Caitlin in the Peace Corps: Senegal

Wendy's Blog Entry

2009-04-02T10:43:00.001-07:00

I 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Lisa's Blog entry

2009-03-27T13:32:00.001-07:00

Reflections on my visit to Senegal

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.”

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.

2 years

2009-03-27T13:26:00.000-07:00

2 years

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.

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.

2 Years On…

# of years lived in Senegal: 2
# of times I left the country: 3
# of times I went to America: 2
# of friends that have gotten married or engaged since I’ve been away: 10
# of friends/acquaintances that have had babies since I’ve been gone: 3
# of baby deaths I’ve had to suffer through: 1
# of births I attended/babies I delivered: 3
# of babies that were born and named after me or a member of my family: 7
# of times I’ve had things stolen: 2 (purse and things from my luggage)
# of times I’ve felt unsafe at site: 0
# of times I’ve felt unsafe in public transport: Every single time
# of messages sent on my 2nd cell phone (1st one was stolen): 4869
# of messages received on said cell phone: 3643
# of people I’ve had come visit: 6
# of extra treks across the country to Dakar I had to make because of those visitors: 16 (totally worth every moment though!)
# of visitors that got sick during their visit: 3
# of times I’ve seen my host mom cry: 3
# of times I’ve henna’d my hands and feet: 3
# of times I let my family braid my hair: 0
# of packages I received : upwards of 40 THANKS EVERYONE!
# of random emails I receive from people because of my blog: 7-10
# of Senegalese friends and family that know about my blog: 0
# of months spent away from site due to illness: about 4
# of months spent on vacation: ~2 (we’re allocated 48 days)
# of months spent in Dakar working on various film projects: 3
# of months spent at site: 15
# 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
# 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.)
# of scorpions I’ve seen and slaughtered in my room : 30+
# 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)
# of pounds lost, gained, lost, and gained again: 0-15
maximum # of lbs a male in our group lost in country: 45
# of pcvs from our group who early terminated their service: 10
# of us who finished out our whole service: 33
# of pcvs from our group who are extending their service: 7 (that’s unprecedented!)
# 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)
# of forced marriages I tried and failed to stop: 1
# of times per day I’m still asked whether or not I have/want a Senegalese husband: ~4
largest # of people I’ve ever had attend one of my health talks: 120
smallest # of people I’ve ever had attend one of my health talks: 11

Things I will NOT miss at all:

The sweltering dry heat
Public transport in any way shape or form! NO MORE!!
Frequent stomach illness, skin infections, respiratory problems, random fevers etc.
Mosquitoes and the fear they instill with each bite
Always taking medication
The constant screaming, crying, and fighting children
Parents hitting their kids
Being a celebrity and a constant curiosity. Read “Toubak! Toubak! Toubak!”
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?”
People constantly talking about my, ahem, voluptuous rear end, and trying to get me to dance for them
Scorpions
Always having sandy, dirty feet
Feeling like a circus freak dressed up in uncomfortable Senegalese clothing.
Morning call to prayer and mosque speakers
Senegalese beer
The flies, especially during fly season
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.
Bureaucracy, corruption, and inefficiency
Being harassed by Senegalese men
Seeing children beg for food (my heart is broken about 60 times per day)
The exhaustion of living with people in poverty and wanting to help everyone I care about achieve a higher standard of living.
No proper sanitation systems = trash everywhere.
Bearing witness to women’s total lack of empowerment on a daily basis
Eating oily rice every day at almost every meal
Being constantly asked for things: lotion, phone credit, visas to America, money, the clothes on my back etc.
Sleeping on a bed made of sticks

Things I WILL miss desperately:

My Senegalese family and friends
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
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.
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).
Always having babies to play with
The feeling of being useful, and needed, and wanted.
Speaking Pulaar and French all the time.
The simplicity of life
Having an almost non-existent carbon footprint
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.
Greeting everyone in the room and the genuine joy I feel from them after a long or even a short absence.
Spending the day as a guest and being treated like royalty. Senegal after all is the country of Hospitality.
The sound of the faucet in the morning (because it means there is water for the day).
Going for long runs out in the open desert with no one around for miles
An enormous sense of empowerment and accomplishment, because after this, I can pretty much do anything!
My fellow PCVs.
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.
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.)
Mango season! 1 bucket of delicious ripe mangos for a dollar.
Living in a culture that is tolerant and encouraging of breastfeeding in public.
Seeing happy, mellow babies tied to their mommies’ backs.
Dakar. I love that city.

Things I am looking forward to in America:

Seeing friends and family whom I have missed for two years
Things functioning the way that they are supposed to
Consistent internet!
An abundance of fresh vegetables, whole grains, real cheeses, and good chocolate
California wine, and good wine in general
The freedom to eat what I want, when I want it, in the quantity I choose
Being just another face in the crowd
Freaking people out at social functions with my “crazy stories from Africa”
New, clean, comfortable, functional clothes!
Yoga and Pilates classes
Being off medication
Having greater access to news and what’s going on in the world
Catching up on 2 years of movies
Gabbing for hours over coffee with friends
Seeing art exhibits, dance, music, opera, and theater productions.
Having stimulating and diverse conversations about our world, politics, the environment, healthcare, women’s rights, etc.
Feeling clean all the time
Hot showers, pumice stones, and mini-spa days
Sharing my PC experiences with friends and others who are willing to listen
Fresh terry cloth towels
Reading the Economist cover to cover the week it comes out instead of 4 months late.
Sleeping in a real bed, with clean, soft, fluffy sheets
Seasons!
Sushi and Mexican food (that’s kind of all I want to eat for my first month back)
Air conditioning
The Daily Show!
Being around for important events like weddings, and births

Things I am NOT looking forward to in America:
Obsession with celebrity culture
Excess everything.
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.
Meeting people who just don’t care to know about my experiences
Ignorance about Africa (I know that’s part of my job to enlighten, but boy is it tiring)
Waste, packaging and vastly increasing my carbon footprint
Obsession with material goods and the need to consume
Obsession with body image
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.
Everything being so expensive
Spoiled children
Cold, unfriendly city folk who don’t greet and ask about my family, my goats, my work, or the weather.
“Time is money” and the stress that that expression instills in our culture
Not having a baby on my hip at all times
Missing my Senegalese family and friends and dealing with the difficulty and anxiety of trying to stay in touch
Momentarily forgetting how privileged I am to have the opportunities that I do and to live the way that I do
Not being able to relate to old friends the same way I used to
Forever dealing with the “Expat phenomenon” (aka. Always feeling like a little bit of an outsider from now on).
Frustration with other people’s inability to let things just “roll of their back.”
Everyone being in a hurry all the time.
Lack of family togetherness
Mourning the end of an era. From here on out it will always be past tense: “When I was in the Peace Corps…”

Infant Emergency

2009-01-30T03:58:00.002-08:00

Up 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.

I was wrong.

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.

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.

All of a sudden, one of the young Op Smile volunteers came in to get one of the nurses I was working with.

“Sandy, we need you out here quickly, a woman brought in a really sick baby.”

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.

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.

The nurses immediately took action.

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!”

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.

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.

Wrong again.

“Caitlin! You need to go over there. The woman who brought him in only speaks Pulaar. You need to translate.”

“Shit…I’m on it.”

I ran over there, clutching the infant oxygen mask, naively thinking it would do some good.

I arrived on the heels of the surgeon and his wife who had brought the baby to the baby ward.

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.

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.

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

“How old is he?”

“Six days” I said. “He was born on Saturday.” I took a breath and asked hesitantly, “do you think he’ll be okay?”

“He won’t make it,” he said matter-of-factly.

My heart sunk. My mouth went dry. This was what it felt like.

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,

“Come on little baby, don’t die. You can make it. Fight for me okay? You’ve got to fight baby. Fight.”

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.

Now came the horrible part.

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.

They searched and searched.

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.

This is when I really started to lose it.

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.

A cockroach the size of his foot ran over his naked exposed sores and legs. I nearly gagged.

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.

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.

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.

The moment they put him down, the IV came out.

“NO!” I shouted.

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.

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.

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.

There he was, lying in that same spot, still in his shit covered cloths, but attached to an IV!
I was ecstatic.
The nurse came up to me, “See? We got him hooked up, it’s okay.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I put on the best fake smile I could muster,
“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.”

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.

It was time for me to leave.

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.

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.

I was sure he was going to die.
“Tonight, tomorrow, or next week even” I thought to myself.

I called another PCV as I walked out, sobbing again, and explained the whole story.

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.

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,
“Oh my god. That’s awful. I’m so sorry. That shouldn’t happen. I’m sorry.”
As I spoke with him, the angry phase kicked in.

“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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

And that’s just healthy babies!

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.

After we hung up the phone I felt a lot better.

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.

I fell into a dreamless sleep, exhausted.

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.

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!

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.

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.

I apologize for my frankness. I’m just being realistic.

I need to go to nursing school…

All in a day's work

2009-01-30T03:58:00.001-08:00

There 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Her strategy? Run away. Great.
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?

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.
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.

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.

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….

Not exactly the best advice.
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.

