what you love. Life is not just about paying the bills. Because what is the point if we spend our days worrying about how much money is in our bank account if we forget the people we love. I am eternally grateful to Cait and the Lam family for opening my eyes to this. And to Lisa, for being along for the ride.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-67693203212893192752009-03-27T13:32:00.001-07:002009-03-27T13:32:59.190-07:00Lisa's Blog entryReflections on my visit to Senegal<br /><br />I’ve been back, stateside, for less than two weeks but it feels like ages ago that I was squished in the back of a sept place, trekking across the sandy, hot country of Senegal with my eyes glued to the villages and lives that sped past our car. It’s hard to explain, as I sit in my air-conditioned office, with a busy Los Angeles day zooming by outside, how many different worlds away Senegal feels at this moment. And I can’t begin to express how indelible a mark that adventure left on me. I’ve been shifting through the many pictures (and some videos) that I brought back with me and one thing that continually strikes me in how inadequate they are in capturing all that I experienced on that trip. They fail to capture the cacophony of sounds and organized chaos that flooded my senses on the streets of Dakar, the overlapping dialogues of Pulaar, Woloof, and French that kept my “anglais seulement” ears in perpetual confusion, the brilliance of Cait’s nephews’ 3-year-old tinkling laughter, and the smell that centuries of sun on sand makes. I’ll give you an example. I took a picture of the train station in Dakar because it so beautifully represented the French Colonial architecture that would pop out, unexpectedly, along the streets of this noisy city. The picture shows this beautiful, ornate, colorful building but doesn’t allude to the crazy scene taking place behind me as I took the picture. The train station was on the corner of a large traffic circle in downtown Dakar. Picture a steady stream of cars, in all stages of disrepair, converging on this point from all directions. Without any sort of management, the cars seemed to be pulled into the circle, spun around a couple times, and rocketed out at an increased velocity to swerve down one of the side streets. The layers of noise (the car horns honking, the street vendors, the ships docking at the port nearby) and the waves of smells (exhaust, onions and meat cooking, salty air) only added to the scene. The sheer momentum and energy of the atmosphere is so obviously absent in my “pretty little picture.” <br /><br /> We spent the first two days in Dakar, and then Cait generously shleped Wendy and me, her two doe-eyed tourists, across Senegal to see her site and meet her family. If you know Cait, then you know about her incredible superpower at acquiring new languages (also, her newly formed superpower: the ability to sleep anywhere). Watching Cait interact with Senegalese people was completely awe-inspiring (it also prompted me to start looking into living for a stint in a Spanish-speaking country). It wasn’t just translating words into French or Pulaar but taking on the mannerisms and personality of the language. After flying for 15 hours and arriving in Dakar, exhausted, confused and disoriented, navigating the bewildering airport and wading through a throng of taxi drivers and vendors, tumbling into hugs from Cait and Holly, it was such a relief to watch (bug-eyed, of course) Cait tromp over to a crowd of Senegalese men and negotiate the taxi fare. She playfully rebuffed their teasing remarks, smiled and wagged her finger at their unreasonable offers and masterminded the first of many jocular negotiations that began to seem more ritual then necessity. After a two-day introduction to the adventure (and I do emphasize “adventure”) that is public transportation in Senegal (complete with pot-holed roads, no discernable traffic laws, crowded village streets followed by vastly empty desert-scapes, and beyond crowded buses) we arrived at Cait’s village to meet her family. The enormity of heart that I felt in small town on the edge of Senegal was not that unlike the generosity you find when you walk into the Givens’ home in Davis, California. Cait’s Senegalese parents even seemed to mirror the personalities of her parents back home. Papa Lam, always with a jocular smile about to break across his face and ready with a boisterous greeting and a cheerful laugh when Wendy or I would stumble across our unrefined versions of Pulaar words, and Mama Lam, obviously the matriarch and head of the house, was quietly in charge and oversaw a full house that, you could see in her eyes, she adored. I can’t begin to express the experiences of Kanel – when I think about Kanel, it feels like a million different snippets of memories are bubbling around in my head, surfacing for a second then tumbling away again. The soft padding of little, bare feet running across the dirt yard. The cloud of thick smells that blankets the market and made my poor little, toubab stomach do cartwheels. The warm little child’s body that transitions on your lap from sitting alert and engaged with the world to sinking back against your body, relaxed and sleepy. Holding the smallest, tiniest baby I ever have in my arms. A sweet little 3 year-old voice singing “bon chocolat, bon chocolat” (????) over and over again. The sweet, watchful eyes of Cait’s nieces that took in everything around them. Watching gender play itself out in so many different ways, sometimes making me livid and other times full of respect. Mosques erupting in the middle of the night for the 4 am Call to Prayer. Getting laughed at (good naturedly, of course) as I stumbled over phrases in Pulaar. The sweet and crunchy taste of fresh beignets. I will forever remember the four days I spent in Kanel as a wonderfully unique opportunity to see and experience a part of Africa that most tourists never get to see.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com71tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-31764278013138804512009-03-27T13:26:00.000-07:002009-03-27T13:30:40.556-07:002 years2 years<br /><br />I have lived in Senegal now for 2 years. I cannot believe it’s gone by so quickly. I knew it would, even on the miserable hot season sick days that seemed like they would never end. I have watched my baby nephews and nieces turn into walking talking preschoolers. I have been to weddings, funerals, and baptisms. I have attended births, and talk children. I have traveled all over the country. I have said goodbye to 3 groups of volunteers, and now it’s my turn.<br /><br />I used to keep regular lists and it only seems fitting that I round up my last few blog entries with these. I also hope that it will give you readers an idea of all the millions of thoughts and emotions that are going on in my head right now.<br /><br />2 Years On…<br /><br /># of years lived in Senegal: 2<br /># of times I left the country: 3<br /># of times I went to America: 2<br /># of friends that have gotten married or engaged since I’ve been away: 10<br /># of friends/acquaintances that have had babies since I’ve been gone: 3<br /># of baby deaths I’ve had to suffer through: 1<br /># of births I attended/babies I delivered: 3<br /># of babies that were born and named after me or a member of my family: 7<br /># of times I’ve had things stolen: 2 (purse and things from my luggage)<br /># of times I’ve felt unsafe at site: 0<br /># of times I’ve felt unsafe in public transport: Every single time<br /># of messages sent on my 2nd cell phone (1st one was stolen): 4869<br /># of messages received on said cell phone: 3643<br /># of people I’ve had come visit: 6<br /># of extra treks across the country to Dakar I had to make because of those visitors: 16 (totally worth every moment though!)<br /># of visitors that got sick during their visit: 3<br /># of times I’ve seen my host mom cry: 3<br /># of times I’ve henna’d my hands and feet: 3<br /># of times I let my family braid my hair: 0<br /># of packages I received : upwards of 40 THANKS EVERYONE!<br /># of random emails I receive from people because of my blog: 7-10<br /># of Senegalese friends and family that know about my blog: 0<br /># of months spent away from site due to illness: about 4<br /># of months spent on vacation: ~2 (we’re allocated 48 days)<br /># of months spent in Dakar working on various film projects: 3<br /># of months spent at site: 15<br /># of months out of each year where it’s actually cool enough to be permanently in a good mood: 3 # of months out of the year it’s too hot to sleep inside: 9<br /># of snakes I’ve seen in country: 1 (my 2nd to last night at site. In my family’s house. Hissing and poisonous and crawling down our hallway. Nice.)<br /># of scorpions I’ve seen and slaughtered in my room : 30+ <br /># of other West African countries traveled to: 0 (which I’m annoyed at myself about, unless of course you count the night swim across the Senegalese river to Mauritania, which was stupid and dangerous, but SUCH a great story)<br /># of pounds lost, gained, lost, and gained again: 0-15<br />maximum # of lbs a male in our group lost in country: 45<br /># of pcvs from our group who early terminated their service: 10<br /># of us who finished out our whole service: 33<br /># of pcvs from our group who are extending their service: 7 (that’s unprecedented!)<br /># of women from our group who are going to nursing school following service: 5-6 (that should tell you all a bit about what is really needed out here)<br /># of forced marriages I tried and failed to stop: 1<br /># of times per day I’m still asked whether or not I have/want a Senegalese husband: ~4<br />largest # of people I’ve ever had attend one of my health talks: 120<br />smallest # of people I’ve ever had attend one of my health talks: 11<br /><br /><br />Things I will NOT miss at all:<br /><br />The sweltering dry heat<br />Public transport in any way shape or form! NO MORE!!<br />Frequent stomach illness, skin infections, respiratory problems, random fevers etc.<br />Mosquitoes and the fear they instill with each bite<br />Always taking medication<br />The constant screaming, crying, and fighting children<br />Parents hitting their kids<br />Being a celebrity and a constant curiosity. Read “Toubak! Toubak! Toubak!”<br />Having the same 4 conversations over and over and over again: “Do you have a husband?” “Why don’t you want a Senegalese husband?” “Take me to America” “Do you eat rice and fish? Leaf sauce? Why can’t you cook?”<br />People constantly talking about my, ahem, voluptuous rear end, and trying to get me to dance for them<br />Scorpions<br />Always having sandy, dirty feet<br />Feeling like a circus freak dressed up in uncomfortable Senegalese clothing.<br />Morning call to prayer and mosque speakers<br />Senegalese beer<br />The flies, especially during fly season<br />The anxiety of worrying about every person I know when they’re sick and wondering if the health post will really be able to help them if it gets to that point.<br />Bureaucracy, corruption, and inefficiency<br />Being harassed by Senegalese men<br />Seeing children beg for food (my heart is broken about 60 times per day)<br />The exhaustion of living with people in poverty and wanting to help everyone I care about achieve a higher standard of living.<br />No proper sanitation systems = trash everywhere.<br />Bearing witness to women’s total lack of empowerment on a daily basis<br />Eating oily rice every day at almost every meal<br />Being constantly asked for things: lotion, phone credit, visas to America, money, the clothes on my back etc.<br />Sleeping on a bed made of sticks<br /><br />Things I WILL miss desperately:<br /><br />My Senegalese family and friends<br />Waking up in the morning to my two 3 year old nephews tearing across the compound to hug me and climb into bed for morning snuggle time<br />Lying around in the evenings on a stickbed with 4 or 5 of my older nieces, nephews, or sisters, looking at the stars and giggling.<br />Walking up to my good friends house and from up the dirt path all the children in their household come running and screaming out to greet me (usually anywhere from 7-10 at a time).<br />Always having babies to play with<br />The feeling of being useful, and needed, and wanted.<br />Speaking Pulaar and French all the time.<br />The simplicity of life<br />Having an almost non-existent carbon footprint <br />The feeling of satisfaction and total bliss that can only come from taking a bucket bath at the end of a long, dirty, hot, sweaty day, when the sun has almost set and the air starts to cool, and for a brief couple of moments I’m actually cold.<br />Greeting everyone in the room and the genuine joy I feel from them after a long or even a short absence.<br />Spending the day as a guest and being treated like royalty. Senegal after all is the country of Hospitality.<br />The sound of the faucet in the morning (because it means there is water for the day).<br />Going for long runs out in the open desert with no one around for miles<br />An enormous sense of empowerment and accomplishment, because after this, I can pretty much do anything!<br />My fellow PCVs.<br />The freedom to do what I want, when I want: To plan my own work schedule, and projects according to what I believe to be the most effective, and needed approach.<br />Car shopping! (Sitting in traffic, or stopping on long voyages and having people bring stuff to the window for me to buy: frozen juice bags, bananas, hard boiled eggs, peanuts, tangerines, toys, Laughing Cow cheese, flashlights, towels, you name it.)<br />Mango season! 1 bucket of delicious ripe mangos for a dollar.<br />Living in a culture that is tolerant and encouraging of breastfeeding in public. <br />Seeing happy, mellow babies tied to their mommies’ backs.<br />Dakar. I love that city.<br /><br />Things I am looking forward to in America:<br /><br />Seeing friends and family whom I have missed for two years<br />Things functioning the way that they are supposed to<br />Consistent internet!<br />An abundance of fresh vegetables, whole grains, real cheeses, and good chocolate <br />California wine, and good wine in general<br />The freedom to eat what I want, when I want it, in the quantity I choose<br />Being just another face in the crowd<br />Freaking people out at social functions with my “crazy stories from Africa”<br />New, clean, comfortable, functional clothes!<br />Yoga and Pilates classes<br />Being off medication<br />Having greater access to news and what’s going on in the world<br />Catching up on 2 years of movies<br />Gabbing for hours over coffee with friends<br />Seeing art exhibits, dance, music, opera, and theater productions.<br />Having stimulating and diverse conversations about our world, politics, the environment, healthcare, women’s rights, etc.<br />Feeling clean all the time<br />Hot showers, pumice stones, and mini-spa days<br />Sharing my PC experiences with friends and others who are willing to listen<br />Fresh terry cloth towels<br />Reading the Economist cover to cover the week it comes out instead of 4 months late.<br />Sleeping in a real bed, with clean, soft, fluffy sheets<br />Seasons!<br />Sushi and Mexican food (that’s kind of all I want to eat for my first month back) <br />Air conditioning<br />The Daily Show!<br />Being around for important events like weddings, and births<br /><br />Things I am NOT looking forward to in America:<br />Obsession with celebrity culture<br />Excess everything.<br />Having emotional breakdowns at inappropriate times, like in the cereal aisle because there are just too many kinds of bran flakes for one little RPCV to choose from.<br />Meeting people who just don’t care to know about my experiences<br />Ignorance about Africa (I know that’s part of my job to enlighten, but boy is it tiring)<br />Waste, packaging and vastly increasing my carbon footprint<br />Obsession with material goods and the need to consume<br />Obsession with body image<br />Getting confused looks when I try to use words like “Inchallah!” or “in the city même" or when I snap to get people’s attention, or click my tongue to signify agreement.<br />Everything being so expensive<br />Spoiled children<br />Cold, unfriendly city folk who don’t greet and ask about my family, my goats, my work, or the weather.<br />“Time is money” and the stress that that expression instills in our culture<br />Not having a baby on my hip at all times<br />Missing my Senegalese family and friends and dealing with the difficulty and anxiety of trying to stay in touch<br />Momentarily forgetting how privileged I am to have the opportunities that I do and to live the way that I do<br />Not being able to relate to old friends the same way I used to<br />Forever dealing with the “Expat phenomenon” (aka. Always feeling like a little bit of an outsider from now on).<br />Frustration with other people’s inability to let things just “roll of their back.”<br />Everyone being in a hurry all the time.<br />Lack of family togetherness<br />Mourning the end of an era. From here on out it will always be past tense: “When I was in the Peace Corps…”Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-45336544842816715272009-01-30T03:58:00.002-08:002009-01-30T03:59:20.335-08:00Infant EmergencyUp until this moment, I thought I had seen malnourished children. I thought that I could handle sick babies, and undernourished laboring mommies. I thought that I had had all the heartbreak I could take when one of my namesakes (a twin, five months old, I think she was a Down’s syndrome baby) died last fall. My first baby death.<br /><br />I was wrong.<br /><br />While I was in Thies, working with Operation Smile, providing translation and logistical support to the post-op nursing staff, I had the most devastating experience to date. I almost can’t write about it to this day because it affected me so profoundly.<br /><br />It was the last day that I was working with Operation Smile, during the last hour of a 13-hour shift. I was exhausted, but too excited about the work that week to notice. I had been on my feet, non-stop, barely eaten and hardly hydrated, but I was running on excitement and a love of feeling useful.<br /><br />All of a sudden, one of the young Op Smile volunteers came in to get one of the nurses I was working with.<br /><br />“Sandy, we need you out here quickly, a woman brought in a really sick baby.”<br /><br />We rushed over. There was a Pulaar woman, sitting in a chair holding a tiny bundle. When we unfolded the layers of material, I gasped and felt dizzy and sick to my stomach.<br /><br />There he was, a cleft palate, underweight (possibly even premature) 6-day-old baby boy. Not even old enough to be named yet. He was so tiny he wasn’t even the length of my forearm. All the skin on his body was peeling off in handfuls. He was lying in his own feces, with huge red, throbbing soars on his inner thighs and groin. He was so dehydrated and malnourished that he couldn’t even cry to express his distress. He was simply too weak and periodically would just make little breathy whines.<br /><br />The nurses immediately took action.<br /><br />Suddenly there was a flurry of activity while the three of them tried to find something to make into an infant IV. All I remember is seeing the panic stricken look on their faces and one of the nurses pleading with the surgeon in charge “If we don’t do something right now, this baby is going to die!”<br /><br />Then I was sent to the storage room (the operation brought all of their own supplies) to look for an infant oxygen mask. I was thrilled to have a task, as standing there staring was totally useless.<br /><br />I ran back from the storage room, mask in hand, and discovered that the surgeon had made the call to send the little guy to the local infant care wing of the hospital to be treated by Senegalese nurses. He was right, in that the operation was leaving the following day, and would have to no way to monitor him, and that ultimately, they needed to treat him locally. This of course devastated me, knowing the conditions of these hospitals. I sighed a little bit with relief though thinking that I would be able to tell myself that he’d be fine, and I wouldn’t have to get attached to this one.<br /><br />Wrong again.<br /><br />“Caitlin! You need to go over there. The woman who brought him in only speaks Pulaar. You need to translate.”<br /><br />“Shit…I’m on it.”<br /><br />I ran over there, clutching the infant oxygen mask, naively thinking it would do some good.<br /><br />I arrived on the heels of the surgeon and his wife who had brought the baby to the baby ward.<br /><br />It was like night and day, coming from the “little America” that Operation Smile had created in the wing the hospital relinquished to them, and going into the baby ward of the Senegalese regional hospital.<br /><br />There were probably 50 women and their babies crammed into a dimly lit cement room the size of my parent’s living room. Beds were everywhere, and there were multiple mommies and babies to each bed. Women sat on the floor, leaned up against the beds, and crammed onto the few available chairs, waiting by their sick kids, looking tired, unsure, anxious, and bored.<br /><br />We brought him in with a flurry of activity. Three of our local Senegalese counterparts (two doctors and one nurse) who were working with Op Smile came in to assist and help transition him over to the nurse in charge of the ward. She of course was in the break room, watching television and not attending to any of the patients. The Op Smile surgeon asked me<br /><br />“How old is he?”<br /><br />“Six days” I said. “He was born on Saturday.” I took a breath and asked hesitantly, “do you think he’ll be okay?”<br /><br />“He won’t make it,” he said matter-of-factly.<br /><br />My heart sunk. My mouth went dry. This was what it felt like.<br /><br />This was what all those doctors from Drs. Without Borders and the International Red Cross went through constantly. I felt discouraged, knowing that I was letting myself get too attached, get too invested in this one life. But I was absolutely powerless to stop myself. As the nurses and doctors prepared, I leaned over him, pet his tiny head, tears streaming down my cheeks and whispered,<br /><br />“Come on little baby, don’t die. You can make it. Fight for me okay? You’ve got to fight baby. Fight.”<br /><br />It sounds like some cheesy line from a Hollywood film starring some gorgeous Hollywood starlette who goes to the 3rd world for the first time to “help people.” But that’s exactly what it felt like. Except that this wasn’t a movie. I couldn’t save him. In fact, I could do absolutely nothing for him. I was helpless and terrified and alone in a room full of onlookers.<br /><br />Now came the horrible part.<br /><br />I was already, overwhelmed, exhausted, and panicked by the state of this little guy. We shoved over another toddler to make room for him on part of one of the 1950s style hospital beds. The doctors hooked up the oxygen mask to an available tank (I was amazed that it even existed) and we tried to position it on his little face so that some of the oxygen would actually get to him. He was so tiny the plastic practically covered his entire head and face leaving huge gaps for the oxygen to diffuse into the room. Wheezing all the while in an attempt to cry, the doctors began searching for a vein on his tiny little arm.<br /><br />They searched and searched.<br /><br />They tied rubber strips around his arms to bring the blood to the surface. They found nothing. They pricked him repeatedly. Nothing. They tied rubber strips around his legs, hoping that his feet would be more promising. They failed. After ten minutes, they agreed to shave his head and start looking for a vein there instead. He was simply too dehydrated to administer an IV normally.<br /><br />This is when I really started to lose it.<br /><br />Here he was, cleft palate, malnourished, near death, lying in his own feces, premature/underweight, 6 days old, being poked and prodded repeatedly just at the off chance we might be able to save him, or at least stall death for a few precious hours. They jabbed him over and over, still nothing. He gasped in soundless protest.<br /><br />A cockroach the size of his foot ran over his naked exposed sores and legs. I nearly gagged.<br /><br />The nurses and doctors moved him to a countertop with “better light.” Another ten minutes went by. They shaved his head, pinched his skin, poked him with a needle, and waited for blood to show. But the second they pulled out the needle to try a new spot the blood would come rushing out. Great. He was so freaking dehydrated they wouldn’t even be able to save him from dehydration. It was sick. I was losing it.<br /><br />By now tears are streaming down my face and neck. Stifling my sobs and wiping my tears and nose on my t-shirt, all eyes are on these doctors and I. The other women in the room are all mumbling sounds of sympathy and blessings, realizing how grave the situation really is, and probably feeling thankful that their babies don’t look as bad as ours. The light is so dim they can barely see. Realizing that I have my cell phone, I feel a moment of pride at my momentary usefulness and turn on its flashlight.<br /><br />Finally, after about 20 minutes, success! They found a vein and they got the IV going. The two nurses moved him back to the filthy, dusty, cockroach infested bed.<br /><br />The moment they put him down, the IV came out.<br /><br />“NO!” I shouted.<br /><br />I knew that I was being unreasonable, that they wouldn’t give up, that in this culture I shouldn’t show this much emotion, but I was too tired, and too devastated to care. I gave in to my sobs. I ran out of the room, pushing past people, blinded by my tears. I collapsed against the wall outside the entrance, trying to hide myself as much as possible behind a bench. I wanted to indulge in the wretchedness of it all. I was despondent.<br /><br />I sat there and sobbed. I sobbed and sobbed. I sobbed for this little baby, for all the babies like him, for the unfairness of it all, for myself and my helplessness. I sobbed because I just needed to let it all out.<br /><br />I must have sat there for a good ten minutes. With no end in sight, a Pulaar woman heard that I spoke Pulaar and she came up to me and put her arm around me. She spoke softly and slowly, but firmly to me in Pulaar. She shushed me gently. She told me that I was good, that I had a good heart, because I cared so much for this little baby, but that I was scaring everyone. She said that I was scaring the woman who had brought him (not his mother…or she lied out of embarrassment), and I was scaring everyone around me. She shushed me kindly and firmly and helped me to my feet. I don’t know why, but somehow she was able to shut me up almost immediately. I just needed a figurative slap on the face. She was right. Crying wasn’t helping anybody. I dried my now red swollen eyes, and marched back inside. I hadn’t even asked her for her name.<br /><br />There he was, lying in that same spot, still in his shit covered cloths, but attached to an IV!<br />I was ecstatic.<br />The nurse came up to me, “See? We got him hooked up, it’s okay.”<br /><br />I spent a few moments talking to the woman (supposedly a neighbor) who had brought him in, explaining what had happened, and why he was so sick. Now that he was “stable” I could take a few more moments to ask her some questions and chastise her/the mother a bit for waiting so long to seek medical care. They know better, and they know when their children are sick and this behavior was entirely unacceptable and that now it was too late and he would probably die. I told her that if not immediately, then in a few weeks, or months, because he would be too weak to fight off any infections or other illnesses. I was not mean, or rude, just firm and clear. I know I made her feel ashamed though. That was not my goal, but I needed her to share in my sense of urgency.<br /><br />Apparently what had happened was because he was a cleft palate and lip, mom had no idea how to nurse him. Cleft palate babies can’t suckle properly and the milk just dribbles right out of their mouths if they can even manage to “latch on” well enough to express milk. Moms have to learn to squeeze their breasts and aim the milk towards the back of the baby’s throat so that it stays down.<br /><br />Because the health post workers have little training and there are minimal resources, they kept shifting the mom of the baby around to different health posts. One told her to go to Dakar. She said she didn’t have the money, so she waited, went back a few days later when she still couldn’t feed him and they told her there was an American medical mission doing operations on cleft palate babies in Thies (closer to her house and much cheaper). So she came to us thinking we could “fix” him. Obviously major surgery on an infant that tiny and malnourished was impossible. She had waited until he was practically on death’s doorstep. Although I can’t imagine a feeling so awful, a large part of me thinks she was just going to let him die. She had no idea how to care for him, and had let him dehydrate for six days. In six days this little baby had probably not even had a spoonful worth of fluids each day.<br /><br />When I finished speaking to her I spent a few more minutes cooing over him, pleading with him to make it, to survive. Then I found the nurse and told her to change his dressings, and warned her that I would come back to check on him in an hour.<br /><br />I returned to the post-op room and cried some more to the sympathetic nurses. They hugged and consoled me, but I could tell that they were far better at not getting attached than I was. It wasn’t that they didn’t care (quite the contrary), it was just experience. They’ve been there, dealt with so much fear, anxiety, and emotion, that they were just better able to handle it.<br /><br />I finished up my shift amidst more sympathetic cooing from other PCVs, patients, and nurses, and I gathered my strength for a final visit to Baby Boy.<br /><br />I went into the room and the woman who brought him was nowhere to be found. There he was, his IV almost empty, still lying in his own feces. Not making breathy whine, just awake and lethargic. The nurse of course was in the break room, snacking and watching television.<br /><br />I put on the best fake smile I could muster,<br />“Hi again. The baby’s IV is almost empty, would you come change it please? And he really needs to be changed, he’s filthy and his whole body is infected.”<br /><br />She indulged me, was perfectly cheerful and got up quickly. She put up a new bottle of IV fluid and reassured me that she was going to change his cloths right away.<br /><br />It was time for me to leave.<br /><br />There was nothing left for me to do. I had half a mind to stay there all night, willing him to live, to fight, and to pester the nurse to care for him. I had a fight with myself. I told myself to be reasonable, that I couldn’t behave this way every time I encountered a sick baby. I told myself that it’s okay to go the distance, and I had, and that I needed leave for the sake of my mental health. The next day I had to hold a film screening in Dakar and I would have to trust that I had done everything in my power to help Baby Boy.<br /><br />I kissed him on the forehead and left him a miniature stuffed koala bear (I had had attached to my jeans belt loop for ‘flare’ during the mission). I shook the hand of the woman who had brought him, and accepted her blessings. I clasped my hands together, held them up in the air (a sign of thanks when you can’t shake everyone’s hand) and said goodbye to the room. I walked out…never to see the little guy again.<br /><br />I was sure he was going to die.<br />“Tonight, tomorrow, or next week even” I thought to myself.<br /><br />I called another PCV as I walked out, sobbing again, and explained the whole story.<br /><br />We were all meeting up for a fellow PCV’s birthday dinner. I knew I was going to be a downer, but that I couldn’t be alone at the training center. So I went. I was glad I did because it was the distraction, and comfort that I needed.<br /><br />I also called a friend from home, wanting to hear a sympathetic unjaded voice. Even though he felt powerless to do anything to console me, I realized that sometimes you just need someone to say,<br />“Oh my god. That’s awful. I’m so sorry. That shouldn’t happen. I’m sorry.”<br />As I spoke with him, the angry phase kicked in.<br /><br />“Fucking CARE damnit! Why didn’t she care? Where is her sense of urgency? What’s WRONG with people? Why wasn’t she panic-stricken and trying harder to keep her child alive? What’s wrong with her? Just…just GIVE a shit!” I swore into the phone.<br /><br />I of course knew the answer to all of those questions, but sometimes you just have to let it out. I knew the lack of urgency and powerlessness stemmed from the fact that women here expect to lose children during their lifetime. They know that they have a very high chance (1 in 21 in Senegal) of dying in childbirth. (It’s about 1 in 8,000 in the USA, just to give you some basis of comparison).<br /><br />Everyone else loses babies, why should this mommy be any different? It was all in God’s hands anyway right? They have to tell themselves that if God wants their baby, then he is going to take him or her. If they let themselves be inconsolable every time, people would just die of heartbreak. It’s their coping mechanism. They’re trying to survive too.<br /><br />I also think that part of the apparent “lack of urgency” is that women have no reproductive rights. They have no choice in the timing, or frequency of their pregnancies. It’s taboo to use family planning and half the time they don’t get much say in who they’re married off to. They are literally baby-making receptacles.<br /><br />Can you imagine? Birthing your 6th child with a man you never liked, knowing that maybe this time you will have a complicated delivery and bleed to death? I know that every mother loves her baby, but there’s got to be some kind of animosity towards the babies, and relief at not having another infant to carry on your back when your last one has just been weaned.<br /><br />And that’s just healthy babies!<br /><br />Imagine having a handicapped/deformed child in this society? It’s such a burden on the whole family. There are no institutions in place to help a busy, uneducated mother with 5 other children raise a special needs child like that. They certainly would never be able to afford an expensive surgery for him if it weren’t for missions like Operation Smile.<br /><br />After we hung up the phone I felt a lot better.<br /><br />I went back into the restaurant. We all threw back a few GnTs, shared a delicious meal and fell into bed at 10pm. As I drifted off to sleep, I reflected on the absurdity of it all. I thought about the dichotomy of being raised and ultimately going home to a world of privilege, while working in a world of destitution.<br /><br />I fell into a dreamless sleep, exhausted. <br /><br />The next morning I went to Dakar, and held a film screening at one of the fanciest private schools in the country, the International School of Dakar, for high school kids of the wealthy expat community. Talk about polar opposites.<br /><br />When I got to Dakar I called another PCV and discovered that in fact, by some kind of miracle, Baby Boy had not died that night!<br /><br />He was alive and fighting and still hooked up to an IV. I was amazed. Relieved and amazed. But I was still disappointed. I knew that the next day the mission would pull out entirely and I would never hear about Baby Boy again. I can only hope that he’ll make it. But not just survive, I hope that he survives, becomes fat, and well nourished, and doesn’t die from malaria, or an intestinal parasite, or some horrible infection. That he goes to school and lives a long and prosperous life.<br /><br />The reality is that that won’t happen. Baby Boy, like millions of babies before him and after him, don’t stand a fighting chance at life and will more than likely perish before their fifth birthday.