Uhg.
It makes me sick to my stomach just thinking about how convoluted, complicated, and not in her favor all these things are.

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.

That’s where I come in.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.
Granted I failed, so maybe it was all for naught…but I haven’t given up yet. I’ll keep you all posted.

Now, if only I could figure out some way to justify this time and energy as work for my Close of Service report…

Update!

2009-01-30T03:56:00.001-08:00

I know I know, I’m sorry. I haven’t written in FOREVER.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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!
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.

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.

Then who knows where I’ll end up for school?

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.

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.

I keep repeating to myself…

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

Looking back, I truly would not trade it for the world.

Fund Peace...Not War!

2008-11-10T04:02:00.001-08:00

FYI
A petition to increase funding for PC ...

MorePeaceCorps Petition to President-elect Obama!

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.
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.
Take action right now, right here:
http://www.PetitionOnline.com/morepc/petition.html
Thanks!

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)sforster@nmsu.edu
No exercise is better for the human heart than reaching down to lift up another person. Tim Russert

MOVIE Online!

2008-10-29T07:45:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone,

Finally, the Peace Corps, SeneGAD and Peace Only Productions film, Elle Travaille, Elle Vit! (She Works, She Lives!) Check out the whole video at
www.peaceonlyproductions.blogspot.com

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).

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!

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.

Holly's Cause

2008-10-01T16:06:00.000-07:00

THIS IS FROM MY FRIEND AND COLLEAGUE HOLLY! READ UP!

Hello all!
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.
To donate, visit www.tinyurl.com/PCSenegal Please please please, forward this to any family and friends you think might be interested in donating.
For more information about the project or my village, feel free to email me at hollypabroad@yahoo.com
Thanks so much!
Holly Packard

Fundraising

2008-09-29T04:57:00.000-07:00

October 1, 2008

Dear Family and Friends,

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Please send contributions to:
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.

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: caitlingive@gmail.com, 221. 77.257.1479, or the SeneGAD representative: Awa Traoré, SeneGAD Advisor, Awatracheikh@yahoo.fr, B.P. 299, Thies, Senegal, 221.77.654.16.53.

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.

Sincerely,

Caitlin Givens

Work pictures updated

2008-09-29T03:08:00.000-07:00

I have updated the pictures in my Picasa web album called, Work!
To find my pictures go to the sidebar and find the links, then click on the one labeled
"Cait's Senegal Pics"

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 Jac et le Takeifa, the cool band that we're working with. I know you will all really enjoy their music.
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.

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?

Film Screening #2 October 7th

2008-09-29T03:05:00.000-07:00

Peace Only Productions, SeneGAD, and PEACE CORPS Senegal

Present

ELLE TRAVAILLE, ELLE VIT!

Tuesday October 7th, 2008
3 pm
American Center, Mbacke Building, Dakar

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.

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.

Concessions will be available. Donations to SeneGAD are welcome.

Film screening Sunday September 28th

2008-09-21T12:09:00.000-07:00

Peace Only Productions, SeneGAD and Peace Corps Senegal

Present

ELLE TRAVAILLE, ELLE VIT!

Sunday, September 28th 2008
7:30 pm
Club Atlantique

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.

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.

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.

I'm sorry it has been so long!!

2008-09-20T09:42:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone,

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.

Briefly,

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!)

I am now the Director of Public Relations for his production company, Peace Only Productions www.peaceonlyproductions.blogspot.com, Check out our current projects! We have our first public screening next week of our documentary Elle Travaille, Elle Vit! (She Works, She Lives!). 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.

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.

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.

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.

I promise promise promise to try and write a real entry soon.

The Flood

2008-06-16T12:23:00.000-07:00

The Flood
Or
Why I now know for a fact that scorpions really can climb walls
Or
How I almost got electrocuted

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.

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.

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.

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.

Nope.

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.

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.

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.

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….
Just gives me the chills thinkin’ about it.

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.
Yeah, that didn’t happen.

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.

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.
That’s 2x lucky in one day.

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.

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.
(See pictures from my newest album “Rain!”)

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.
Sigh.

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.
Grrrrrrr.

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.

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.

Stuff I have learned because of this flood:
Don’t leave electrical appliances plugged in and on in hopes of a cooler night’s sleep.
Keep all baggage elevated and in impenetrable containers
Children make great house keepers
Flooding your room is a great way to evacuate all bugs, lizards, and scorpions from the premises.
Not only can scorpions climb walls, they can apparently float.
I am lucky that nothing was damaged, and there is always someone worse off.
Now I know exactly how cholera and malaria epidemics begin.
The hundreds of toads now accumulated around our lake of trash are the loudest SOBs I’ve ever heard.

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.

Alhamdoulilah!

2008-06-03T13:24:00.000-07:00

Alhamdoulilah!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Med update

2008-05-13T12:17:00.000-07:00

It’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.

I’m still just hoping the ringing in my head will stop.

Ill health

2008-05-06T05:38:00.000-07:00

I’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.

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.

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.

Instead….

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

That, and thank my lucky stars that I have access to a proper, alternative form of medical care.

It's really hot.

2008-04-29T08:53:00.000-07:00

The hotness.

It is so hot.
It is so hot that…

My bar soap has liquefied.
My hut is a boulangerie.
My bucket water is too hot to wash my hands with (one of my trainees actually burned herself when using the loo).
I have visions of jumping into my family’s freezer.
The egg that broke in the plastic bag cooked slightly while in my purse.
You can’t touch anything metal.
Children can no longer go barefoot.
I wake up at midnight in a puddle of my own sweat.
I’m drinking almost 3 gallons (yes, gallons) of water every 24 hours.
We are making applesauce in a Nalgene bottle using only sunlight.
The World Meteorological Organization said that “ for the week of March 21st, Matam, Senegal (next to me) was the hottest place IN THE WORLD).
I’m looking forward to frying an egg on the concrete in my shower.
I daydream about instigating mass migration to the coast.

And finally…

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.

As a COSing volunteer recently texted me,
“This place is so hot it doesn’t deserve to be inhabited.”
I agree.

New trainees

2008-04-29T08:43:00.000-07:00

After 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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Maybe I just have too much time to think.

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.

Links to Amanda's Photos

2008-04-12T12:11:00.000-07:00

Here 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!

http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/amanda.shaw/Senegal?authkey=3TSEaJvB7Bk

Senegalese Doula!

2008-04-12T10:44:00.000-07:00

I finally got to be a doula in Senegal!

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.

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.

6am on one of the 3 days that my visitor was in my town, I got the call.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

(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!)

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.
And what an honor.
What an honor to be included and trusted in some of the most important moments of people’s lives.
I am so lucky.

Change!

2008-04-12T10:42:00.000-07:00

I affected change!

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.

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.

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)…

“Well Binta, I stopped feeding her oil. I’m only giving her breastmilk now. Breastmilk ONLY. Just like you told me to!”

I almost burst into tears. I get goosebumps just thinking about it.

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.

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.

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.

That’s how change starts right? With one person. You just have to plant the seed. I finally have proof that I did.

Senegalese events

2008-03-25T04:28:00.001-07:00

I don’t know why I still let myself get talked into attending big “formal” Senegalese events?

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.

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.

But you know, that’s just me… I’ve only lived here for a year…
What could I possibly know about the health problems in my community?
(insert dripping sarcasm into that one J)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

I could feel myself totally losing it… and getting so furiously angry about the events that were unfolding in the name of “health.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It was absolutely the most frustrating, most ridiculous display I’ve seen yet to date.

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.
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.

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:

Tents
Several hundred T-shirts
50 hautess outfits
Speakers
Chair rental
Gas for 20 SUVs
Inflatable finish line,
Brochures,
Lunch for several hundred,
Donations to the griots for singing the minister’s praises
Water/Electricity bills
Payment of gendarmes to keep the crowds under control and re-direct traffic
Etc etc etc.

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.

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.
So where is the middle ground? Is it my job to figure that out?

It’s endlessly frustrating.

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?”

I wanted to simultaneously vomit and cry.

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.

But because I HAVE been here a year I realized that she is the one at fault, and I called her on it.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

And I am vowing to never again attend another big event…

Honesty

2008-03-25T04:26:00.000-07:00

Honesty.

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:

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.”

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.

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.

And my god how I love it most of the time!
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?

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.

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.

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.

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?

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…

Thoughts?

ONE YEAR IN COUNTRY!!

2008-03-17T06:34:00.002-07:00

1 YEAR!!

I have officially been in Senegal for one year! Woo hoo! I made it! I can’t believe it. The time has absolutely flown by. And I know everyone always says that, but I really do feel like Ramadan was just yesterday. All outgoing PCVs always say that the first year is the most difficult and after you get over the 1 year slump, everything just falls into place, and your work, language, friends, and contacts just take off.

I’ve used this landmark as an opportunity to go back and read up on my blog entries from my first months at site. How far I’ve come! I’ve learned so much. I think the thing that’s especially surprising to me is how much better I can tolerate everything! That and how much more articulate I used to be. My English writing truly has suffered.