<br /><br />I apologize for my frankness. I’m just being realistic. <br /><br />I need to go to nursing school…Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-27031540897334944152009-01-30T03:58:00.001-08:002009-01-30T03:58:40.977-08:00All in a day's workThere are a lot of unquantifiable activities that PCVs do that profoundly change our communities and our lives, and yet are not appropriate for official documentation in our administrative reporting system.<br /><br />The births I’ve attended for example, I would classify as this kind of activity. They were informal, spontaneous, one-on-one experiences where I was able to “educate” others by living by example. When I worked with the midwives and matrons I was able to expose them to a much kinder, gentler, and even more effective way of coaching women through labor. While I can’t measure the lasting effect of, or ensure transference of any of the behaviors I demonstrated, I hope that at least some of my techniques rubbed off on them.<br /><br />Today I had a similar experience. It will probably take most of my energy for the next few days, and yet I can’t “get credit” for it. Such is the life of a PCV.<br /><br />I came home from the weekly market, psyched about buying my week’s worth of bananas and eggs for my breakfasts. I sat down with my sister and our neighbor who is 9 months pregnant. We were talking about when she was due, and I was making sure she was planning on delivering at the health post and not at home. We talked a bit about her due date, how her pregnancy was going, and I let her know that no matter what time of night, she should call on me to be her doula and I would stay with her through the whole thing.<br /><br />As we talked, my sister mentioned to me that one of our neighbors was being forced into marriage by her mother and had been on hunger strike for 3 days as a result. Forced marriage is illegal, but unfortunately quite common in Senegal, and especially in this region. Girls, especially girls who have never been to school, don’t know that they have resources, that there are people who they can call, who will hold a mediation with the families and will protect these girls from an unhappy life as baby-making receptacles, away from their families, at the beckon call of a husband they don’t love. Maybe it sounds incredibly dramatic, but that is the reality for many a girl/woman in this region of Senegal.<br /><br />They began to speak in hushed voices. They explained to me that she had been forced into marriage last year and was sent to live with her husband against her will. She spent a miserable month there, and came home, vowing never to return. A year has passed and her mother has been pressuring her to go back, saying that she will abandon her for the rest of her life for disobeying her and shaming their family. Still she refuses and recently the argument has come to a head as her mother is threatening to send her back and she refused to eat in protest to prove her point. She has vowed that even if her mother beats her, kicks her out of the house, or abandons her for life, she will never go back.<br /><br />Turns out that her husband, is old, I mean really old. And stupid. But he’s got money. Her family is poor. Super poor. They figured, they’d marry her off and then she’d bring money to the family. And he did. He paid the family a ton of money, and off she went, against her will. She ran away once, and finally they forced her to go. He already has a first wife, a super old woman, and many children. All of whom are even older than her and have already had children! Gross huh?<br /><br />I made it quite clear to my sister that this was unacceptable, that it was in fact illegal, that she was an adult and could not be forced to return. I let them know that I was angry, and then I zipped off to my room to start making phone calls.<br /><br />Here’s where it gets messy. Seriously, it’s a problem with no end…It will just frustrate you, so if you’re up for it, keep reading. If not, then stop now.<br /><br />I called my good teacher friend who was a guest panel speaker at my girl’s leadership conference who works to prevent forced and early marriage. She was thrilled I called and gave me a couple of phone numbers. One of which was the phone number of the regional children’s rights lawyer in the regional capital. He is the one in charge of all the cases relating to children including female genital cutting, forced marriage, and abuse. A wonderful man, he called me back immediately after receiving my thorough and slightly anxious message. He explained that because she was 18 years old when she was forced into the marriage, and was now 20 years old, that there was nothing he could do. She was out of his jurisdiction and technically under the law, she was an adult and made the decision to go and consummate the marriage. All he could do was offer to hold a mediation with the family if that’s what it came to. He said that she should start taking the steps to divorce him. She’s an adult and has the right.<br /><br />I called for her to come to our house and explained that I had already called my friend who works at the court and explained her situation. I told her I could call him right away so that he could give her advice.<br /><br />To my surprise and dismay, she refused. She absolutely refused. She said she was too scared to get officials involved, that if he came to her house he would find out that her husband gave her family the money and that she technically “consummated” the marriage, and he would side with her parents. Of course that is not true. She has the right to leave him if she wants. Under the law she can divorce him, but her family would probably shame her forever. Some choice huh? She also said it was unsafe to call him because if he came to her home than her family would be shamed because everyone would know that she involved the authorities.<br /><br />I tried for a good hour to convince her to at least talk to him about good strategies, my sisters translating the parts I couldn’t quite get out carefully enough in Pulaar. But she is too naïve, scared, and vulnerable. She still refused.<br /><br />Her strategy? Run away. Great.<br />That’s not going to do any good except piss them off more, and put her in danger. Where is she going to run to? When they find her they’re just going to beat the crap out of her. Then what?<br /><br />I told her that I would be happy to talk to them if she thought it would help. They are planning on sending her on Sunday (though I think they’re lying and it will actually be Saturday so she won’t runaway again). She is already ready to runaway early Sunday morning. Tremendous.<br />I tried my best to convince her that what needs to happen is a conversation. That their way of thinking needs to be changed first and foremost. They need to be told that they are not allowed to treat her that way.<br /><br />I know that coming from me it will probably just seem meddlesome so I sought the advice of another teacher friend who lives in my neighborhood who also participated in my girls leadership conference and has experience intervening in these kinds of situations.<br /><br />She was only slightly helpful, in that she was very realistic about the entire situation, but discouraging. She told me that the girl should never have accepted the marriage, that rather than piss off her parents she should have sought out the proper authorities and refused. Or, that she should have agreed, gone and married him and then pissed him off and been a bad wife until he divorced her and avoided the pressure of her parents altogether. Hmmm….<br /><br />Not exactly the best advice.<br />For one thing it takes an incredibly strong woman to be able to handle that kind of situation. To first realize that you have resources and support networks to help you, to stand up against your parents, to resist the temptations of a wealthy arrangement when you’re dirt poor (however disgusting he is), or then to accept all these things to save face and refuse the advances of your husband and isolate yourself in your new family and be so disagreeable that he divorces you.<br /><br />Uhg.<br />It makes me sick to my stomach just thinking about how convoluted, complicated, and not in her favor all these things are.<br /><br />Family is everything here. Of course her parents are not allowed to kick her out and abandon her, but they can still make her life miserable, and cut her off entirely. She’s never been to school. What options does she have? I don’t even think she knows that she’s allowed to divorce him.<br /><br />That’s where I come in.<br /><br />I am treading as carefully as possible. It is a risky thing for me to be doing, as they are my neighbors and there are many people in my community who would be furious with me for interfering, but of course I am anyway. It’s the right thing to do. That and I’m crazy stubborn J but most of you already knew that.<br /><br />Where it stands now is that I’m waiting with bated breath for this weekend to see what goes down. She wants to try to deal with it on her own this time. If they still try to send her afterwards then I have her permission to bring in the authorities. Meanwhile I’m trying to convince her that she has the right to divorce him.<br /><br />My own sister didn’t even know that!? Women literally believe that they don’t have the right to even divorce their husbands! They are kept so far in the dark that it’s as if they perpetuate their status as second-class citizens. Of course, the law is on their side, but of course they still have to deal with all the familial repercussions of their actions, and the gossiping, isolation, and fighting that would ensue in their family and community networks.<br /><br />All that is left is to have a sit-down with her parents. I am perfectly willing to be that person, but she has to ask me first. I am not going to march in there and risk breaking ties between our two families unless she asks me too. Also, it’s tricky because I would probably need a translator and that would mean involving someone else.<br /><br />On the plus side my new contact at the court is kind of the awesomest contact yet. He was so helpful on the phone, had endless patience, and really thought over the whole story. Bottom line: he gives a shit. That is hard to find, especially among men with influential positions out here. He invited me to the courthouse Monday so that he can give me his information and documents that explain the best techniques for stopping forced and early marriage, the breakdowns of the laws, and how to hold mediations, who to contact etc. PC doesn’t exactly give us much training on this stuff and I figure that at least this way, maybe if I can leave the information for other volunteers in an organized manner, they will know the steps to take before it’s too late for another young girl. If the word gets out, my neighbor will be able to tell other girls that there are institutions in place to support them, that maybe next time this guy’s phone number will be passed from hand to hand in secret between girlfriends, and one of them will be courageous enough to fight and save herself from a forced marriage.<br /><br />So that’s how I spent my day yesterday. I met with the school director to discuss my replacement volunteer, I went to the market, and spent the whole afternoon trying to change the world, one forced marriage at a time.<br />Granted I failed, so maybe it was all for naught…but I haven’t given up yet. I’ll keep you all posted.<br /><br />Now, if only I could figure out some way to justify this time and energy as work for my Close of Service report…Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-92070788538770806152009-01-30T03:56:00.001-08:002009-01-30T03:57:54.531-08:00Update!I know I know, I’m sorry. I haven’t written in FOREVER.<br /><br />You had all probably given up on me by now, but it’s funny how cyclical my PC service has been. I really needed the blog at first. I used it as a way to share, vent, reflect, and process all the experiences I was having. Then towards the middle, I was sick, had fewer stories, went to America, came back and spent a few months working in Dakar. In Dakar I was busy busy busy, keeping Western hours and working like crazy on the tree nursery making instructional video and holding screenings of our women’s education/empowerment documentary.<br /><br />In November I was busy with a girl’s leadership conference, then my parents came to visit, then I was working with a medical mission in Thies, Operation Smile, then I went to NYC for the holidays and a wedding. Now I’ve been back for several weeks, the cold season has been glorious, and is in fact beginning to end (about 100 in direct sunlight today…tragic) and I have less than 3 months left!<br /><br />Let me say that again…I have less than 3 months left! That’s crazy! I came out here in March 2007! It seems like yesterday I was crying, packing, calming the butterflies and mentally preparing for the unknown. Turns out the PC slogan is right on the money. It has definitely been the toughest challenge I’ll ever love…and then some.<br /><br />Now that the end is near and I’m preparing for “the next step,” I find myself drawn to writing again. I have a lot of stories I’ve been saving up that I hope to plug in sporadically. I hope that you will all forgive my extreme tardiness and helter skelter order.<br /><br />So what is the next step for me? Nurse Midwifery School! I’m super excited about it. (Not necessarily the whole application, prerequisites, and 3 more years of school part), but the end result is what’s going to get me through. Coming into the Peace Corps I knew that nursing was a possibility. I even considered putting off the PC to become licensed, but ultimately I decided that nursing school would always be waiting. I was unattached, adventurous, and desperate to spend a prolonged period of time in Africa. And it was the perfect experience to give me some clarity. In fact, 6 women from the group of volunteers I came in with are going to apply to nursing school next year! 6 out of 35 people! We’re already joking about creating our own traveling RPCV Senegal medical mission.<br /><br />Between all of the medical emergencies and births I’ve witnessed, and the horrifying conditions of the medical facilities and lack of training of local health workers out here, I am more confident than ever that the nurse midwifery path is the right one for me. I need tangible medical skills so that I can continue working in Africa/the developing world and have something more concrete to offer than just a development background.<br /><br />I want to work to train local health care workers and speak to communities with authority on their medical problems. I’m constantly frustrated by my lack of medical knowledge and inability to diagnose problems. Probably 3x per day someone mentions not feeling well, or points out a child’s skin infection and asks me what to do about it, what it is, or if I have medicine. Of course my basic knowledge is semi-helpful and most things clear up on their own, or can be solved by going to the pharmacy, or the health post, but people are always discouraged when they know that I am a health worker and all I can tell them is: “Wash it well with soap and water, or drink lots of fluids…and then go to the health post.” They’ve heard that song and dance. They want to know what the huge festering pus scab is behind their daughter’s ear, how to prevent it, why it keeps coming back, and exactly what medicine they need to treat it. I just don’t have that kind of training. Not that basic germ theory, nutrition information, and first aid don’t help clear up a lot of things, but my classes and tips to people would carry a lot more clout if I was actually a licensed health professional. <br /><br />People are scared of the workers at the health post because they treat them horribly and they are not well trained. I’ve heard horror stories of people bringing in sick kids and the nurses just sitting there refusing to get up and help, making tea, and getting angry for being badgered during “break time.” My own sister once went to the health post with false labor pains and was told that she would deliver within the day, was given Pitocin (to speed up and make contractions more forceful) and SENT HOME (a HUGE no-no), only to be in tremendous pain for hours. At which point my brother called the Dr. and he had her rushed to the nearby bigger hospital where they gave her a counter medicine, or at least monitored her until the pain stopped, and she went home…only to give birth 19 DAYS LATER!! No wonder people don’t go to the health post until they’re so sick it’s too late. The place has a reputation…you only go there to die, because often people wait so long and are so sick beyond the capacity of the local health workers that they do die.<br /><br />Point is, that all of these kinds of experiences have just cemented my desire to be a health care professional. Sometimes I wish I had just listened to my 6th grade self when I declared that I wanted to be an OBGyn, but you know, sometimes you have to go on and do other things to end up right back where you started right? (Does that even make sense? My English is seriously lame these days).<br /><br />While I was working with Operation Smile providing translation support, I met some amazing nurses and even though I wasn’t “healing” anyone per se, I just adored caring for the patients and answering their family’s questions. The results were immediate and the families SO appreciative that I felt on top of the world, and SO useful!<br />I pulled 13 hour shifts for multiple days in a row, cried some, laughed a lot, watched a couple of surgeries, and ultimately fell in love with the profession. Granted I want a bit more responsibility and want to be able to be a midwife and deliver on my own, but the medical mission was just a taste of what is to come. <br /><br />I’m applying to several different schools with accelerated BSNursing/MSNursemidwifery programs, all over the country. I’m going to spend the late spring and summer months taking billions of prerequisites and studying for the GREs like a madwoman. I am allowed to leave country as early as April 11th at which point I am going to go straight to DC and the East Coast and do a brief tour of schools and of course visit a whole lot of people I haven’t seen for two years. I am a little bummed that I’m not planning a huge Close of Service trip, which many volunteers do, but I’m antsy to get started on these classes. If it turns out that I complete them ahead of time then I can always travel later I suppose. I’ll be back in Cali for the summer, taking courses at UCBerkeley through August and working to get my official doula certification so that I can start getting more experience attending births. <br /><br />Then who knows where I’ll end up for school?<br /><br />It makes me nervous knowing that I will have to be in the states, in one place for roughly 3-4 years. After spending the past three years abroad (London and then Senegal), I am terrified of getting too comfortable living the cushy American life and forgetting all that I’ve learned out here. At the same time I also yearn for luxury, to be clean, comfortable and healthy, and for the freedom from constantly worrying about scorpions, dysentery, malaria, child abuse, the heat, malnourished children, and death. I am eager to be off mefaquin (woohoo!) and to stop being a constant source of entertainment. I am looking forward to being just another face in the crowd, but it also terrifies me that maybe no one will want to listen to my stories, and I simply won’t be able to shut up about Senegal.<br /><br />I am anxious and sick to my stomach every time I think about leaving my host family, but I also can’t wait another second to see dear friends from home. I know I’ll come back to Kanel eventually, but who knows when? My host father is 81 years old…who knows how much longer he’ll be around? I have pledged to come back if I eventually get married…someday…and hold a mock Senegalese wedding ceremony, and I mean it now, and don’t want to lose that conviction.<br /><br />I keep repeating to myself…<br /><br />I will be back someday. I will call often. I will send letters, pictures, and packages. I will not forget the Lam family and the town of Kanel who have done so much for me.<br /><br />The whole thing is just so heartbreaking. In some ways it’s worse leaving here than it was leaving the states two years ago. At least then I had a time frame. I knew I would be back in two years time. I have no idea when I’ll be able to come back to Senegal.<br /><br />At this point it’s all my family can talk about. They are obsessed with the countdown and telling me how much they are going to miss me. It makes me feel good, but it’s difficult to concentrate on all the projects I still have to finish up before I can leave. I just want to spend my time sitting around with them and my closest friends, soaking up all the sights, sounds, smells, and joyous moments and commit them to memory.<br /><br />I have asked PC to replace me with another volunteer, an Environmental Education volunteer, female (at my family’s request), who speaks French. That will make it easier for me to send things and stay in touch, but my family keeps saying that no one will be able to replace me, and that they almost don’t want anyone else! Very sweet.<br /><br />In any event, I’ve got two more weeks up here, then it’s down to Thies for GAD meetings and a GAD conference, then the West African Invitational Softball Tournament over President’s Day weekend, and the all volunteer conference, our Close of Service conference, and medical appointments, and then two friends, Lisa and Wendy are coming to visit for 2 weeks! Yay! They leave March 7th, then it’s back up to the desert for 3 weeks to start wrap things up and say my goodbyes. By April I’ll be in Dakar finishing film stuff, and then it’s home to America for good!<br /><br />It really has all gone by so quickly I can’t even believe it. I am so lucky. It’s been such an incredible experience. Sure it’s been trying and almost unbearable at times, but the highs have been more rewarding than I ever could have imagined.<br /><br />Looking back, I truly would not trade it for the world.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-81856645029033428472008-11-10T04:02:00.001-08:002008-11-10T04:03:22.296-08:00Fund Peace...Not War!FYI<br /> A petition to increase funding for PC ...<br /><br /> MorePeaceCorps Petition to President-elect Obama!<br /><br />With the election of Barack Obama as the 44th President of the UnitedStates, the National Peace Corps Association and its MorePeaceCorpscampaign has launched an on-line petition urging support for a bigger,better and bolder Peace Corps. The petition is addressed toPresident-elect Obama, and will be presented to the Obama transitionteam. We also plan to use the petition as a way of showing criticalstate and congressional district support during meetings in the comingmonths with Capitol Hill lawmakers.<br />The next six months mark a critical point for action on theMorePeaceCorps campaign. Get started RIGHT NOW by signing the petitionand getting at least ten other people you know (family members, friends,colleagues, etc.) to sign. You can also forward this petition to othersyou know overseas, as a demonstration of the global interest forMorePeaceCorps.<br />Take action right now, right here:<br /><a href="http://www.petitiononline.com/morepc/petition.html">http://www.PetitionOnline.com/morepc/petition.html</a><br />Thanks!<br /><br />Instant access to the latest & most popular FREE games while you browse with the Games Toolbar - Download Now! Sue Forster-Cox, PhD, MPH, CHESAssociate ProfessorHealth Science Dept.New Mexico State UniversityPO Box 30001, MSC 3HLS1335 International Mall, #327Las Cruces, NM 88003-8001575-646-2183575-646-4343 (fax)<a href="mailto:sforster@nmsu.edu">sforster@nmsu.edu</a><br />No exercise is better for the human heart than reaching down to lift up another person. Tim RussertCaitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-19095303845313104192008-10-29T07:45:00.000-07:002008-10-29T07:51:41.382-07:00MOVIE Online!Hello everyone,<br /><br />Finally, the Peace Corps, SeneGAD and Peace Only Productions film, Elle Travaille, Elle Vit! (She Works, She Lives!) Check out the whole video at<br /><a href="http://www.peaceonlyproductions.blogspot.com/">www.peaceonlyproductions.blogspot.com</a><br /><br />This is the film I've been working to promote in Dakar that USAID/PAEM has picked up and I held a screening at the US embassy for. (I worked on the subtitles and am now in charge of its distribution in Senegal).<br /><br />The other film we just finished, Tree Nurseries in the Sahel, should be uploaded sometime next week. Though that one does not have subtitles, the art and music are still fantastic!<br /><br />Enjoy! And please, let me know what you all think and if you have any ideas about people who might be interested in obtaining a copy or showing it. And spread the link around! We want to maximize coverage.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-79633545028890965212008-10-01T16:06:00.000-07:002008-10-01T16:08:24.974-07:00Holly's CauseTHIS IS FROM MY FRIEND AND COLLEAGUE HOLLY! READ UP!<br /><br />Hello all!<br />So as many of you know, I have a Peace Corps Partnership project going right now to build two classrooms for the school in my village. I'm trying to finish raising funds by the beginning of November so we can start construction as soon as the rainy season is over. The project is a great cause, and every penny donated will go towards helping the students of Cour Bambey to be able to take pride in their school. <br />To donate, visit <a href="http://www.tinyurl.com/PCSenegal">www.tinyurl.com/PCSenegal</a> Please please please, forward this to any family and friends you think might be interested in donating. <br />For more information about the project or my village, feel free to email me at <a href="mailto:hollypabroad@yahoo.com">hollypabroad@yahoo.com</a><br />Thanks so much!<br />Holly PackardCaitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-69685073158210168262008-09-29T04:57:00.000-07:002008-09-29T04:59:33.280-07:00FundraisingOctober 1, 2008<br /><br /><br />Dear Family and Friends,<br /><br />Asalaamalekum! I hope this finds you happy and healthy. Since moving to Senegal in 2007, I have been performing my primary assignment as a rural health education volunteer, in Kanel, in the Matam region. I am also involved in many secondary projects, including SeneGAD, Peace Corps Senegal’s Gender and Development advocacy organization.<br /><br />SeneGAD is a network of Peace Corps Volunteers (PCVs) (of which I am a board member), that develop resources and programming that emphasize gender equality. SeneGAD encourages volunteers to incorporate GAD work into all Peace Corps projects, including the Michele Sylvester Memorial Scholarship, women’s health and leadership conferences, and youth clubs. We hope that these events will inspire the participants, bring attention to issues of gender and development and provide a springboard for future SeneGAD efforts. <br /><br />The Michele Sylvester Scholarship Fund was founded in 1993 in memory of former Peace Corps Senegal Volunteer Michele Sylvester, who was committed to girl’s education. Initially, the scholarship benefited two village-based girls, but thanks to generous donations and fundraising the number of recipients has increased to forty girls for the 2007-2008 school year. After receiving the 25,000 CFA ($50) scholarships, each girl is partnered with a PCV who mentors and follows the girl’s progress throughout the school term.<br /><br />PCVs are also encouraged to start youth clubs, an opportunity to educate and empower young people in the community. Often, groups make and sell crafts, learn about proper hygiene and nutrition, or undergo leadership training. Above all, these groups offer a safe place to discuss the challenges of growing up in Senegal and inspire young people to be active citizens. <br /><br />Every year, SeneGAD raises money through a semi-annual auction and rummage sale and yearlong calendar and cookbook sales. As part of this year’s effort to expand SeneGAD’s visibility and increase programming, we are seeking additional support from friends and family back home. For $50, you can reward a hardworking middle school girl with a Michele Sylvester scholarship; for $20, you can sponsor a youth club.<br /> <br /><div align="center"><strong>Please send contributions to:<br />Friends of Senegal and The Gambia, ATTN.: Daniel Theisen, SeneGAD, 428 Bowleys Quarters Road, Baltimore, MD 21220. Friends of Senegal and The Gambia will forward proceeds to SeneGAD. </strong></div><div align="center"><br /> </div>If you know of any others who might be interested in SeneGAD's mission, please feel free to share this letter with them. If you have any questions please contact me at: <a href="mailto:caitlingive@gmail.com">caitlingive@gmail.com</a>, 221. 77.257.1479, or the SeneGAD representative: Awa Traoré, SeneGAD Advisor, <a href="mailto:Awatracheikh@yahoo.fr">Awatracheikh@yahoo.fr</a>, B.P. 299, Thies, Senegal, 221.77.654.16.53.<br /><br />Thank you in advance for supporting SeneGAD, and helping us achieve our goals and aspirations for gender equality in Senegal. I wish you and your family continued peace and good health.<br /><br /><br />Sincerely,<br /><br />Caitlin GivensCaitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-9996928933432355702008-09-29T03:08:00.000-07:002008-09-29T03:13:18.075-07:00Work pictures updatedI have updated the pictures in my Picasa web album called, Work!<br />To find my pictures go to the sidebar and find the links, then click on the one labeled<br />"Cait's Senegal Pics"<br /><br />There are pictures of some of the cool work stuff that I've been busy with in Dakar over the past several weeks. Please take a look and enjoy! And be sure of course to check out <a href="http://jacetletakeifa.com/">Jac et le Takeifa</a>, the cool band that we're working with. I know you will all really enjoy their music.<br />I hope to write a more substantial blog entry soon, I know these have been unsatisfying, but know that no news = good news, and that I'm as busy as can be and enjoying myself thoroughly.<br /><br />Ramadan ends this week, and then as soon as this next film screening is over I am FINALLY making the trek back up to the desert (until the first week of november when I have to come back down to Dakar. Sigh.) I can't wait to see my family and friends at site. I'm beginning to wonder if all of the baby clothes I brought back (thanks mom) will even fit the right babies anymore?Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-12045422960668191562008-09-29T03:05:00.000-07:002008-09-29T03:08:01.292-07:00Film Screening #2 October 7th<div align="center">Peace Only Productions, SeneGAD, and PEACE CORPS Senegal</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">Present<br /><br />ELLE TRAVAILLE, ELLE VIT!<br /><br /><strong>Tuesday October 7th, 2008<br />3 pm<br />American Center, Mbacke Building, Dakar</strong><br /><br /><br />Please come join us for the screening of Elle Travaille, Elle Vit! (She Works, She Lives!). Produced, directed, and edited by Peace Corps volunteers with funds from the US Embassy and SeneGAD.<br /><br /><br />She Works, She Lives! is a documentary that explores the role of women in Senegalese society and highlights the importance of girl’s education in particular. Each of the five women interviewed for the film come from diverse backgrounds and followed distinct paths to get to where they are today. Some of them come from small villages while others come from urban environments, some from supportive families and others from less supportive families. But at some point in their lives, each of these five women realized that she had the potential to be more and to achieve more than what was expected of her. This documentary looks at the histories of these inspiring women, the feelings they have about their work and their upbringing, and their hopes for the future of Senegalese women.<br /><br />Concessions will be available. Donations to SeneGAD are welcome.</div>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-58529022853464177842008-09-21T12:09:00.000-07:002008-09-21T12:16:18.879-07:00Film screening Sunday September 28th<div align="center"><br /> <strong> Peace Only Productions, SeneGAD and Peace Corps Senegal </strong> <br /> <br />Present<br /><br />ELLE TRAVAILLE, ELLE VIT!<br /><br />Sunday, September 28th 2008<br /> 7:30 pm<br />Club Atlantique<br /><br /><br />Please come join us for the screening of Elle Travaille, Elle Vit! (She Works, She Lives!). Produced, directed, and edited by Peace Corps volunteers with funds from the US Embassy and SeneGAD.<br /><br />She Works, She Lives! is a documentary that explores the role of women in Senegalese society and highlights the importance of girl’s education in particular. Each of the five women interviewed for the film come from diverse backgrounds and followed distinct paths to get to where they are today. Some of them come from small villages while others come from urban environments, some from supportive families and others from less supportive families. But at some point in their lives, each of these five women realized that she had the potential to be more and to achieve more than what was expected of her. This documentary looks at the histories of these inspiring women, the feelings they have about their work and their upbringing, and their hopes for the future of Senegalese women.<br /><br /><br />Following the film, there will be a brief Q&A session with the director, PCV Barry Pousman. Concessions will be available for purchase. Donations to SeneGAD are welcome.<br /> </div>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-19886688889722619332008-09-20T09:42:00.000-07:002008-09-20T10:02:23.134-07:00I'm sorry it has been so long!!Hello everyone,<br /><br />I just wanted to drop a quick note to say that I am so sorry I have neglected my blog for so long. I have heard from some of you who are very disappointed that I haven't written in 3 months! (Yikes!) I thank you all for being such avid readers though and for caring so much about my adventures! Unfortunately, this is just a little note saying that I am fine and that I am simply too busy to write these days! My to-do list is longer than my arm, and my blog has to be pushed to the bottom of that list because I've got deadlines. Sorry.<br /><br />Briefly,<br /><br />I am doing very well adjusting back to Senegal. I am currently working on some exciting film projects in Dakar (as a producer!) and have received a Fulbright-Hays Grant from the US Embassy for this current film that I was invited to produce for fellow PCV (and director) Barry Pousman. It is a tree-nursery making guide for school children. (See the website below!)<br /><br />I am now the Director of Public Relations for his production company, Peace Only Productions <a href="http://www.peaceonlyproductions.blogspot.com/">www.peaceonlyproductions.blogspot.com</a>, Check out our current projects! We have our first public screening next week of our documentary <em>Elle Travaille, Elle Vit! (She Works, She Lives!)</em>. I'm coordinating the whole event at the Club Atlantique in Dakar, which has proved to be a huge undertaking, with lots of embassy staff, RPCVs, and NGO reps, in attendance.<br /><br />I am also applying for another grant and holding a Girls' Health and Leadership Conference in November with 60 invited participants from various middle schools in the region. <br /><br />I am doing a zillion other things that I am just as excited about and am LOVING being so busy. I had no idea I would love PR work so much. I've found a love of the administrative side and it feels great to be so busy again.<br /><br />I do miss you all dearly and it was wonderful to be home for so long and to see so many friends and family (however briefly). The months are going quickly and my service is up April 13th 2009, so only about seven more months. I cant believe it. It has absolutely flown by.