While most of the stuff I complained about before still exists, it just doesn’t affect me anymore. I highly recommend that you all go back and read some too. They might entertain you. One thing that worries me a bit though is how sort of sarcastic and jaded I feel I sound sometimes. The idealism and enthusiasm practically pours out of my entries from my Community Entry Period. Though I’m still able to maintain some of that, I definitely notice a prevalence of sarcasm and underlying bitterness in some of my entries. The mood swings have certainly lessoned though (see June 2007 entry “Living in a World of Mood Swings”) which is something I hadn’t realized until now. I also laugh a lot more when I used to just get angry.

I hope that this week I’ll get a chance to write a “reflection” entry about my experience during the past year, but for now, here is my 1-year index for your entertainment:

# of days in Senegal: 365
# of days since I’ve seen my parents: 368 (because of the 3 day orientation in DC)
# of months at site: 10
# of current different ongoing work projects: 5
# of packages received: ~25 (amazing…keep ‘em coming! I feel so loved.)
# of known packages currently in the mail: 2
max # of weeks its ever taken for a package to arrive: 8
# of visitors: 1 (with another one on her way in less than 2 weeks! I can’t wait to see you Amandita!)
# of PCVs from my group who have ETd (Early Terminated): Still 6 (though 1 more soon. Good luck at Johns Hopkins Jamie!!)
# of PCVs still left in our group: 37
# of COSing PCVs from my region: 9 (I am going to miss them all desperately)
# of new PCVs coming to our region: 7 (We can’t wait to meet all of you!)
# of times per day I think about what I’m going to do post PC: ~3
# of degrees in my room right now: 107 F (and I’m barely even sweating)
# of scorpions found and destroyed in my hut: 12
# of rotting lizard corpses stuck to the rafters of my hut: 1
# of times I’ve refilled my tiny gas stove: 1
# of times I’ve had to burn my trash: 5
# of buckets of water I use per day (if it’s not hair-washing day): 1
# of times I’ve had to change my light bulb: 0
àMy carbon footprint is like zero!!
# of babies delivered: 1
# of PCV medical emergencies attended: 1
maximum # of rams seen tied to the roof of a station wagon: 7
# of pairs of flip-flops I’ve worn through: 3
Highest # of degrees I’ve seen on my thermometer: 137 F (I swear. This year I’m taking a picture as proof cuz no one believes me)
Lowest # of degrees I’ve seen on my thermometer: 63 F (early morning during the cool season)
# of holes in my mosquito net: 1 (it’s held up amazingly well)
maximum number of mosquito bites on my body at 1 time: 123 (I counted)
# of baptisms attended not including my own: 1 (never again. Totally overwhelming.)
# of sisters married and dropped out of school at age 17: 1 (my favorite one)
Average # of marriage proposals per week: ~3 (they’ve FINALLY slowed down).
# of family members I pretty much don’t speak to ever: 1 (my older brother. More on that soon).
# of times people have stolen cell phone credit from my phone: 2
# of schools I’m currently teaching at: 3 (primary, secondary, and preschool)
# of women’s groups: 2
# of pounds lost: ~15
# of PCVs from my region who have had malaria: 1
# of PCVs from my region who have been exposed to Tuberculosis:1
# of PCVs I know of who have married Senegalese during their service: 2
# PCV friends (that I know of) whose families have come to visit them in country: 14
# of times I’ve left the country: 1
# of months until I come home to AMERICA for a vacation: 4
# of times per week I wash my hair: 2
# of times I’ve henna’d my hands and feet: 1
# of times I’ve let my sisters braid my hair: 0
# of times per week I see other PCVs/speak English: ~1
# of times per week I get to the internet: ~1
# of text messages sent: 4,071 (so that’s where all my spending money goes…)
# of text messages received: 2579 (that ratio is kind of sad).
# of times I’ve been sick with stomach issues and fever: 4 (all pretty mild)
# of times I’ve made myself sick at the regional house from eating “American” food: Almost every time I’m there.
# of books read in country: 14 (I really thought I’d be reading a lot more. I’m glad I’m too busy to be).
# of solo hut dance parties I throw for myself per week: ~2
# of tubes of anti-fungal foot cream I’ve gone through: 1
# of Senegalese outfits I currently own: 5
# of times per month I have to scrub massive calluses off my feet: 2
# of hours I spend awake at night per week: 4-7
# of goats currently staring at me from outside my screen door: 1
# of times I’ve accidentally cleaned out my water filter with too much soap and made the water taste like rotten eggs for months afterwards: 1
# of times I’ve seriously thought about ETing: 5 (though barring all medical and family emergencies I know I won’t)
# of times I’ve nearly wretched at the thought of eating another bite of oily rice: ~20
# of other PCV’s sites visited: 6
# of friends from home who have gotten married or engaged or pregnant: 6 (Just in the past year!!)
average # of flies I have flying around my room at any given time: 6
Litters of kittens my family’s cat has had: 2
Litters of kittens my family’s cat has EATEN: 1
# of times per day I’m called toubak if I’m just walking around my town: ~2
# of cockroaches I’ve seen in my douche or hut: 0 (amazing!)
# of blog entries written: 103 (including this one).
maximum # of children I’ve ever had studying in my room at once: 5
# of liters of water per day I drank during the cold season: 3
# of GALLONS of water I’m drinking now that it’s the hot season again: 2 (yes, gallons, I’ve retired my liter Nalgene bottle and have taken to carrying around a ½ gallon thermos that keeps water ice cold)
# of times per day I buy a block of ice from my family: 1
# of times per day I’m asked for things by my family: 0-1 (much improved from my first months at site)
# of times per day I’m asked for things by people in town: 2-3 (usually Talibe kids asking for money)
# of hours per day my family’s TV is on: ~8 (barring all power outages)
# of babies in my family that scream and cry every time they see me because I’m white: 1 (luckily she doesn’t live in my house)
That is all for now. I hope you enjoyed my index. 1 YEAR!

Night Swimming

2008-03-17T06:34:00.001-07:00

On Friday night myself and 6 other PCVs went to visit a fellow PCV (my closest neighbor) in his village 7K away. His two years are up (though he’s extending for a year in Dakar) and wanted to have a little get together/barbecue for his family so that we could meet them all and see his village.

His village is along the river and so of course, as the sun was going down, we all got it in our heads to go for a swim! (We girls had to wear long skirts/pants of course). Some of you may know that these rivers are not exactly the most sanitary. Schistosomiasis anyone? Animals and people definitely use them as toilets, as well as wash their clothes and dishes in them. But when its still 100 degrees at 8pm adds to the enthusiasm of 6 other PCVs we all jumped in and swam across the river to Mauritania! It was such a cool thing to do, to stand up there on the banks of Mauritania and look back and see Senegal. Perhaps it was not the safest, or most sanitary thing to do, swim in an unknown and fairly deep river with a current in Africa at night, but we all made it safe and sound and showered off all the remnants afterwards.

No harm done? Not totally sure…

During the swim I couldn’t help but sit back for a moment and think about how cool I felt doing that. I was envisioning the conversation a few years down the road… “this one night, in Africa when I swam across the Senegal River to Mauritania under the stars with 6 of my friends…” It just made me reflect on all the adventures I’m having here whose “coolness factor” probably won’t hit me until I’m home in America sharing them with others.

That night we ate a ton of meat and I spent a long time dancing with some kids in his family to Akon, Sean Paul, Shakira, playing on his Ipod speakers. It was so fun to be there under the stars, after a swim and a meal, with friends and little kids. For a few hours I felt “Peace Corps normal.”

The next day was my stage’s one-year anniversary in country! Woo hoo! Which happened to coincide with my jr. highs big annual celebration. Two days of sports games, club performances, lots of music, dancing, and a final soirée. So the morning after being in my friend’s village I woke up at sunrise and caught a car (lucky me…not a charet!) to my town. I dressed up in my brand new Senegalese outfit complete with gigantic headwrap and attended all the day’s events. As I am an invited guest at these kinds of functions I’m always given a chair among the mayor, official ministers, and teachers in the shade with cold drinks. I was even asked to get up and speak! So there I was in front of probably 500 people (mostly kids) thanking and praising them for their celebration and telling them how much it meant to me to celebrate my one year in country with them etc etc. It made me feel very loved to see all those faces and to realize how many people in my community know me. Afterwards I had a bunch of them come up to me and tell me how much they loved my speech (all of 1 minute long. And yes mom, I have pictures).

I came back just after dusk totally exhausted with some of my siblings, only to spend the rest of the night in my douche with Giardia, or some such disgusting virus. The jury is still out on whether or not it is Giardia, amoebas, or some other lovely parasite, or all of the above. I’ll find out next week some time after my very dear friend gets to haul down a my stool sample to the PC med office in Dakar. What a guy huh? But thank god for the PC med kit and Oral Rehydration Salts is all I can say. That, and cell phones and cell phone reception because I was able to call the PCMedical Officer for counsel and seek sympathy from my mom and family at home.

I’m assuming it was something in my friend’s village that has made me ill, so perhaps our fabulous night swimming adventure was not without consequence? (Absentmindedly ingested some river water maybe? I shudder at the thought).