<br /><br />I promise promise promise to try and write a real entry soon.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-77829984465937822442008-06-16T12:23:00.000-07:002008-06-16T12:25:52.883-07:00The FloodThe Flood<br />Or<br />Why I now know for a fact that scorpions really can climb walls<br />Or<br />How I almost got electrocuted<br /><br />I am sitting in my hut. It’s 11:38 am and I am cold because it is only a fabulous 82 degrees. How is that possible you might ask? After all, it is June 16th and I live in the Sahel desert. Well, rainy season has officially begun and last night we had a downpour to be remembered. Around 3:30 am I woke up with a start as I usually do when the wind picks up. I sat up wondering, “okay, is this a sand storm? Wind only? Sand and rain? Or just rain?” Since I never really know, I have fashioned my bed so that I can literally take down my net, fold up my foam pad and haul inside in 10 seconds or less. You have to. Because at night, when you can’t see the ominous black cloud of a sand storm, or the rolling gray clouds of a rainstorm you have to be ready for anything.<br /><br />Despite the almost full moon, the sky was pitch black, and I couldn’t see a single star. I could tell the clouds were rolling in fast though. Then the lightning started. There was so much lightening at times it looked like daytime. So I got inside just in time for the golf ball sized raindrops to start thundering down on my tin roof (in case you’re wondering, yes, it’s very noisy). I set up my bed inside on the floor and fashioned my net back up in some awkward but functional manner. We don’t really have many mosquitoes yet because there have only been a few sparse rains, and there are screens on my hut doors, but I use the net mostly for protection from other bugs. I delude myself into thinking that it will also keep me from spooning with scorpions.<br /><br />I put cups around my room to catch the biggest leaks and nodded off to sleep reveling in the glorious cold wind that was blowing in my open back door. I have learned to fall asleep through almost anything so the ridiculously loud storm was actually kind of soothing.<br /><br />Around 5:30am I woke up annoyed because I was being splashed. I thought maybe the leak had moved and was hitting me directly in the face.<br /><br />Nope.<br /><br />It took me a few seconds to realize that my entire foam mattress was soaked through and I was literally laying in about an inch of water! The water splashing on me was splashing up from the lake that was now my floor. And there I was, sleeping right in the middle of it.<br /><br />Since the power was out (Alhamdoulilah…more on that in a second) I flipped on my headlamp and went out to my douche to investigate how so much water could have possibly flooded my room so quickly. It was pouring in from outside, high enough so that the small cement lip from my douche to my room was like a breached levee. The water in my douche was ankle deep. I waded around in it, tried bailing some of it out down into my pit latrine. Then I realized that wading around in dark water with my history of scorpion visitors and toads, during a lightning storm was probably not the wisest of ideas.<br /><br />I went back inside and used my two foam pad mattresses as sand bags because luckily the water had not yet reached anything valuable: my clothes, or computer, or flute or papers etc. All of which I keep in metal trunks and elevated so there really was no worry there.<br /><br />Water was coming in from everywhere though. It was literally leaking through my walls and down from the side of my roof, from the douche and from the leaks. But here is the scary part (Mom—skip to the next paragraph). Often it’s really hot in my room during rainstorms so I like to turn on my standing fan. Since the power usually goes out during storms I’m in the habit of plugging it in and leaving the button pushed in so that as soon as the electricity kicks back on I have a nice breeze to sleep to. Well, when I woke up, the cord to my fan was submerged in about an inch of water. And since I was also laying in the same water….well, you can figure out what would have happened if the power had come back on….<br />Just gives me the chills thinkin’ about it.<br /><br />Not really knowing what to do, I waded my way through the mud to my family’s house and knocked on the door. My mom and niece Faama came to investigate. They made some disapproving noises, agreed that all my valuables were safe and told me we’d just deal with it in the morning. I spent the next 2 hours trying to sleep with my family in the big room of their house while my little brother snored, my niece kicked, and my dad prayed.<br />Yeah, that didn’t happen. <br /><br />At first light I ventured into my room to assess the damage. The wall to the outside, facing the wind and storm was soaked through. My mattresses were sopping wet and heavy, but luckily there was no damage to my stuff at least. My douche still had a good two inches of water. I started the mind-numbing task of sweeping the water out of my room, with a straw hand broom, setting my mats out to dry, and draining my douche. Luckily my little nieces and nephews woke up early and came to my rescue. Kids here are so awesome like that. They are so eager to be a part of anything that I literally didn’t have to do any of the work. They swept out all the water, helped me hang stuff out to dry, and drained my douche, all the while telling me “hey Binta, stop it, get out of the way, don’t do that, let me.” So awesome. My contribution was to make jokes about swimming in our new lake while making fake swimming motions, and perhaps going for a boat ride around our now totally flooded neighborhood. <br /><br />So remember how I had been wading around in the water that night cracking jokes to myself about floating scorpions? Well, guess what? Yep. Found one. And it was very much alive, yellow, the size of my hand, with a black tail, and inches from my face! I didn’t even notice the d*** thing! I was so focused on sweeping the water out of my douche through this dumb little hole that it wasn’t until my niece screamed SCORPION! And pulled me back that I looked up and there it was, on the wall hovering just above the very hole I was sweeping water out of. Perfectly placed to strike me on my face or hand. Nice.<br />That’s 2x lucky in one day.<br /><br />Now, to be fair, we did get a TON of water last night. 115 milimeters! Which is crazy talk for the desert. But the reason why my room flooded was because my family is building a new room onto their house and there is a HUGE pile of sand pushed flush up against my douche. So the hole in the wall that usually allows the rainwater drain to the outside was totally blocked up. No water could get through so it accumulated until it was higher than the lip of my room and then flowed in freely. That along with the leaking tin roof and the sopping wet walls meant a flooded hut.<br /><br />I was mildly annoyed with my flooding until I took a look around our neighborhood and assessed the real damage. People’s homes actually collapsed, boutiques were flooded and all of their goods ruined, another boutique collapsed and all of the dirt paths are now rivers of filthy stinky water. The huge lake that has accumulated in the trash field next to my house is threatening to engulf the entirety of the 3 squatter houses in the field next door.<br />(See pictures from my newest album “Rain!”)<br /><br />As a health volunteer I am absolutely dreading the consequences of this monsoon. That field, is full of trash, animal and human feces, animal corpses, bugs, filth, toads, schistosomiasis, and who knows what else. And what was the first thing I saw? Can you guess? Children swimming in it. Luckily my family and most people know that this is just horrible so Binta’s husband (who has now moved back from Dakar) screamed at them to get out. If I see them in it again I am going to go talk to their mother and explain to her why it is absolutely one hundred percent unacceptable to let her children near that water. But it’s going to be difficult considering it’s literally at their front door. And well, it’s the closest thing they have to a pool. But I know they will be washing their clothes in it, and probably using it to wash their dishes too.<br />Sigh.<br /><br />What I’m waiting for is a cholera epidemic, and if not that dramatic than at least an incredibly high incidence of malaria in our neighborhood. Uhg. People better start using their mosquito nets again immediately. They tend to stop sleeping under them during the hot season claiming that “there aren’t any mosquitoes” or “The nets are too hot.” Which are both ridiculous excuses, but so prevalent from about April through June. Of course last year my 7 year old nephew did get malaria during said hot season, but you know, whatever, God brought that right? It had nothing to do with the fact that there’s MALARIA and he wasn’t sleeping under a net? Nope. Of course not. That’s crazy talk.<br />Grrrrrrr.<br /><br />It’s not that I get angry, I just care so much about everyone in my town. It literally is like having 10,000 children. Or at least several hundred, because I have the know-how, the motivation, and it’s my job to educate people about how they can stay healthy. So when big obstacles like this stand in my way, my anxiety level skyrockets (which makes my ears ring uncontrollably I’ve discovered ever since the ear infection) and I fret constantly. <br /><br />The day is heating up fast though, so maybe most of the shallow puddles will have dried up by the end of the day and the rain will stay away for a little while. In the time it took me to write this entry, it’s already shot up 5 degrees.<br /><br />Stuff I have learned because of this flood:<br />Don’t leave electrical appliances plugged in and on in hopes of a cooler night’s sleep.<br />Keep all baggage elevated and in impenetrable containers<br />Children make great house keepers<br />Flooding your room is a great way to evacuate all bugs, lizards, and scorpions from the premises.<br />Not only can scorpions climb walls, they can apparently float.<br />I am lucky that nothing was damaged, and there is always someone worse off.<br />Now I know exactly how cholera and malaria epidemics begin.<br />The hundreds of toads now accumulated around our lake of trash are the loudest SOBs I’ve ever heard.<br /><br />Here’s hoping when I’m home for vacation that the monsoon of the century doesn’t occur. I don’t think my little hut could take any more.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-9738250615345964472008-06-03T13:24:00.000-07:002008-06-03T13:25:04.433-07:00Alhamdoulilah!Alhamdoulilah!<br /><br />Finally, after over 4 weeks in Dakar and 5 weeks away from site, my ears are pretty much completely healed. The ringing has stopped almost entirely, (at least enough so that I don’t notice it most of the time), and the pain is gone. I can still tune into the ringing at night, and if it’s really quiet I can tune in during the day. The official term is Tinnitus. I’ve done some research and it can be caused by inner ear infections. So this whole thing wasn’t totally uncommon or out of the ordinary. It happens to people all the time. I just hope that eventually my ears heal enough that it stops entirely. Fingers crossed.<br /><br />Loud noises still bother me a lot more than normal, and so do some vibrations, like when trucks pass by. I had a CT scan and everything is totally normal, and the ENT did a hearing test and I am happy to report that I still have perfect hearing so no permanent damage Alhamdoulilah! His theory about why my ears aren’t back to normal? Stress. For which he prescribed me vitamins to help me sleep. Hmm. I disagree. I think it has much more to do with the fact that my immune system was shot after I had amoebas and other GI illnesses, and constant congestion/allergies from the desert that it literally took an entire month of intense rest to recover from what normally would have taken about a week. Though there may be some truth to his theory because the ringing is noticeably louder when I am over tired, or anxious. <br /><br />I got off medical hold this week, but then stayed around in Dakar for a conference and am currently helping to translate a documentary that our Peace Corps GAD committee is producing (more on that later). Then it’s up north for a regional retreat for the new volunteers who have installed in our region and THEN it’s back to site. I have been away for SO long, I can’t wait to get back. I really miss my family, my work, and my routine. I have missed the entire month of May. Granted it is the hottest month of the year so it’s not the worst thing ever to have missed out on the desert heat for a bit. I have kept myself occupied by translating our radio show skits from Pulaar into English and soon to be into French, so that we can begin a huge health volunteer resource library. And now I am working on this documentary about women’s empowerment.<br /><br />What baffled me about this whole process though is just how incredibly long it took me to recover. I’m hoping that it will just take a little longer and soon my ears will be as they were before. So for those of you who have been fretting about my health and well-being, Thanks. I’m really okay and doing everything I can to heal myself entirely.<br /><br />P.S. A cockroach just ran over my computer screen as I’m uploading this at the internet café. I’m pretty sure it actually came out of my bag. Yum.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-17860135965054742122008-05-13T12:17:00.000-07:002008-05-13T12:23:53.217-07:00Med updateIt’s been 2 weeks since I went to the regional house to recover from my ear infections and I’m still in Dakar. The pain in my ears is gone (mostly, except for painful pangs now and then), but the ringing hasn’t stopped and I’m really sensitive to loud noises and some vibrations. I’m due back to the Ear Nose and Throat Doctor tomorrow for a check-up. It’s possible that the ringing will eventually just fade away. Fingers crossed. But for the time being it’s just a really subtle high pitched constant ringing (sort of like how your ears feel after going to a loud concert). Some sounds are painful and make me cringe a bit, but other than that I’m back to normal. I’ll be in Dakar until the end of the week for my mid-service medical exam and then it’s back up to site finally (inchallah!). Because of the trauma to my ear drums though I may now be more susceptible to infection so I may be put on some kind of allergy medicine for the remainder of my service to keep the congestion down and the infections away. Anyway, I just wanted to post an update because I got a lot of concerned messages from people after my last post and I wanted to let you all know how I was doing. So thanks for the concern. After a nice long rest down in the lovely eternal springtime weather of Dakar I’m doing much better.<br /><br />I’m still just hoping the ringing in my head will stop.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-12923799636876806362008-05-06T05:38:00.000-07:002008-05-06T06:04:49.418-07:00Ill healthI’ve been sick with various illnesses on and off for about the past 3 months. Nothing majorly serious, but the anxiety that comes along with being really ill, weak, dehydrated, uncomfortable, in sweltering heat, and so far from medical care makes even the mildest discomforts terrifying.<br /><br />It started with the amoebas in February and then various other GI tract stuff, and now a full head double ear, soar throat, sinus infection that knocked me out and had me sent to the regional house on PC medical orders, with threats of a trip to Dakar.<br /><br />I don’t think I paid enough attention to my health and my compromised immune system during and after I had amoebas which was why this last head infection got so out of control so fast. Under normal circumstances if I was healthier, eating better food, not physically exhausted and living in 120 degree heat, I probably wouldn’t have given ita second thought and fought it off within a day or two.<br /><br />Instead….<br /><br />As soon as I was done with my last regional house quarantine (beginning of April), I went straight to help with training and then came up with new trainees for ten days where I played hostess to the 6 of them and got sick again immediately afterwards.<br /><br />It started as a very painful sore throat and figuring I just needed to rest, I gave it the weekend. But by Monday morning I could barely talk and had white spots and infected tonsils so I called med, and was started on heavy antibiotics with instructions to rest and pleas from PC med to get to the regional house, to which I replied, “no, I have a lot of work to do” trying to make up for the 10 day hold I put on my work in order to help with training. But that night I was awake half the night with horrible ear pain and was essentially deaf in one ear. Great. So I doped up on decongestants hoping it would unplug with enough Sudafed and spent the day doing our radio show, being miserable, doped up on cold medicine and antibiotics.<br /><br />Woke up the second night in excruciating pain in my ear neck and jaw and my ear draining fluid slowly all night long. Called med first thing in the morning and was told to get immediately to the pharmacy to buy a different anti-biotic and get to the regional house asap, and be on hold for a trip to Dakar. <br /><br />I told myself I just had to get through my work for that day (2 important meetings I had been waiting a long time for) and could head to the regional house the next day. I went to the pharmacy first thing in the morning to buy the Augmentin only to discover that my town’s pharmacy was closed. Why? Because it just so happened that that day, all PRIVATE (yes, private, you read that correctly) pharmacies were striking. What were they striking against? For? I have no idea. They are a private business, how can they possible strike? The majority of their owners probably didn’t know either, they just heard the radio announcement.<br /><br /> Now if the public pharmacies at the health posts were worth anything this wouldn’t be such a problem. But they are stocked with almost nothing. I went to one at a regional hospital and all they had was painkillers. They didn’t even sell antiseptic or gauze. Private pharmacies are really the only option.<br /><br />While I was standing there one of the midwives from the health post came over and asked the pharmacist to open up and sell meds to her sick patient, but he refused. I hoped there were no births that day, because the posts don’t have their own supplies, patients have to have friends or family go next door and buy everything they need including: IV catheters, gauze, etc. As my teacher friend said, “some people will probably die today because of this private pharmacy strike.”<br /><br />I know we complain about our health care system in America all the time, and it’s the subject of all of our favorite academic journals, but you know what, we’re pretty damn lucky if you ask me.<br /><br />Walking away from the pharmacy, I was in total disbelief and feeling weak, and miserable but trudged through my first meeting and collapsed during the afternoon in my family’s house. Within 3 hours my other ear also plugged and was painfully pulsing. I was out of ibuprofen and still on the wrong antibiotics. I was so dizzy and off balance that I could barely walk. It was 115 degrees and I was miserable, in SO much pain and getting scared with how rapidly it was progressing. I called med in tears from the pain and got my closest neighbor (in the regional capital) to find an open pharmacy and buy my antibiotics, meet up with me in our nearest town that afternoon and bail with me to the regional house in the evening. This meant driving after dark, but it was so worth it.<br /><br />As soon as I was on my way and met up with her and had the correct anti-biotics and Ibuprofen in my system, my anxiety started to melt away. Though the 7 hours it took to get to the house were miserable (waiting at the garage for 4 hours for the car to fill up) and then the drive, being in a cooler climate (it’s 200k West) with the comforts of the house, were totally worth it. Med called me first thing in the morning and tried to convince me to go to Dakar that day so that I could see an EMT the next day, to rule out permanent ear damage. I asked to hold off a few days, as I was feeling a bit better, and thought that getting in a car in the heat for a minimum 9 hour haul would make things even worse. So we agreed that I would be aggressive with the pain meds, the anti-biotics and hot compresses all over my head and we’d see how I was at the end of the weekend.<br /><br />I spent those few days at the house laying around with hot compresses, sucking down soup and tea (still had the sore throat) and trying not to fall over (from dizziness and no balance cuz of blocked ears). By the weekend if I was not seeing significant improvement I had to get in a car to Dakar to see an EMT.<br /><br />A few days later the pain was mostly gone, but the ringing in my ears was making me crazy and they were still plugged up, but not draining. The worrying part for me is that our PC med officer was concerned about permanent hearing loss/damage.<br /><br />The whole thing just got so out of hand so quickly. It was like I had no immune system to fight off the infection. And I guess that makes sense because I never really got a chance to “catch up” before I took off working again. That, and I’m sure the dusty, windy, hot desert climate wasn’t helping my respiratory system much.<br /><br />So on the weekend I hauled down to Dakar, and I now have to spend over a week here, waiting to make sure I get totally better. I went to see an ear nose and throat embassy doctor specialist who was wonderful and very nice. I am now on heavy antibiotics, steroids, and various nasal sprays and eardrops. My ears are still ringing, and sounds are muffled. Most of the pain is gone, but it comes once in awhile in horrible pangs. Yuck. I’m so frustrated and tired of being ill. It’s maddening to have to stay here when I have so much work that I want to get done in my town. But I’m going to be aggressive about getting rest and I want to get totally better. PC med is forcing me not to go back. My old self, (when I had an immune system that was worth anything) would just have pushed through it and gone back to site and kept on working, but I have had it with not feeling 100% and I think aggressive resting is the key. So I’m following up with the Dr. on Monday and I really hope the ringing, pain, and inflammation is gone by then. It’s starting to make me a little batty.<br /><br />In any case, the whole thing was/is a little scary. Not because I ever felt like my life was in danger, but just because I felt so vulnerable and uncomfortable and without resources to make me feel better. So now I’m just waiting to see if the damn ringing in my ears will go away. I hope so, because it’s driving me slightly batty.<br /><br />I now know to be more aggressive about my health and give myself greater windows for rest and recovery. And that even though it’s a haul, it is worth the trip to the house/Dakar just to get away and take the time to be healthy. Because as I’m always telling my elementary classes, if you don’t have your health, you don’t have anything.<br /><br />My new goal is to stay healthy for the next two months until I can get back to America and have a month of R&R. It’s kind of a sobering thing to realize that I’m not invincible and that a hit to the immune system is something to take seriously when you’re living out here isolated and under rough conditions. Maybe I’ve just gotten so used to never feeling 100% that I’ve gotten lax and forget how hard on your system living the way we do really can be? Or maybe it’s just a fluke, but either way I’m going to be much more careful from now on…and cross my fingers that I don’t have permanent ear damage.<br /><br />That, and thank my lucky stars that I have access to a proper, alternative form of medical care.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-16724134742914124452008-04-29T08:53:00.000-07:002008-04-29T08:54:19.481-07:00It's really hot.The hotness.<br /><br />It is so hot.<br />It is so hot that…<br /><br />My bar soap has liquefied.<br />My hut is a boulangerie.<br />My bucket water is too hot to wash my hands with (one of my trainees actually burned herself when using the loo).<br />I have visions of jumping into my family’s freezer.<br />The egg that broke in the plastic bag cooked slightly while in my purse.<br />You can’t touch anything metal.<br />Children can no longer go barefoot. <br />I wake up at midnight in a puddle of my own sweat.<br />I’m drinking almost 3 gallons (yes, gallons) of water every 24 hours.<br />We are making applesauce in a Nalgene bottle using only sunlight.<br />The World Meteorological Organization said that “ for the week of March 21st, Matam, Senegal (next to me) was the hottest place IN THE WORLD).<br />I’m looking forward to frying an egg on the concrete in my shower.<br />I daydream about instigating mass migration to the coast.<br /><br />And finally…<br /><br />My thermometer read 136 F at 4pm yesterday (in the sun) and it’s only the end of April. In case you’re wondering, May is the hottest month, which means that yes, it will actually get hotter. <br /><br />As a COSing volunteer recently texted me,<br />“This place is so hot it doesn’t deserve to be inhabited.”<br />I agree.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-857108104370128932008-04-29T08:43:00.000-07:002008-04-29T08:51:06.988-07:00New traineesAfter almost a year at site and adjusting to solitude, this past month I’ve been around people nonstop. Immediately after Amanda’s 12-day visit, I was supposed to host a study abroad student at site. But because I was so ill I couldn’t leave the regional house (literally couldn’t be away from a toilet for more than 30 minutes…gross right?). I was with volunteers most of that week and then went straight to Thies to help with the training of the newest group of trainees the following week. Then I rode back up with them after several days and hosted them at my site for 10 days of “Demystification” or what is now called Community Based Training. They took language classes, shadowed my work, saw the schools, dipped mosquito nets, helped in a garden, and basically were exposed to all the elements of life as a PCV.<br /><br />It’s so strange to feel like the seasoned, experienced volunteer when I still feel so unsure and infantile sometimes. I cannot believe how quickly the past 13 months has gone by! I’m already starting to plan my next step post-Senegal. I wonder now if the other volunteers felt that way when I came in last year?<br /><br />It feels great to be able to talk endlessly about my experience though. The trainees have endless questions and it’s so encouraging to hear myself talk about my work, my family, my community, and all the little mishaps and hiccups I’ve been through that seemed so horrible at the time but that now just don’t even phase me. And their energy has fueled me. They are fresh and have new ideas and come with all different skills, and experiences and I am learning from them just as much as they are learning from me. And they are opening my eyes to things in my own town that I either didn’t know or didn’t notice before. <br /><br />I also realize how far I’ve come, and how much I have learned, about Senegal, about the Peace Corps, about myself, my community, and other volunteers. And how far my Pulaar has come! I had forgotten what it felt like to not be able to communicate beyond the simplest greetings. I had forgotten the tears, and frustrations I went through in language training. With the newbies here I have realized how much I’ve grown and how invaluable this experience has been. I feel so proud of myself, for getting this far, for surviving, and well, for really doing pretty well. And of course I’m sure that I will not truly realize how much I’ve changed until it’s over and I am in another job, community, and country.<br /><br />It feels good to be able to lead the new trainees through what can be such a scary and uncertain first experience at site. This new stage is just wonderful. They seem to be so relaxed and flexible and willing to jump into anything and go with the flow. My group of trainees are just the best! (Yes, I do hope they read this and smile). I’m so impressed with how they take the heat and the discomforts in stride. I mean, there are 6 of them (plus a trainer) staying in my compound and my tiny “boulangerie” of a hut (as the trainer nicknamed it). The heat is stifling (mid-130s in the direct sunlight, about 118 in the shade), and they are just learning the language. They seem to really already understand the value of a smile and the ability to laugh off minor annoyances. And while I know how tired they are they are making valiant efforts to practice their Pulaar as much as possible and integrate and spend time with my family and friends even though they’re exhausted. <br /><br />I feel as if I’ve known them all forever. I guess that’s the nature of the Peace Corps though. You are thrown into such an intense experience with strangers and expected to become instant friends/family, and you do. You really only have each other to rely on. While there are others at home to provide a listening ear to cry to, at the end of the day, your site neighbors, and your stage mates are your best support network and no one will truly be able to understand the challenges we go through unless they too have been through it.<br /><br />I think that this is my worst fear/anxiety. That even though I have such a supportive community of family and friends at home, that I will always feel slightly misunderstood, or that I will never fully be able to share the profound impact the Peace Corps has had upon me. And I need to accept the fact that I probably won’t. Maybe this has been on my mind a lot more because I have been surrounded by others, but I think it’s more likely that I am getting close to my vacation at home and I’m starting to get nervous about it, about being home, and the reverse culture shock. At the same time, I’m worried about having NOT changed enough. Like I’m holding myself to too high of a standard.<br /><br />Maybe I just have too much time to think.<br /><br />It feels great to be starting a new chapter of my service. It’s exciting that part of that new chapter is helping other volunteers find their way and embark on their own “toughest challenge they’ll ever love.” I’m still thrilled that I have.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-30086291775974510352008-04-12T12:11:00.000-07:002008-04-12T12:13:42.991-07:00Links to Amanda's PhotosHere is the link to my most recent visitor's pictures from her trip. Amanda's photos are mostly the same as mine, but her captions are hilarious. (She is much wittier than I). Check them out and enjoy!<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/amanda.shaw/Senegal?authkey=3TSEaJvB7Bk">http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/amanda.shaw/Senegal?authkey=3TSEaJvB7Bk</a>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-42785182181955151162008-04-12T10:44:00.000-07:002008-04-12T10:45:58.735-07:00Senegalese Doula!I finally got to be a doula in Senegal!<br /><br />It was so wonderful to attend/help with a birth that wasn’t on the side of the road, and that was carried out under the supervision of skilled medical professionals. There was so much less pressure on me, and so much less anxiety.<br /><br />One of the women from my mother’s group, Hawa, was very pregnant at our last meeting. She stuck around after the lesson was over and we talked about her upcoming birth and my sister brought up the fact that I had been a doula in America. Hawa’s eyes lit up and she asked me somewhat jokingly if I’d be willing to help her through her birth when the time came. I said of course and told her very seriously that she MUST call me, at any hour of day or night and I would come running and escort her to the health post and stay with her throughout the entire birth. I wasn’t sure if she would call, but I really hoped that she would.<br /><br />6am on one of the 3 days that my visitor was in my town, I got the call.<br /><br />The two of us threw on clothes and sprinted out the door to her house. We met her on the road to the health post. She told me she had been having labor pains for roughly three days but they were now getting much more intense and she knew the baby was coming soon. (This was her 4th). She and I and Amanda (my guest from home) and Hawa’s friend and fellow group member, Mairam, all walked the 10 minutes along the dirt path to the health post in total silence with her. I held her hand and offered my arm as support when the contractions came and she had to stop and breath or lean against a wall.<br /><br />Now in Pulaar culture (not sure if this is true of all of Senegal) women are expected to give birth silently. Crying, or yelling is seen as a sign of weakness.<br /><br />So the majority of the walk we spent in silence, Amanda and I flanking Hawa with Mairam walking alongside, silently mumbling her morning prayers. Not once did Hawa cry out, she just whimpered softly to herself. I mentally timed the frequency of her contractions by noticing her face and the few times when she paused to rest because the pain was too intense to walk through.<br /><br />What struck me most was the power and the intensity of the intimacy I felt among these women. I was reminded of the book The Red Tent (see PC reading list) and the cherished moments, and secrets the women shared under the tent.<br /><br />I thought about this shared bond, the work ahead of us, and the strength of this courageous woman who was about to bring her baby into the world. I felt reverence for Hawa, for all mothers, for women, for the gift of a womb, and for that private moment that the four of us shared-two young single American women, and two older, Senegalese, Pulaar mothers, walking silently, arm in arm down the quiet sandy streets in the early morning light, before the heat of the day. Them in their traditional Senegalese dress and head scarves, and us in our t-shirts and long skirts. <br /><br />I don’t remember feeling anxious. I felt secure, confident, slightly hurried, but mostly honored. I was honored that she trusted me so openly to accompany her and attend to her through this difficult and frightening journey.<br /><br />I was pleased to find that the midwife on duty was my friend. One of the ones I liked the most. She had helped my counterpart give birth and I knew we were in capable hands (as capable as can be for such a basic maternity ward).<br /><br />My thoughts were going a mile a minute. I was trying to notice every detail but simultaneously give Hawa all of my attention. Here I was finally getting a glimpse into the “quality of care” that I had studied at LSE in my reproductive health course. I didn’t want to miss anything. Granted I’ve seen quite a lot just by hanging around the health post, but this was the first time I would have the chance to see the whole process up close.<br /><br />I remember feeling relieved that it was so early and that it wasn’t a busy vaccination day. The health post was practically empty which would mean some privacy. The midwife, Nabou, told Hawa to get up on the exam table (in the first room where the registration desk is). She sat at the desk and filled out some paperwork while I helped Hawa lay down. Nabou examined her briefly, and felt her belly, which was visibly pulsating with every contration. To hear the baby’s heartbeat Nabou used a funnel pressed flush up against Hawa’s belly and her ear at the other end. She asked how long Hawa had been in labor and when Hawa said three days, Nabou scoffed and asked her why she hadn’t already stopped by for treatment. Hawa corrected her saying that she had and that they had given her a prescription (for what I’m not sure) and had told her to come back when the contractions were closer together. Then we moved her into the delivery room.