What a classic way to celebrate my one-year anniversary in country right? Sick as a dog with some hideous GI bug. Ah well, I’m feeling a bit better today and at least I got to have a great adventure and participate in almost all of the jr. high’s activities (For obvious reasons I could NOT go to the soirée, though the music blared all night long and I would have loved to have gone and danced with my teacher friends all night).

As soon as I find out what is wrong with me, and assuming it’s not just a passing 1 time only virus, I’m sure I’ll be started on a whole slew of fabulous medicines with all kinds of side effects, but for now I’m functional and well-hydrated and I’ll still be able to make our radio show on Tuesday no problem.

I hope this entry doesn’t scare off any visitors who think that I’ll be a reckless hostess. It’s just that after a year you start to let your guard down a little bit. But this has been a perfect reminder that that’s stupid and makes you miserable. Time to be a bit more careful maybe? Though a day off to lay around, nap, hydrate like mad, and read and drink ice cold crystal light is not all that bad.

Though as I type this, it is 112 F in my room.

School

2008-03-17T06:31:00.000-07:00

School.
Thus far this month the elementary school has been in session for 2 days because of strikes, religious holidays, and random government scheduled holidays. If there are no more strikes they will only have been in school for 6 days this entire month.
When I realized this I started talking to people in my town about it. Everyone agrees and knows that it’s totally unreasonable, but what’s to be done about it? They are flabbergasted when I explain to them that we have a minimum number of days we must be in school (180 right?) and that if there are unplanned cancellations (for strikes, blizzards etc) that we must make them up at the end of the school year. I also explain that we only have a 2 1/2 month long summer vacation, not 4, and that teachers cannot just cancel class to hold meetings.
These poor kids don’t even stand a chance. No wonder so many of them have to repeat grades, and drop out early, and can barely read at age 9. They’re NEVER in school!
And it’s frustrating for the teachers too (the ones who care that is) because there’s no time to teach anything!
I didn’t have a real purpose for writing this entry, I just needed to vent my frustration at my total lack of ability to teach this entire month. I’ve taught 1 class, on AIDS, in English, which went really but that’s absurd. Thankfully I’ve been occupying myself with translating our years worth of health radio skits into French so that we (and our replacement volunteers) can use them in the schools. Tedious and time consuming, but necessary and keeps me focused and gives me a task.

I know I’ve said this before but what this country needs is a total overhaul of its education system…PRONTO!

Senegalese medical "care"

2008-03-06T05:36:00.001-08:00

Other people’s medical emergencies seem to follow me wherever I go.

Maybe it’s a sign that I should finally take the plunge and go into the medical field (something I’ve been on the fence about for a long time). For better or for worse, my experience yesterday navigating the Senegalese medical system (if you can call it that) certainly re-motivated me to look into public health and nursing programs post-PC.

(I’m hesitant to even share this story because I know it’s going to make my mother cringe, but it has a happy ending and looking back on it there was never any serious danger, just a lot of confusion and delay.)

Around 11:40AM yesterday, I was in my town, at the post office picking up a package. I was sweating profusely in my brand new Senegalese outfit, (having dressed up to teach that morning, only to find out that the teachers were on strike of course) when my phone rang. It was our PC security officer (PCSO) (who is absolutely wonderful by the way). He explained that a fellow PCV nearby had fallen off of her bike and cut herself badly and asked me to get to her ASAP. So of course I accepted and told him I could be there in about an hour. Luckily I arrived at the garage to an almost full bus so we took off right away. En route the PCSO called and told me that she had been transported from where she fell, by charet, back to her village and now her village had called a car to take her to the Senegalese hospital in the big town between us. He also told me NOT to let the Dr. give her stitches, but to stabilize and clean the cut and that a PC car was on the way and would be there in several hours (little did they realize how far away we really are, because a trip they thought would take 5 hours, took them about 9). I called another volunteer in the area and told her to meet us there as well.

Here’s where it gets ridiculous…

I arrived just as they did, in the “Urgent Care” office. I walked in and there she was, sitting in a wheelchair with a borrowed bloodied headwrap wrapped around her knee. But instead of being treated, the duty Dr. is arguing with her about speaking in Pulaar. Classic. At this point, she is exhausted, dehydrated, and finished talking, so I take over and try to explain to him about the stitches. The majority of the day was spent speaking in French so it wasn’t nearly as challenging as it could have been had I had to use Pulaar.

The Dr. was really aggressive and angry and he has basically been yelling at her because we insisted on coming in the room with her and now he starts in on me saying that it’s ridiculous for us to refuse treatment, we can’t tell him what to do or how to treat, that if a Senegalese person came to America they wouldn’t question the Dr.’s authority etc etc.

I have to be really calm with him and I explain very clearly that it is unfair to yell at us, and especially not her because it is not up to us, and would he please speak to our PC Dr. who we have on the phone. He refuses of course and gets more pissed off. Meanwhile the assistant starts pulling at the PCVs pant leg so that he can get a look at the gash. Now I’m sorry, but any First Aid certified stooge knows that YOU DON’T PULL!! So I have to tell him “hey, stop it. Get scissors and CUT the pant leg OFF!”
(Insert various inappropriate curses in English said to myself).

Finally the Dr. talks to our PCDr. and has meanwhile called in another Dr./surgeon. We’re still sitting in the office, all of us are on various cell phones, the poor girl is still holding her own leg, so I pull over a chair for her to prop it up on so she can relax it. And the assistant just grabs a bottle of Betadine and is about to dump it all over her! I mean, we’re in the waiting room and still being yelled at for crying out loud!

So just so you have the scene in mind. I’m standing next to her in the wheelchair; she’s in tremendous pain (being super brave about it and keeps saying she can’t cry cuz Senegalese people don’t cry. Hilarious.), the other volunteer is on the phone with her counterpart who has meanwhile also gotten a car and is running around trying to find us and help in any way possible. The assistant finally stops messing with her pant leg, and the Dr. and I are passing the PCDr. Back and forth on the cell phone. Finally she gets the phone back and while we wait for the other Dr./surgeon to show up the Dr. starts asking me if I have a husband! “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” I roared. “NOW?! You’re asking me NOW! While she’s sitting in urgent care with fat and tissue hanging out of her kneecap, waiting to be treated…SERIOUSLY??”

In walks Dr #2 and the first words out of his mouth are, “What’s all this I hear about you not accepting our treatment? This is ridiculous. What are you doing here? I refuse to talk to any other Dr. There are other patients waiting. If you don’t want our treatment get out.” So two doctors have now yelled at this poor PCV and I made the executive decision to get us out of there and I tell our PCDr. That this is no place for her to receive medical care and we wheel her out.

Part of me understands that we (toubabs) come in with this air of distrust and fear at the prospect of being treated in a Senegalese hospital cuz well, it’s just not good care! I mean I was the one telling the guy to CUT her pants, and I stabilized her leg. Worrisome. Now they told us that of course they would use local anesthetic and then do stitches, but at that point we were all so angry at each other that I told the PCDr. that I would clean and dress the wound and we’d get her to a hotel and stabilize her and wait for PC to arrive.

Now all PCVs are equipped with extensive medical kits, but in the rush to get to her I didn’t bring mine because at that point she was still in her village and had her own. So I go to the pharmacy AT THE HOSPITAL and ask if they sell gauze or antiseptic or codeine.

None of the above.

It’s a hospital pharmacy and all they sell is paracetemol. Awesome. Too bad she doesn’t have a headache, she’s had a major trauma to her kneecap!!

So the other PCV who lives close by races home and brings back her med kit while myself and the people from her village and the other girls’ counterpart all get her to a hotel room. Oh yeah, and the first hotel we went to was full so we had to go to a different one.

It’s now been about 2 ½ hours since the initial fall. She’s been put on a charet, in a car, taken to a hospital, left the hospital untreated, and now we settle her in at a hotel in some AC. The counterpart is amazing and he goes out and buys her codeine, water, food, and juice because she’s feeling faint from the heat and the shock and all the excitment.

The other PCV arrives and I clean it out with hydrogen peroxide, loosely dress the gash, give her food, codeine, juice, and water, and get some ice on the knee to reduce swelling. Meanwhile our PCSO tells us that there is a Senegalese military nurse on his way to us at the hotel. (One of our PC drivers’ brothers works at the base nearby. Gotta love family connections right?)

The military driver, the nurse, and a random Pulaar woman (a nurse assistant I think) all arrive and come up to the room. They check out the wound and basically insist that she needs stitches and that PC really won’t be able to get here in time. Which is true. You need to do stitches with 8 hours because you need live tissue.

He gets on the phone with our PC nurse who is en route (still about 6 hours away) and we all agree that he can do the stitches. He brings a local anesthetic and injects it right by the cut. Which is incredibly painful as you can imagine. Here is where she is SO brave. Later she nicknamed me her “stitches doula” which I thought was awesome. And it was really amazing how similar the “coaching” really was. There was so much commotion and chaos and pain that I had to get right up in her face, and hold her hand, and have her concentrate on me, and her breathing, and help cover her eyes and give her a play-by-play of what was going on so she didn’t have to look.