<br /><br />It’s a dirty, stifling hot room with a back door, a sink, and two very basic, very dusty padded, metal tables with stirrups. Mairam was sent to the pharmacy with a list of things that she had to buy for Hawa: gloves, tubing, a syringe, a bag of glucose for an IV drip, gauze pads, and various medicines that I did not recognize. I learned that you really have to have someone, often several people to accompany you and help you at the health post. I learned that if you don’t have the money for the necessary supplies, the health post will pay for the medicines and you just have to pay them back. I was actually pleasantly surprised by that.<br /><br />To get the money Mairam first had to go back to Hawa’s house and then to the pharmacy. I practically had to bite my lips off to keep from offering to pay for everything. I knew that she could get the money, I just had to be patient. Also, that would start a terrible trend and I could envision the line of women coming to me for money when they had to go to the health post. I told myself that it was enough that I was there with her, and that if I hadn’t been no one else would be. I discovered later that typically they don’t allow anyone else in the delivery room and that they made an exception because, well….I’m a toubak, and they knew I had had some experience, and mostly because the midwife was a friend of mine. That and I’m sure they knew me well enough by now to know that if they had tried to kick me out, I would have pitched a fit and stayed anyway.<br /><br />Mairam was gone for about thirty minutes during which time Nabou was getting terribly impatient and kept yelling at Hawa for Mairam’s slow pace. I went outside and told Hawa’s aunt and my sister (who had both showed up at that point) to bring cloths and fabric to wrap her and the baby up in afterwards, and sheets to lay on the post-partum bed. Meanwhile Nabou was getting things ready in the delivery room. Washing up, setting up the IV drip, etc. I was focused on Hawa and helping her through each contraction which were getting more and more severe and coming about every minute by that point. She vomited once, and luckily I was there because I got her the trashcan in time. (I’m sure she would have been yelled at had she vomited on the ground). I mostly just stood by her, holding her hands, giving her my body to hold onto, cooing to her that her body was strong, her baby would soon be in her arms, and that even though she was tired it would all soon be over and she would be able to rest. The only thing I could think to do to make her more comfortable was to wet a packet of tissues from my purse with the ice water Amanda and I brought with us and hold it on Hawa’s forehead. She kept telling me how tired she was. She never complained about the pain, only how tired her body was. She continued to let out long sighs and whimpers, calling quietly to “Nenam” meaning, “my mother.” It surprised me that she did not call out to Allah, but to some other grand feminine force. I remember thinking how beautiful that was and realizing that birth really does connect all women.<br /><br />It was definitely a challenge to try and coach and soothe her in Pulaar, but I did my best and I remembered that it didn’t really matter what I said as long as it was soothing and repetitive. I settled on telling her that she was strong, she could do this, to breathe and that soon her baby would be in her arms.<br /><br />(I also realized in that moment that this was now the fourth birth I had ever attended, and that none of them had been in my native language! The two in the states were in Spanish, and then these two in Pulaar. I sighed to myself and thought about what a relief it would finally be when I could be a doula in English!) <br /> <br />Nabou set up the IV and now there were roughly three other midwives bustling about, chatting amongst themselves and getting things ready. There was a lot of activity for such a tiny room and it was a struggle to keep Hawa focused and for myself to try and ignore the midwives and focus only on Hawa.<br /><br />As the contractions came closer together and more severe, Hawa did start to cry out some. I didn’t even think anything of it, but one of the midwives came over and scolded her. Saying that she needed to stop crying because people outside could hear her! I was appalled. But I kept my mouth shut because I didn’t want to risk being asked to leave. The midwives explained to me that they gave Hawa Pitocin to increase the contractions, saying that the baby was tired and so was she and they needed to get the baby out right away. The baby was nearly crowning when one of the assistants starting violently shoving on Hawa’s stomach. Now I’ve heard of this before when the mother is tired, but it looked incredibly painful and they certainly weren’t timing the pushes with the contractions. They kept yelling at her to push even in between contractions, and Nabou was scolding her for not keeping her legs open enough. I felt so helpless and wanted to be in 3 places at once, to hold her legs, and simultaneously be at her head to hold her hands. Nabou kept yelling at her to push even between the contractions (which is pretty much counterproductive and a waste of energy). Hawa was definitely crying out at this point and so overwhelmed by all the different directions and things happening to her. Finally the baby was crowning and instead of having the head come out in one contraction and then waiting for the next one to ease the body out, Nabou pulled him out in one go, with one massive yell from Hawa.<br /><br />The moment he was born and I saw him I burst into tears. I looked over at Amanda (who had come in to watch during the last few minutes, her first birth ever!) and we were both teary eyed, she was trying so hard not to cry because I had told her it was culturally unacceptable, but I definitely couldn’t help it. With tears streaming down my cheeks I told Hawa it was all over, she had a healthy baby boy, that she did it, praise be to God, may her son be in health etc etc. Nabou smiled at my tears. She wrapped him up in a cloth and laid him on the next table over! Hawa didn’t even get to look at him! She put the vitamin K drops in his eyes to avoid infection, and then just left him there, alone on the table wrapped in a dirty cloth, with the hot sandy air and flies coming in the door. I asked if I could give the baby to Hawa and Nabou said no, that she knew that in America we put the baby immediately on the stomach, but here they waited until the mother was in the other room and cleaned up and resting. I couldn’t help but be angry and confused, with how nicely Nabou was speaking to me throughout the birth, and how mean and impatient she was with Hawa. As she worked to get the afterbirth out, Nabou yelled at Hawa repeatedly to open her legs and scoffed “oh come on, how many births is this for you? Open your legs, so I can finish.”<br /><br />Hawa lost a lot of blood and was pretty disoriented. Nabou had to kneed her uterus to get the excess blood out and to get it to contract back up. I pointed out that getting her to breastfeed right away would help with that, and again offered to bring the baby over, but she refused. After Nabou finished cleaning her up, the other midwives came in and wrapped her up in cloths, scolding her (yet again) for not bringing a pair of red underwear (or any at all) to act as a diaper to stuff the fabric into. They made do with the fabric she had brought and tied it in a diaper-like fashion around her, changed her clothes and we moved her into the next room to lay on the bed. Her aunt still hadn’t showed up with the sheets for the new bed, so she was yelled at again. At that point I had been over to pat the new baby boy and coo at him, and Amanda and I were the first ones he saw when he did finally open his eyes.<br /><br />I helped lay Hawa down in the next room. And realizing that the baby was now ALONE in the delivery room and no one seemed to care, I yelled to the new midwife on duty (Nabou’s shift had ended by then, and she practically ran out of there) that I was bringing the baby to Hawa. She said fine and so I carried the little baby boy to her and laid him next to her to let her look at him for the first time, roughly 30 minutes after giving birth. She was so tired, and initially refused to, but I insisted that she breastfeed him and told the midwife to encourage her to also. I sat with her on the bed, watching and making sure he was latched on correctly, which he did almost instantly, with gusto! Amanda sat across from us on the next bed and we smiled at each other, both of us totally unable to process all that had just happened. Hawa’s aunt brought Hawa a steaming hot cup of coffee. I rolled my eyes and told her that she should also drink water if possible. (I know now that arguing over coffee is useless even though it’s crazy to me to want coffee over water after being so dehydrated, but that’s how it is here). At least she was breast feeding and was healthy. I sent Hawa’s aunt out to get her some ice water, to which she asked if it was okay that she drink cold water. I said of course, and then explained to her the importance of getting her hydrated (hence the IV drip) and why immediate breast-feeding was so crucial. She nodded her head and seemed enthusiastic about my help.<br /><br />I asked Hawa what she was going to name him and she said she was disappointed it was not a girl because she would have named her Binta, but that she wanted to name him after my dad! Again I nearly cried and thought that perhaps Shel might be a difficult name for a Senegalese kid, so I settled on Barry. Senegalifrenchified it sounds like (MbaarY). She seemed happy with that so I’m expecting that will be the little guy’s second name. Children here are given several names so it will probably be used as a nickname mostly just by his mom. But now both my mom and dad have infant namesakes! Cool huh? I keep telling them that now they HAVE to come visit. <br /><br />We sat with Hawa for another 20 minutes or so and at her urging left to go home and have our own breakfast. It was about 10am by that point and Amanda and I were both starting to feel pretty exhausted and dehydrated. So we made the windy, sandy, hot trek back to my house and sat down for coffee and muesli. My family was thrilled that we had both been there and gave us both all sorts of praise.<br /><br />Around 11am I called my sister and asked if she had gone back to the health post. She said that no she hadn’t and that Hawa had been transported by ambulance to the next hospital and that there had been complications! I was so upset, and of course in Pulaar there aren’t sophisticated medical terms so all I knew was that she was “tired and missing blood.” I took that to mean that she hadn’t clotted properly and was still bleeding. Her whole family had raced to the next town to be with her so there was nothing Amanda and I could do but wait. We said we would call back in the afternoon and see how she was.<br /><br />I fretted the entire time. We spent the day making doughnuts with my family for the little soirée we had planned that afternoon for Amanda’s last day, as a thank you for having her. But I was so distracted and anxiously awaited my sister’s phone call. Finally around 2pm I called and talked to Hawa’s husband who said that she was indeed better, but that she had to stay overnight and would be back tomorrow. I was relieved, but still anxious.<br /><br />I told my Yaaye and she said something that almost made me cry. I told her how relieved and happy I was and how anxious I had been all day, and she just looked at me and said, “Binta I know. I could see it in your face all day. I knew you were scared and worried. I was watching you make doughnuts and you were so distracted and your face was pained. It’s because you are so good and you care so much about your family and your Senegalese family. I spoke to Binta earlier about how upset you were. We were all worried and now we can all be relieved together.” I almost hugged her. How wonderful that she knows me well enough to know what I’m feeling even better than I do!<br /><br />So Hawa came home the next afternoon and is now healthy and happy. I am so disappointed though because I had to miss the baby’s baptism because I am sick with amoebas + some other horrible bacterial stomach infection + a head cold at the regional house. I could not even travel home and instead spent a week holed up at the house feverish, watching movies, eating soup, and running to the loo every 30 minutes. Yuck. I’m so bummed. I of course called to explain why I couldn’t be there, but it was really a big deal to me to be there, and if I possibly could have made the drive I would have, but it was out of the question to be away from a bathroom and on public transport for 4 hours. I plan on showering her with gifts when I do get back though.<br /><br />But, my good friend Mairam, who is part of another family totally unrelated to me, and who are my dear dear friends, just called me to tell me that one of the women in her family gave birth to twin girls yesterday!! She was HUGE and I told her that she was having twins. Everyone thought I was crazy, but I insisted. Mairam told me that she is naming one of her girls after me! Hooray! My very first namesake. I’m so honored. But I’m irritated because I have to be down helping with the training for the new volunteers, and am AGAIN going to miss the baptism, but Mairam said that they would postpone it until I came back because they couldn’t imagine me missing it and they didn’t want to have it without me. What an honor. Especially, because it is so important in their culture to hold the Baptism on the seventh day.<br /><br />These births (and my interaction with the breastfeeding mommy-see previous entry) have absolutely refueled me and helped me out of my mid-service slump. They’ve reminded me of the connections I’ve made in this community and that my work and my presence is valued and respected and needed.<br />And what an honor.<br />What an honor to be included and trusted in some of the most important moments of people’s lives.<br />I am so lucky.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-4011291333036675732008-04-12T10:42:00.000-07:002008-04-12T10:44:01.241-07:00Change!I affected change!<br /><br />I have concrete proof that something I did, something I taught, some piece of information I transferred actually produced results that improved someone’s health! It was one of the most inspiring, uplifting moments I’ve had in country.<br /><br />About 2 months ago I was at my friend Mairam’s house and I met a woman with a brand new premature, very sickly looking baby. We talked about her baby being so skinny, and I asked if she was breast-feeding. She of course responded yes, and then she proudly mentioned that she was also feeding her cooking oil! (An unfortunately very common practice here). I told her very nicely that no, she did not need to give the baby oil, that the reason the baby was sick was because she was feeding her oil, and that all the baby needed was breastmilk. I explained to her what was in her breast milk and that it had all the sugar, and water, and vitamins and antibodies (‘the vitamins to kill germs’) that her baby needed. I didn’t think much of the interaction until I saw her again recently when Amanda and I went to greet that same family.<br /><br />There she was with her baby. I asked to hold her and noticed that she looked a lot better! She had put on some weight, her eyes were tracking better, she seemed livelier and more alert. I told her mom that to which she responded, (to my extreme delight)…<br /><br />“Well Binta, I stopped feeding her oil. I’m only giving her breastmilk now. Breastmilk ONLY. Just like you told me to!”<br /><br />I almost burst into tears. I get goosebumps just thinking about it.<br /><br />That I contributed to the health of her baby by giving her information, by taking five little minutes to just sit and speak with her nicely and give her a little advice, and not yell at her, and encourage her and tell her that she was a good mom….and to have her come back and to physically SEE the progress her baby has made and have her mom tell me that it was BECAUSE OF ME! I am over the moon about the whole thing.<br /><br />There it is, everyone always says about development work that “if I can just help even 1 person than it’s all worth it.” Well you know what? Checkmark on that one.<br /><br />And the thing about that interaction is that you can’t quantify it. I can’t write that on a resume, or even in my quarterly report to Peace Corps. It’s not a specific “project” or a health talk, or a class. I was just in the right place at the right time. And because I’m always looking for a chance to talk about health issues when sitting around, I finally made a difference! In some ways it seems like such a trivial victory, but it will make a difference in her life, and her baby’s life, and her future children’s lives and hopefully she’ll tell other people and so on and so forth.<br /><br />That’s how change starts right? With one person. You just have to plant the seed. I finally have proof that I did.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-69170434849750865872008-03-25T04:28:00.001-07:002008-03-25T04:28:45.236-07:00Senegalese eventsI don’t know why I still let myself get talked into attending big “formal” Senegalese events?<br /><br />During my first couple of months I was dragged to a few and I almost lost my mind and ET’d after them. Most of the time I find a way out of them, but today against my better judgement I attended one because it was held under the premise of “health sensibilizing of the community.” I disagree.<br /><br />A neighboring village, 3k away arranged this massive race. There were two parts, the cyclists and the race. It was championed as a day to promote cardiac health, sports, and youth. Now in my mind it already seems a little bit ridiculous to blow an entire day/budget/fuss on cardiac health and sports when almost every single person in attendance most likely doesn’t wash their hands before they eat or sleep under mosquito nets year round, they’re constantly active, barely sleep as it is, don’t hydrate, and well, quite honestly, it sounds horrible to say but usually don’t live long enough to suffer from cardiac problems.