Now in Senegalese/Pulaar culture women barely even make noise when they give birth. They have this crazy relationship with pain that I cannot understand. So poor injured PCV is trying her best not to cry, (and crying out in Pulaar mind you, which I thought was pretty badass). But the needle with the local anesthesia is very intimidating and painful, especially for someone who already has a fear of needles.

Basically this guy had no bedside manner. I don’t doubt that he wasn’t trained, and the job got done, but certainly not in any way we’re accustomed to. Now typically with local anesthesia, you have to wait several minutes for it to take affect. So what does he do? He starts the first stitch immediately even though we’re pleading with him to STOP and WAIT! This poor girl, is in so much pain, and being so brave, but terrified because he isn’t taking her pain seriously.

We get our nurse on the phone and convince him to wait a few minutes, now that he’s already done the first stitch to see if the anesthetic will kick in. Ultimately, for whatever reason, the local anesthetic doesn’t take. He keeps pushing on her knee and asking her what she feels to which of course she responds “OW that HURTS!” But he doesn’t believe her. They keep saying it’s all in her head!

We tell him we need a timeout. She and I weighed her options: they can give her another anesthetic, but there are only two stitches left and they have other patients waiting for them (supposedly, though he was napping before the driver had brought him over so I think they were just annoyed with us and wanted to go to lunch).

She decided to just bear through the next two stitches, as long as I promised to cover her eyes, help her breathe, and give her a play by play with a break in between sutures. I have to hand it to her…she spoke Pulaar throughout the whole thing and barely even shed a tear. Very impressive.

Once he finished, they started asking if we had anti-biotics, and anti-imflammatories, and offered to give her a tetanus shot. Basically they were going to give her every drug known to man. Kind, but unnecessary, and not good care. This is a huge problem in Senegal-over prescribing. People come home with bags of medicine for a headache and are given huge long prescriptions that they can’t read and don’t know which one is the most important because they usually can’t afford to buy all of them.

We refused all of the above noting our PCnurse told us not to and that she already had codeine, and local anesthetic coursing through her system. He wraps up the knee (MUCH to tight mind you, so I cut it off after they left).

We thank them, they leave and as I’m walking them out they mention again to me that it was all in her head and that she wasn’t really in pain. That the local anesthetic worked but she was just scared. Yeah, um…doubtful.

The upshot of the rest of the day was that the three of us hung out in AC, we gave her more codeine so she was feeling pretty great, we all finally ate lunch and hydrated (it was about 4pm by then), and watched DVDs on a portable DVD player while we waited for PC to arrive.

At 8:45pm the PCnurse, our PCSO and the driver arrived. They had already stopped by the military base and thanked them for their help and given them the appropriate “cadeaux” for their services. Our nurse told us that while the cut had looked really deep and severe, that the stitches looked well done and that there really had been no alternative, and that she had to have them done ASAP and PC wouldn’t have made it in time. She got her started on anti-biotics and anti-inflammatories, now that she didn’t have quite so many painkillers in her system.

That night the other PCV got a stomach bug, and had a fever so the two of them camped out in bed and got a full night’s sleep. I had a lovely dinner with the PC staff and then got my own hotel room, and watched Family Guy in the AC until I unwound from the adrenaline rush and fell asleep.

Looking back on the whole experience, initially I was upset with Peace Corps for being so unclear and indecisive and moving her around so much, but I realize now that it is really difficult to pronounce on the severity of an injury over the phone and they did everything in their power to help. Apparently it’s unheard of for them to drive all the way for a “minor” trauma. Of course in a more serious or life-threatening emergency we would be med-evacked to a more appropriate location. But in the end it was a good relationship to establish because the head of the military base told our PCSO that he should be our first emergency contact, at any time, for any reason because he is well-connected and they have lots of people all over the region that can get to us in no time flat and he is happy to help.

So while there was no bedside manner to speak of, and the quality of care was zero, the job was done and she is fine and on her way to Dakar today in the comfort of a PC car.

I can’t help but wonder if we had just accepted the treatment in the first place at the hospital would it have been that bad once the “proper” Dr. arrived? But the fact that they used Betadyne only was worrisome. Hydrogen peroxide is a much more effective tool (whereas Betadyne is typically used topically and takes several minutes to sanitize) and the military nurse in fact did not even know what hydrogen peroxide was! The collaborative effort of all involved though was comforting- from PC staff, to other volunteers, to village families, counterparts, and hotel staff. Bottom line is she is going to be just fine.

And as a result, I’m going to spend my morning looking up Public Health and Nurse practitioner programs in America. Because if there is anything this experience has taught me, it’s the importance of GOOD MEDICAL CARE EVERYWHERE, and it really highlighted the total lack thereof.

My reproductive health course at LSE included an entire section on the importance and dearth of Quality of Care, but now I really understand firsthand the difference it makes in a medical setting and why people in my town hesitate to see the Dr. and wait until the very last moment, which sometimes comes too late.

Hopefully that will be my last impromptu medical emergency, but now at least I have a better understanding of how to handle them here in Senegal.

And if nothing else, all of these experiences make great stories right?

the grocery store

2008-03-04T09:34:00.000-08:00

When I was in Dakar last week for WAIST (West African Invitational Softball Tournament) I enjoyed all of the perks of a huge capital city swarming with other PCVs from all over the region. I ate delicious food, spoke English almost exclusively, spent hours by the pool, wore jeans (hooray!) and went out dancing at every opportunity. I guess I had underestimated how long I’ve been in country and how long it’s been since I’ve really been exposed to Americanesque decadence and choice. Aside from Rome, when I was in Italy I spent most of my vacation in our apartment, catching up on quality family friend time. I supposed I wasn’t as exposed to the same kind of abundance, or at least it didn’t freak me out as much for some reason. So I surprised myself in Dakar during a stop at the massive toubak grocery store, Casino.

I was supposed to go in and pick up a few things, toiletry items, and some lunch. I figured, “oooh, what a great chance to make something totally delicious with lots of vegetables!” But when I walked in to this grocery store (mind you it’s about half the size of the one my family shops at in America) I was totally overwhelmed. So overwhelmed in fact, that all I could do was wander around in circles and stare wide-eyed at all of the choices, and products, and delicious food, and the concise organization of it all. I walked up and down the aisles in a state of total disbelief. They even had a proper public bathroom! Thirty minutes later, after perusing every aisle at least twice, I walked out of the grocery store empty-handed. I couldn’t even buy anything! It was like total sensory overload! I couldn’t even get it together to choose a type of bread, or cheese, or decide if I wanted a sandwich, or cereal, or yogurt, or ice cream or or or…

Looking back now I’m kicking myself for not getting a grip and enjoying a delicious toubak meal while I had the chance, but it was way too much for one PCV to handle! I mean they had 3 kinds of smoked salmon for crying out loud! And the razors…I mean a razor is a razor right? It cuts hair. Is one really that much better than another? There were gender specific designs, triple blades, double blades, single blades, 5-packs, 10 packs, individuals, ones with aloe vera strips, double strips, super softening strips, disposable, or ones that took disposable blades, battery-operated vibrating razors, rubber grip, plastic grip, Bic brand, generic brand….

I never did go back in. I couldn’t. I needed someone to go and make the decisions for me.

I told my mom about it and she laughed and said I was just like our Romanian friends who came to visit America immediately following the fall of the Iron Curtain. I mean clearly they had had much less exposure to choice than I have in my life, but now I can at least appreciate why they were so shocked and why the women wept during their first visit to an American grocery store.

Because there just aren’t choices here. Everyone sells the exact same kind of powdered milk, instant coffee, vegetables, the same 3 kinds of soda, the ubiquitous Biskrem cookies, and the list goes on.

Because of this little episode, I’m anticipating the total basket case I will become during my first visit to our beloved Nugget Market when I’m home over the summer. If you’re lucky enough to see it, you might find me wandering the aisles muttering to myself, picking things up off the shelf only to put them back down again. That, or I’ll end up with a basket full of random combinations of food like cereal and brussel sprouts, or ketchup and ice cream, canned cheese and laundry detergent, food supplements and greeting cards, or just mountains of produce.

So next time you’re in a Safeway, or the Nugget, or Albertson’s, or Price Chopper, take a minute to look around at the condiment aisle, or the frozen food section (Ha! Imagine…having so much food you have to freeze it to keep it fresh! Amazing!) and picture what it would be like to have all of that taken away for a year and then step back into it unprepared, without a list, or a friend to keep you focused. I think you would’ve left Casino empty-handed too.

That, or maybe you’d still be wandering the aisles asking, “why are there so many kinds of soap?”
I definitely don’t have a good answer for that one.

7 rams later

2008-03-04T09:31:00.001-08:00

People often ask me why I don’t go to our regional/transit house more often. I try to explain to them that it’s not just because I’m 200K away, that’s not the problem. From the next town over, if I can get a station wagon, and the car doesn’t break down, we don’t get stopped by the gendarmes, and barring all other major disasters, the trip usually only takes about 3 ½ hours door to door. Those are the good days, and they are rare.

Around Tabaski (muslim holiday in December) when I was leaving for Italy, I had the quintessential Senegalese public transport experience, which will help me illustrate why I try to stick around the Matam area as much as possible. If I need a night away, I prefer to just pay for a night at a hotel in air conditioning rather than make the trek to the regional house. This is why…

7:30 AM
I left the compound as soon as the sun was bright. I made the 20 minute walk to the garage with my bags and was pleasantly surprised to find that there was a station wagon available that morning (we call them “7 places”, meaning there should be 7 passengers including the driver. They are about the size of a Subaru Outback…but not nearly as luxurious, and they “hold” 8 full grown people, plus bags, no shocks, little ventilation, and various other discomforts). So I was thrilled because I could get this car directly to the regional house and not have to stop in the next big town over and change cars (which is usually the case).

10AM
6 passengers on board, one to go. #7 shows up. I think “Great! Let’s be on our way!” No way I’d be that lucky. Because what does this guy have as baggage??
Not 1, not 2, not even 5….No ladies and gentlemen, he brings with him 7 FULL SIZED LIVE RAMS!! Yep, you read that correctly, Rams, as in grown male sheep. Not puny little baby goats, full-sized rams that come up to my waist, with horns and all. I’m just standing there, my mouth open, staring and shaking my head “no way! There is no way they are going to fit 7 rams, 8 people and all our bags in this car. No way!”
I should know by now to have more faith in “max capacity transport situations.”

The men (of which there is always an abundance at the garage, sitting around idly looking for something to do, or watch, or anything really to stave off boredom) finally pack all of our bags in the back of the car. It is absolutely crammed full of our bags (which is why I unfortunately don’t have a picture of the whole thing).

Now they start to tackle the rams. Normally livestock are tied up and then stuffed into empty rice sacks to help cut down on the urine and feces that fall on us through the window (though if you’ve been following my blog since the beginning, you know that they are not very effective). But this time there were no rice sacks. I’m sure you clever people can imagine what’s going to happen later as a result.

11AM
Somehow, an hour later, we are on our way. This is the text message I sent out to a fellow PCV
“What do you get when you cross 7 full-grown Wolof men, 7 rams, and 1 astounded toubak? Answer: the contents of my 3.5 hour (inchallah) 7place ride.”

11:30AM
I have been shit on 2x during the 23K drive to the next town that I mistakenly thought we’d be able to bypass.

Reminder: It’s now been 4 hours since I left my hut and I’ve only traveled 23K. Tremendous.

We stop at the garage in the next big town. And what do we do? The men UNLOAD all 7 rams while the owner goes and buys 7 rice sacks. Then they reload them into the sacks, and back onto the roof. Meanwhile, I am in a state of total helplessness and disbelief at the fact that we have all paid the same amount of money to ride in this car and yet the rest of us have now wasted almost 2 hours for this guy’s posse of livestock!

12PM
Rams in sacks, people packed back inside. We take off…again.

12:05PM
We stop for gas. Except there isn’t any at this particular GAS station.

12:10PM
We stop at the next gas station and fill up.

12:30PM
Surprise! We stop again. Why? So one of the men can greet a friend and pick up his cell phone!? Are you kidding me? Last time I checked we weren’t in this car to run personal errands. But apparently I was mistaken.

3PM
Arrive at regional house.

For those of you keeping count that’s 7:30AM-3PM, 7 ½ hours it took me to travel 200K or 125 miles.

When I told this story to an ex-marine he said to me,
“Cait…in all seriousness, I’ve been tortured, and I can honestly say I’d choose it any day over that.”

That definitely made me feel a little better. At least after the fact.

In the words of my dad,
“Cait, I never thought I’d say this, but among my children, you are the one who will make it closest to any kind of military training.”

The best part about this story though is that I did not lose my cool. I remained calm, plugged into my Ipod, and buried in my book. Maybe if I was more culturally integrated I’d have been able to laugh and chat with the men as we waited, but I’m pretty proud of myself for not losing my mind, and exercising the Peace Corps mantra of Patience and Flexibility.

And if nothing else, now I know what the maximum capacity of a station wagon really is!

Shameless Plug

2008-02-11T10:24:00.000-08:00

I spent this past weekend in St. Louis (former Senegalese capital) and have fallen head over heels in love with it. The weather, being near the water, the old French colonial architecture, the winding streets, the art. It's so much better than Dakar. No traffic, not as expensive, or polluted...point is, i'm sold and I'm thrilled that it's technically in my "region" (though I'm still 420K away from it).

But while here we ran into some British blokes, who are trekking all over Africa for a year in the most amazingly souped up landrover you've ever seen. They are privately funded and doing all kinds of challenges (running marathons, climbing mountains) all for the sake of charity. We visited their campement and had an amazing evening of music, drumming, and conversation with some local senegalese musicians, grilling up fish, throwing around several different languages etc.

So here is my shameless plug for their website: www.afritrex.com
They really are just the nicest of guys, out having an adventure of a lifetime and definitely worth following along.
Enjoy!

Radio Show

2008-02-05T05:05:00.001-08:00

For your entertainment I am including a sample of the health skits that we perform on our “Health Hour” Radio show every other Tuesday in the Matam region. It has been translated from Pulaar to English. It’s just to give you an idea of the level of “sophistication” of the kinds of health subjects we cover. I find them about a thousand times more entertaining when I read through the English version. It always sounds so ridiculous. But the message is what’s important and it really is a great way to reach a wide audience. Whenever we walk out of the radio station people always tell us that they listened or they’ll recite back to us some of what they heard. It feels great, that though the behavior might be slow, at least we’re getting the information out.

Narrator: Binta has a cold. Her head hurts and she coughs and sneezes a lot. She talks to her friend Hawa. Hawa gives her advice.
(Person coughing n sneezing)

Hawa: Binta how are you? Do you have a cold?
Binta: Peace only. Yes I have a cold. How are you?
Hawa: I’m fine Praise be to God. How are you doing with the tiredness?
Binta: I am in it. How is your house?
Hawa: They are all fine praise be to God. But Binta, I am so sorry. Are you sick?
Binta: Thank you Hawa. Having a cold is painful.
Hawa: You speak the truth Binta. I am very sorry
Binta: Every year when the wind comes I get a cold. My head hurts, I cough and sneeze a lot, and I am very tired. How can I prevent catching a cold?
Hawa: I am sorry Binta, I understand. Well, you can prevent catching a cold. Every day, before you eat, you must wash your hands with clean water and soap.
Binta: Why with soap? When I eat I wash my hands with water only.
Hawa: No Binta, water only is bad. Water alone does not kill germs. Soap kills germs which is very important because germs bring sicknesses like colds.
Binta: Huh? Really?
Hawa: Yes really. So if a person has a cold and coughs and sneezes a lot, he can spread his germs a lot in the lunch bowl or around the house. It is very important for a person with a cold to wash his hands often. Also, he must remember not to cough or sneeze on other people.
Binta: Thank you Hawa, you are good. I really understand now.
Hawa: But Binta, now because you do have a cold, you should eat lots of Vitamin C.
Binta: What’s Vitamin C?
Hawa: Vitamin C is a very good vitamin for curing and preventing colds. There is Vitamin C in oranges, lemons, tomatoes, Fosters, and mangoes.
Binta: Good. I am very happy, I like to eat all of those things! But Hawa, I think that the wind brings my colds. Do I speak the truth or not?
Hawa: Yes because if you have a cold, lots of wind and sand are very bad. It is better to avoid the wind. And to help cure your cold you should get lots of rest and drink lots of water to help the cold leave your body.
Binta: Thank you so much Hawa. Now I am going to rest, and not go outside because there is so much wind. I am going to drink lots of water and eat lots of Vitamin C and I will wash my hands with soap because I do not want to share my cold and my germs with other people.
Hawa: Good Binta, I am very happy. See you next time.
Binta: You are good Hawa. I greet your family.

I hope you all found that as funny as I do. Maybe some of you can come up with slightly more creative skits, but we’ve found that simplicity and repetition are paramount to people’s understanding and ability to commit our lessons to memory.

An Old Friend

2008-01-22T04:12:00.000-08:00

I’ve probably complained about this at some point in my blog, but one of the most difficult challenges for me throughout this experience has been finding a creative/artistic outlet. I’m certainly not a visual artist (though my pooping stick figures are at least finally discernable), and while I’ve taken to breaking out the water color set once in awhile, it’s not nearly as satisfying as taking a dance class, or choreographing, or putting on a show.

I mean, sure, I put on my ipod and sing at the top of my lungs while I wash my clothes (much to my family’s amusement), and once in awhile I get inspired to dance around my room (yes, with my rhinestone headphones), but it just isn’t enough. I miss the adrenaline rush of the stage, the performance anxiety and then the release and joy of moving in front of an audience, and the total exhaustion and euphoria after a “kick-you-in-the-ass” dance class, whether ballet, or salsa, or modern. I miss harmonizing with other voices, and obsessing about every tonal variation. I miss throwing myself into a new character and perfecting the delivery of every line. And I miss enjoying other people’s artistic endeavors. I miss watching other performers and feeling inspired, and congratulating them and smiling at a job well done.