<br /><br />But you know, that’s just me… I’ve only lived here for a year…<br />What could I possibly know about the health problems in my community?<br />(insert dripping sarcasm into that one J)<br /><br />At least going into it I knew it would be overwhelming so I planned accordingly. I brought my ½ gallon container of ice water, a cliff bar, a book, plenty of cell phone credit, and I wore my most lightweight Senegalese outfit. The woman from the mayor’s office I attended with told me to meet her at 7am so we could get there on time (the race was supposed to start at 8 or 9am). I knew better than that and met her around 8:15 (and waited for her) at the garage. We headed towards the next village and of course arrived to a mostly empty event. People did trickle in soon afterwards though and I was actually amazed at how early the crowd appeared.<br /><br />Now at these things everyone is dressed to the nines, in the hottest, stiffest, most uncomfortable fabric you can buy in country. And they wear yards and yards of it and pounds of makeup, and fake mesh wigs, and there must have been 50 different girls in various groups of “hautess” (bridesmaid…basically matching outfits). The whole thing was quite impressive to look at from afar. <br /><br />It was set-up along the main road (of which there is one in all of Senegal, so traffic all day had to be diverted), there was a massive blowup finish line, a trophy table, 2 shade tents with chairs for the invited visitors, massive speakers, police officers, event organizers, reporters, cameramen, photographers, signs and placards, and a raised platform with huge couches and chairs for the ministers and officials to sit on.<br /><br />The big deal was that apparently President Abdoulaye Wade’s right-hand man was scheduled to attend the day’s events. He did and so did about 20 other “official” so and so’s. I’d say 12 different SUVs arrived each carrying about 1 or 2 individuals. The ministers paraded in and took their seats on the raised platform at around 10am. 4 griots crowded around them, to sing their praises while a young Western-outfitted man gave a lengthy speech in Pulaar and French to introduce the ministers and thank the various attendees and organizations. It took him about 30 minutes to get through it all.<br /><br />At one point he did briefly mention that this was supposed to be a day about youth, cardiac health, and sports promotion. He said something like, “Today we are encouraging young people to get exercise to avoid cardiac problems, but we don’t need to talk about them because we all know what cardiac illnesses are.” That was it. Then he continued on to talk about the ministers and how wonderful it was for them to attend etc. etc. etc.<br /><br />By this time I feel as if I’m sinking into the “9th ring of…” if you know what I mean. The crowd is totally out of control. People are packing in chairs all around us, there are no walkways, everyone is pressed up against one another, chairs are passing overhead, gendarmes are trying to push people out of the view of the seated invitees (myself included), women are dancing, babies screaming, everyone’s talking, griots are singing, it’s 100 degrees, and all the while huge 1 story high speakers are blaring.<br /><br />I remember looking around and thinking, “okay, don’t panic, you’re not a claustrophobic person, you can handle this. You have your book, your water, it’s not that hot, you’re in the shade, you can do this.”<br /><br />The race finally started around 10:45. I watched long enough to see the first and shorter race and to see the first students cross the finish line, absolutely dieing and overheated. I stayed long enough to see the ambulance and the Senegalese Red Cross volunteers help carry people away who were too exhausted and suffering from heat stroke.<br /><br />I could feel myself totally losing it… and getting so furiously angry about the events that were unfolding in the name of “health.”<br /><br />This fear started to rise in my gut, and I was looking around feeling like I was slipping deeper and deeper into total chaos. Then the woman I came with told me to scoot over and share the chair with her to make room for a very large friend of hers. Basically acting on instinct I just got up, said “I’m leaving. This is way too much for me. There are too many people. It’s too hot.” And amidst her protests (she said she was mad at me) I just shoved my way through the people in front of me and wound my way behind the crowd to a compound where I could gather myself together, use the bathroom, and plan my next step.<br /><br />I was feeling a bit better now that I had some open space around me and chatting with some girls who had also come to seek some refuge. She picked up my thermos and asked if it was my water. I said yes, and she put it back down. I let my mind wander for a bit feeling proud of myself for not totally freaking out yet, and trying to strategize how I would spend the rest of the day until lunch, and then get through that, make my appearance with the important people, and then escape as soon as the heat of the day broke.<br /><br />When I focused back in I heard one of them ask me about water, I turn around and there are 5 teenagers guzzling down my water. It’s gone! Then they ask me if it’s mine. I basically am just so exasperated, say yes, grab my thermos from them and bail. Not noticing in time that they’ve replaced my lid with the lid from their thermos which is filthy and broken. (Not a big deal, just an annoying side note since I just bought the thing last week). At that point I’m out the door and walking down the road towards my town, 3k away, holding my headscarf like a tent under the sweltering noontimes sun and I am marching straight home. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars. <br /><br />And I did, I made it home, wasn’t too badly dehydrated, and was ultimately pleased with my decision to bail every step of the way.<br /><br />As I was walking back many of the racers passed me, panting, sweating, stopping with side cramps, asking passing cars for water, picking up huge rocks and holding them up against their ribs to “cure” their sidecramps. Hhmmm. Clearly these kids have had NO training, NO information, NO water, NO NOTHING! And this is supposed to be a HEALTH awareness day! Ugh. I again watched the ambulance pass back and forth, sirens blazing, picking up various students who couldn’t make it back.<br /><br />It was absolutely the most frustrating, most ridiculous display I’ve seen yet to date.<br /><br />Part of me is furious at myself for not being able to “hack” it. I’m angry that I didn’t make it through the whole day and perhaps try to make some good of it. After all, the original purpose for me going was to meet the members of this very active association in the next town over who might want to collaborate on future projects. But it just didn’t seem worth it.<br />And for what? Had I stayed through the races, and then the speeches and the trophy giving I’m sure I would have learned absolutely nothing, been dehydrated beyond repair, and just gotten more angry. The cameramen got that coveted shot of a toubak at a Senegalese gathering (I’m always a target when cameras are around), I made enough of an appearance so that Peace Corps was represented, and then I bailed. And I’m glad, because at the end of the day, it’s better to freak out (or at least be annoyed) in the privacy of my own hut then to lose it in front of several hundred Senegalese people and ministers, teachers, officials, and health workers. <br /><br />I wish there were some way I could get my hands on the budget for this thing. I made a mental list of all the money that went into this day:<br /><br />Tents<br />Several hundred T-shirts<br />50 hautess outfits<br />Speakers<br />Chair rental<br />Gas for 20 SUVs<br />Inflatable finish line,<br />Brochures,<br />Lunch for several hundred,<br />Donations to the griots for singing the minister’s praises<br />Water/Electricity bills<br />Payment of gendarmes to keep the crowds under control and re-direct traffic<br />Etc etc etc.<br /><br />And yea sure, huge events happen like this in America to raise awareness about various diseases, but last time I checked…they health concern of choice is actually relevant, and information about the problem of disease is distributed, and speakers actually talk about the problem at hand and strategize about how to solve it, and usually it’s all done to raise money so the participants are sponsored, and the events are not held in the desert during mid-day in the hot season.<br /><br />And I’m not trying to sit here and put down these efforts, I mean, I guess in a way that’s what this entry has done, but that’s not my intention, and I think it’s important for other people to understand the kinds of things that do get accomplished here, but also how far they have to come. Not that they have to be carried out “my way” or in a more “Western” way. That’s not my point. But they are so lacking in every respect and in content mainly, and yet I would never be able to get that kind of attendance, or support at any kind of event I would hold.<br />So where is the middle ground? Is it my job to figure that out?<br /><br />It’s endlessly frustrating.<br /><br /><br /><br />Now here I am, I’ve retreated into my room for a few hours of alone time, sucking down ice cold crystal light (thanks Phyllis!) and listening to music. In these moments I usually seek out my family for some comfort and company, but I just went to lunch and it made it so much worse. Basically in the middle of lunch my sister asked me, “So wait, Binta, what is your work? What do you do? People are always asking me what you do here and I just tell them I don’t know?”<br /><br />I wanted to simultaneously vomit and cry.<br /><br />I’ve been here a year, busting my ass, away from my home, my family, my friends, my career, my culture, my native language, making no money, trying to help this community, fending off illnesses, watching my body deteriorate, and my very own host sister doesn’t even know what I do? What’s the point? What AM I doing here? If my own SISTER doesn’t have a grasp on it I must be the biggest most ridiculous failure.<br /><br />But because I HAVE been here a year I realized that she is the one at fault, and I called her on it.<br /><br />A year ago I probably would have just been devastated (which I still was) and explained to her again what I do for the zillionth time, but this time I called her out on it, I told her “Binta, I’m mad at you. I’ve been here almost a year, I teach YOUR women’s group about your health concerns, you listen to my HEALTH radio shows, you listen to me talk about the HEALTH classes I teach at the schools, and the HEALTH talks I hold all over town, and you still don’t know what I do?” To my family’s credit they all rallied behind me and they were all laughing at her and me (because somehow I managed to keep a smile on my face…I guess it’s ingrained in me that anger and sadness don’t work and that the only way to get through IS laughter) and backed me up and made her feel silly for asking the question. And maybe once and for all, they will all speak up for me and tell others what I do here. One can only hope.<br /><br />Then my mom started talking to me about how I need to make my room look nice and I need to spray for scorpions before I have guests coming and I told her that I will but not until the end of the month because I don’t have the money to buy the chemicals. She said I didn’t understand and started repeating herself and I insisted that I DID understand what she said but that I can’t until I have money. Again the rest of my family backed me up and I felt good that at least I was being clear even if she didn’t understand me in that moment.<br /><br />I was definitely not hungry after that and I abruptly left for my room where I burst into tears and called another volunteer. Which always makes me feel better because even though I could imagine people from home having good advice, and lending a sympathetic ear, until you’ve experienced these same kinds/levels of frustration, there is only so much you can share and understand, and only fellow volunteers seem to be able to console me in the way I need at that moment.<br /><br />I guess they must have known that I was frustrated because about an hour later, sitting in my hut, drying my tears and on the phone, my little sister comes to my door holding an ice cold frozen juice bag from Binta. It might not seem like much, but that gesture put a big smile on my face all over again.<br /><br />And I’m wiped out. Today is done. No more emotional roller coasters today please. I am finishing this blog and then going to hang out all evening in my compound with my family, and go to bed early and drink ice cold water, and tomorrow I will face my neighbor’s baptism (which I never go to, but this one is a must because they are my friends).<br /><br />And I am vowing to never again attend another big event…Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6689511883843300236.post-27630607556458887172008-03-25T04:26:00.000-07:002008-03-25T04:27:39.038-07:00HonestyHonesty.<br /><br />Though I pride myself on giving you all a pretty realistic glimpse into my PC life, I do not publish all of my writings. I do try and save some for myself. But I think it’s important that you all understand how much time there is to think, and over think the entire PC experience. And you all seem to appreciate me sharing my experiences so honestly and have commented positively on my ability to self-reflect (is that proper English?) so I thought I would include this little blurb that I recently wrote to a friend in an email:<br /><br />I’m in such a slump right now. I know it’s normal to have a 1 year bummer, everyone in PC goes through it and we usually lose a couple people at mid-service, but I just can’t help but feel like I’ve accomplished absolutely jackshit here, and I’m starting to panic that I wont end up doing anything substantial with my two years. And it makes it so much worse when people from home are like, “ You’re so inspiring, I’m so proud of you, you’re changing the world!” and I just shake my head and think, “you are so unclear on the concept. I’m not doing anything you couldn’t do.”<br /><br />And of course I know (better than most probably) that change is SLOW, and frustrating, and development workers make mistakes, and there are setbacks, and inefficiencies, and that you just have to have faith that what you’re doing makes a difference even if its not tangible and you can’t see the fruits of your labor until years down the line…blah blah blah, and usually I do…(you know me, I’m eternally optimistic, sometimes annoyingly so), but there are so many flaws with this program, especially the Health program, and it’s endlessly frustrating because PC has so much potential, and really its still pretty incredible (or else I wouldn’t be here) but my expectations for what I would accomplish were low coming in here, but I secretly hoped that maybe they wouldn’t need to be.<br /><br />And I think that the real problem is just having WAY too much thinking time! You know? Like always being by yourself, but never alone? It’s something that I don’t think anyone can fully understand until you’re thrown into another place and made into a television show, but still totally isolated from all things familiar. It’s just bizarre.<br /><br />And my god how I love it most of the time!<br /> I really do, and some days I sit back and think, “wow. I’m awesome. Look at what I’m doing. Not just anyone could do this.” But maybe my own standards are too high also?<br /><br />I just miss feeling like myself. And being on malaria meds, and constantly hot, and sleep deprived, and never feeling quite right, and lacking good food, and not having the control over exercise or a routine…or control over anything can just make you feel so helpless and confused.<br /><br />But at the same time I absolutely adore my little life, and have gotten used to the slow pace of things, and feel comfortable just doing nothing some days, and being busy and needed other days, but then the guilt gets to you. That’s the worst part, the guilt that I’m not absolutely maxing myself out every single day and busting my ass to help my community, like I was at home, or at least in academia I was.<br /><br />You know that it’s in my nature to operate on full force at all times, and so here because I can’t operate like that I feel like a failure. And logically I know that that attitude and attack just doesn’t work in this kind of a program (I tried at the beginning and it almost killed me and sent me home), but some days it just eats away at you, especially knowing so much about development work and its good and bad sides. And I’m thankful that I do know so much about it, because I feel like I’m so much better able to understand the complexities of the challenges this country and the people in my community face, but man, I’m so tired of thinking all the time. I do wish I could just be mindless sometimes. It’s enough to make a person crazy.<br /><br /> I just miss feeling like super-healthy, on top of her shit, bubbly and energetic, confident, do-gooding Caitlin. That’s all. And I’m not entirely sure how to get her back? Or if I’ve even lost her in the first place?<br /><br />And like I said, don’t worry too much about this rant. I have it with myself probably 3x a week and I ultimately end up convincing myself that I am happy and everything’s fine, but it feels nice to share it with you, because I know you’ll read this and be thoughtful and honest about it. I may post it on my blog at some point just so that people understand what goes on in my brain…<br /><br />Thoughts?Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09035707367649386442noreply@blogger.com1