Before I left for the Peace Corps everyone was always saying, “oh West Africa, what a perfect place for a dancer like yourself.” After traveling to Ghana in 2005 I thought the same thing. I thought that in Senegal I would spend nights dancing ‘til I couldn’t stand any longer with the women of my village. I thought that I would hear drumming and singing everyday, and learn pounding songs. But up north, at least in my town, there is a total void of all things artistic, and creative. It’s probably been my biggest disappointment to date.

So I’ve been trying to find my way around it. Keeping this blog helps immensely and I’ve discovered a hidden love for writing and reading. I’ve also started running which, though clearly not the most “creative” thing, gives me an hour or so to clear my head, blast my music, and push my body to the edge.

But I think the thing that has helped the most has been the rediscovery of an old friend, my flute. You can probably tell (if you don’t already know) that somewhere along the line I was a big old band geek. Yep, of the dorkiest kind…I was a serious flute player. So serious in fact, that during my adolescence, I spent three summers at Flute Camp (yep, just flutes) in Carmel Valley. But in high school I had to choose between dancing and singing and the flute. The flute lost.

I left my beautiful instrument in my closet for close to 8 years collecting dust. I broke it out only once or twice during all that time in moments of extreme boredom while home for summer vacation from college. But several months ago I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was time to pick it up again. It just seemed right. Here I have a lot of down time, and what a cool thing to be able to share with people who have never even heard of a flute let alone seen or heard one played flute up close. In fact, I’m pretty sure that my family has never even heard classical music at all! So when Chris came to visit he lugged my flute, my books and my music halfway around the world (what a guy huh?)

And I’ve started playing again. Not as often as I’d like actually, because my worked has really picked up, but I can still play! It’s so empowering. I get goosebumps just thinking about it. I get totally carried away when I practice and 1 hour feels like ten minutes. Granted I’m playing my old favorite pieces and not exactly practicing my chromatic scales, but for the time being I’m allowing myself the luxury because that keeps me hooked. It feels so good to be creating again, to produce something beautiful (or sometimes not so beautiful) even if for now I’m the only audience member.

Sure I get little eyes peering in at me when I practice. I often chase them off, not because I’m shy, but because they are so distracting and giggle as they watch. My family doesn’t exactly understand what it is, or why it sounds the way it does, or what I’m reading in my music book, but they seem to respect the fact that it’s important to me. Someday I am hoping to work up the nerve to actually perform for them.

We’ll see, I have a long way to go before I’m concert ready.
But at least I’m thoroughly enjoying the ride.

Health Class

2008-01-19T03:43:00.000-08:00

Now that school is back in swing after the holiday season (Tabaski, Christmas, New Year’s Eve etc.) I have started teaching regularly at the elementary school. It is the most fun I think I’ve had at site to date. Much less stressful than the Jr. High level health class I taught last month for sure. Still, it was totally exhausting and I can’t imagine doing it as a full-time job (Katy Byrns/all you teachers out there, you are all my own personal heroes), but it was so fun and rewarding at the same time.

Here is some background about the school system.

The elementary school closest to my house (there is another one about a 20 minute walk away) has roughly 13 classrooms, with anywhere from 50-20 students per class. Classes meet Mon. Wed. and Fri. from 8ish-1ish and Tues and Fri from 8-1 and then 4-6. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that they spend all that time learning or in class for that matter. Teachers are always late, leave their cell phones on to take calls, stop class to greet passerbys, cancel class to go get their paychecks or have meetings, and so forth. Also, there are always random strikes, holidays, and illnesses. Since school doesn’t really get going until November and ends pretty much at the end of May and closes for long holidays, I’d say that the kids probably have about ½-2/3 the amount of classroom learning time that we do in the states. It’s no wonder that most of the students at Jr. High level are already 15, 16 and older.

The Senegalese education system is based on the French system. This means that most lessons are taught using dictation. Basically, the teacher reads lessons aloud or writes them on the board while the children copy and memorize the information for the annual exams. There is little discussion, group participation, or room for individual creativity. I’ve gone over my niece’s workbooks and am always surprised at how little they’ve done thus far this year. (About 8 pages worth of lessons for what’s theoretically about 2 1/2 months of school).

To their credit the teachers do have it rough. They are sent wherever the state tells them to go. My good English teacher friend at the Jr. High for example is from a beautiful town on the coast near Dakar and has been stationed in my town for 6 years now! Every year he counts down the days until each vacation and every year he applies for a transfer. (I secretly hope he doesn’t get it though because he is a great colleague and fun to have around). So they are usually far from their families, sometimes in a tiny village or a region where they don’t speak the language. They make very little money and often pay out of pocket for students who can’t afford school supplies and fees.

Also, the conditions under which they teach can be pretty miserable. Huge classes, no electricity, no air conditioning, no screens on the windows or doors, no textbooks (at the elementary school level. There are some at the junior high but the students have to buy them), three or more students to a desk, and almost zero supplies. All things considered they should be commended for persevering and even choosing this noble and desperately needed profession.

So when I approached the Headmaster and said I was interested in teaching health classes, he and the rest of the teachers of course jumped at the chance. They all told me that it doesn’t matter when I come teach that anytime I can just stop by and they’ll drop everything and give me the floor! It’s totally different than the Jr. High, which is much more structured. The way I have it organized now is that I prepare a health related lesson and then teach it in each class until I’ve hit all 13 of them. This will probably take about 2-3 weeks between my and the school’s schedule. I started this week with a health lesson on Germs-how they are transferred from person-to-person, and the importance of handwashing with soap before eating, after using the toilet etc. Really very basic hygiene information. It seems redundant and commonsense based, but as the former Peace Corps Senegal Director told us during pre-service training, “You must apply the rule of 50 to everything you do. Until you have told someone, and showed someone some piece of information 50 times, you can’t get frustrated that you have not yet seen behavior change.” While discouraging and depressing at first, it really is true. My hope is that my celebrity/novelty status will drive the information home a little harder. Also my approach to teaching is totally different than what the kids are used to so I’m hoping that they really take it to heart and listen up.

I taught the two oldest classes back-to-back in the afternoon. As you can imagine the first class was a bit more chaotic than the second because I knew what to expect and settled into a rhythm. Also, in the second class the teacher wasn’t in the room so I relaxed a bit more and felt more comfortable taking charge.

I started off the Germ lesson by having a few volunteers come up and draw what they thought a germ looked like. When we had 4 different versions I explained that they were spot-on, that there were many different kinds of germs that bring all different kinds of diseases. Then I asked if they had all heard of germs. They all raised their hands. Then I asked them to define them.
Silence.
One skinny impish kid with huge thick glasses in the front row timidly raised his hand and whispered that they bring diseases.
“Great!” I said. “That’s exactly right!”
Then I defined germs for them and we played a true false game using facts about germs that got the whole class participating, giggling, and totally focusing! It’s an incredible high really.

Then I did do a short dictation lesson so they could write some concrete information in their notebooks to “memorize” for later, and to demonstrate to the teachers that I was not just some nutty toubak who waltzes in and plays games under the guise of health education and Western-style teaching.

Then I called up 3 volunteers to help me with a demonstration. I used hot pepper powder (easily accessible at every market stand/boutique everywhere in Senegal) to represent germs. I asked the kids what happens if you rub hot pepper on your hands and don’t wash your hands and then touch your eyes. Of course they all cringed in fear and said “No! Don’t do that! It will hurt!” I explained to them that germs are like hot peppers. You can’t see them, and you might think that your hands are clean, but they’re not, and the only way to avoid transmitting germs is to wash your hands with soap and water, just like you would if you had hot pepper on your hands.

I could tell that that idea really clicked with some of them. I also brought up some of the hand-washing habits I’ve seen before: dipping hands into already dirty soapy water and claiming they’re clean, rubbing their hands on their pants, or just claiming that “Look! My hands are clean!” They all looked sheepish and laughed.
I mean, the information was not hard. They understood. They’ve all heard it before. But maybe this time it will actually stick? I can only hope.

Monday I’ll be teaching the same lesson to the next three lowest classes. Then again on Thursday to a few more. I’ll continue the week after until each class has gotten a chance to experience Madame Lam’s guest lecture on Germs. Then I’ll begin with a lesson on dehydration and diarrhea.
Lovely.
Sometimes I can’t help but giggle to myself and think how totally pointless my MSc is to some of the work that I’m doing here. Other times it comes in handy, but not so much when I’m talking about the Oral Fecal Cycle with 9-year-olds.

I guess part of me feels conflicted about teaching at the schools. I mean, there already are teachers. And they WERE just given a health education curriculum (by USAID) and they do do some “Education Sanitaire” lessons. But since actually living and working here, my notion of sustainability has changed. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to change the system and train teachers or a teacher to do health education? But that does happen at the Jr. High level and the elementary school teachers simply do not have the time. So I’ve decided that transferring knowledge (aka. education) IS sustainable. And that maybe the teachers will learn from me and incorporate more health-related activities into their curriculums.

Even if not one single child changes his or her behavior, maybe one day, even just being exposed to me and my classes, or just the idea of a bigger world out there that needs health workers, maybe one kid will become a nurse or a doctor?
I don’t know.
I guess you never really can.
I just have to plug away.
I have to have faith that what I’m doing makes a difference somehow, at some point, to someone.

And I do.

List of Adjustments

2008-01-19T03:40:00.000-08:00

Things I never thought I would ever get used to, but I totally am…

1. Using my hand for toilet functions. (In fact, I kind of prefer using water…you really do feel much cleaner, and talk about reducing my carbon footprint huh?)

2. People commenting on your weight. “Binta! Oh no! Where did your Yeroba go?” or “Hey hey, Binta, you have a big old Yeroba! Let me find you a Senegalese husband.”

3. Finding lizards in my room (all the time).

4. People commenting on various zits, bites scratches and immediately touching them.

5. Saying NO!

6. People asking me for things. It almost doesn’t phase me anymore.

7. The baaing of goats. It’s super loud but I don’t even notice it now.

8. Kids picking up and touching everything and anything the second they walk into my room.

9. Being totally comfortable laying around at night with my family and doing absolutely nothing.

10. People talking about me right in front of me (probably cuz now I can more or less understand them).

11. Using a pit latrine.

12. Eating anything that’s put in front of me at mealtime.

13. Taking "me" time in my hut and not feeling guilty about it.

14. My “celebrity” status.

15. Spending the day greeting people just to greet because I haven’t seen them for awhile. I really do feel productive after a day of greeting because it’s SO important.

16. Sweeping sand in front of my hut. It really does look cleaner once I clear away all the leaves and garbage that blow around and accumulate in my doorway.

17. Only having internet access once a week or so (this one took me awhile).

Things I still don’t know if I’ll ever get used to/over…

1. The heat.

2. Scorpions.

3. Finding frogs in my hair in the middle of the night.

4. Feeling awkward about having more money, and means than everyone around me.

5. Being one of the furthest volunteers from Dakar. (Traveling back and forth just sucks royally and never really gets better).

6. The intense frustration I feel when I’m expecting packages and they take 6 weeks+ to arrive at sight.

7. The overwhelming stench of human sewage.

8. Public “toilets”

9. Constantly seeing kids begging, barefoot, skinny, with head fungus, filthy, and hungry.

Polygamy

2008-01-19T03:38:00.001-08:00

Polygamy.

I think I made this clear in some of my previous entries, but just so you all know, almost all of the Pulaar people up north are polygamous. I’m not entirely sure if that’s universal in Senegal. It seems to be falling out of favor in more urban areas, but up here it’s quite prevalent. I’ve had countless discussions with men and women about it and I’ve made my feelings quite clear to them: “I certainly do not judge others who live a polygamous lifestyle, but it is and never will be for me.” (One of the best reasons for declining offers of marriage to Senegalese men). I’ve always been curious about the logistics of it though and until now I didn’t really feel close enough to anyone to ask personal questions. But the other night I was sitting alone with my sister/counterpart (Nene) and her baby and I asked her how she was doing adjusting to being a second wife now that the first wife (Mairam) is back and they live in the same house.

About a year ago Nene married her second husband (her first one passed away a few years ago). She is the second wife. As soon as she moved in, the first wife was really jealous (understandably) and moved to Dakar for several months. As soon as Nene had the baby, Mairam came back and they’ve been able to live more or less at ease with one another. But at first it was hard adjusting and Nene would complain to me about it. So I asked her if things were getting any better now that a few months had passed. She said that they were more or less better, but she also clued me into some of the kinds of under-handed competitive stuff that the two of them will pull. Like if Nene dresses up in nice clothes one day then Mairam will go and change her clothes so that she looks equally as made-up. Of course, they try to outdo each other when they cook meals too. They are on a 2-day schedule for cooking. So Nene prepares all the meals for 2 days and then they switch. The days that they prepare the meals, their husband spends those 2 nights in their room. (Yes, they do each have their own room). I guess it’s a sign of respect as a sort of “thank you” for serving him well that day. According to Nene he would never dare spend the night with the wife who had the day off. Also, apparently according to the Koran, after a woman gives birth she is supposed to wait 40 days before sleeping with her husband. So for 40 days after she had the baby she did not let him come lay with her despite his advances.

She did defend him adamantly though, which made me realize how much she does love him. He is a very nice man, educated, loves to laugh, works extremely hard, loves his children fiercely, and does not deny his family anything. He’s always very calm and I never hear him raise his voice.

I felt so lucky to be privy to such personal information and it was fun to giggle with her about “girlie” stuff. She even admitted to me that she understood now why I refuse to be in a polygamous relationship. (In case any of you were worried I’d be convinced otherwise! Ha!) She is the first person to ever say that to me outright. Though I have heard plenty of women complain openly about being second and third wives. And I’ve seen the look on their faces when I ask about the possibility of their husbands taking second wives. I would not want to cross my sister Binta that way. Lucky for her (and him) I’m pretty sure her husband believes in monogamy.

I still haven’t found a way to logically argue and convince men that no, in fact, there are NOT 10x more women than men in Senegal, and that the practice of polygamy does not exist because there are “too many women” and not enough men. It’s not enough to tell them that I have a Master’s degree in Population and Development from LSE. Nope, they’ve seen the compounds in their hometown (which they’ve usually never left) and they see only women (duh!) and therefore they are certain that all of Senegal is full of way too many women. Hmmm.

This particular argument makes me nuts and I’m at the point where I have to just avoid it because it feels like I’m beating my head against a brick wall. I think that maybe I should start walking around with Senegal’s demographic breakdown to show people and maybe that will help? A secondary project perhaps?
In any case, I hope you all enjoyed that cultural insight. I certainly did.

Vacation

2008-01-19T03:34:00.000-08:00

I apologize for my long absence.

My father told me recently that some of you avid followers were sending him emails wondering why I hadn’t write since December 11th? Not only did that make me smile, it also motivated me to get writing again. The reason for the hiatus though is because I went on vacation. Yep, I spent the holidays in Rome and Sicily with family friends. Lucky girl huh? The trip was just wonderful (see “Italy” album), and I didn’t freak out about being in the “1st World” nearly as much as I thought I would. I mean, within my first day or two I had a moment of panic and disgust at my return to materialism. I mean you could say that I sort of binged on luxury. I went out in Rome, had my hair done (by a hilariously flamboyant Italian man), ate delicious fresh meals and tons of gelato, bought jeans, took long hot showers, and watched CNN in English. But as my good friend said “Cait, you’ve only been in Senegal for 9 months, that’s not enough time to undo 24 years of cultural learning.” And he’s right. It was great to be back in a city I knew and wander the streets with no agenda. In Sicily it was so nice to just be locked up with friends and have no agenda except to feed ourselves and occupy the kids.

Though I know it was disappointing to my family at home that I didn’t come home, I realize that I just was not ready. I did not want to have to say my goodbyes all over again. What a treat it was too to be with a family of people that grew up in West Africa. One of the things I was probably the most anxious about going home to was the “celebrity” status. You know, running into people all over town who expect soundbyte responses to “How is Africa?” “What’s it like” and waiting for a 30 second or less response. I know that I’ll have to deal with all that eventually when I’m home over the summer, but I think that by then I’ll be able to handle it much more graciously. The idea of telling the story over and over again is exhausting though. This is why I love having a blog so much! I feel like those of you who really care will follow along and then I won’t have nearly as much story-telling ground to cover when I come back.

Coming back to Senegal has been an unexpected piece of cake. I spent a few days in Dakar with other volunteers who were coming back in from vacations, so that we could hit “critical mass” for the long voyage back to the desert. I was so thrilled to come back to site and to my family, and my work. I feel rested, restored, re-motivated, and ready to put in some serious work time before the hot season smothers all good intentions to get anything done. Since I’ve been back I’ve just been on cloud nine. I mean, so little bothers me anymore! I’m not sure if that’s a product of my own adaptation to life here, or the cool season. Probably some of both. Truly though, the cool season is like 5 zillion times more tolerable than the rest of the year. Too bad it’s mostly over by March. I actually fear the hot season. Even thinking about it makes me anxious and miserable.

But for now, I’m thrilled to be back, work has taken off again, I’m the perfect level of busy, my Pulaar rocks, and life is wonderful!

Ode to a Bucket

2007-12-11T07:12:00.001-08:00

Ode to a Bucket
(aka. the most amazingly versatile piece of furniture ever invented)

Oh Bucket,
You are not just an empty container with which to carry and hold water
You are so many things:
A chair to offer guests a place to sit
A desk on which to work on my computer
A kitchen counter on which to prepare my breakfast
A footbath to soak my dirty callused feet
A varying dumbell to lift so that my muscles do not atrophy
A stepping stool to reach those high up spider webs
A trunk to hold my ever-expanding wardrobe
A kitchen cabinet to keep my treasured food sealed off from mice and lizards
A washing machine in which to scrub the dirt off my clothes
A door stop to keep my screen door shut
Oh Bucket,
How will I ever thank you for all you do for me?

Work and first health class

2007-12-11T07:10:00.000-08:00

I taught my very first health class today!

It was a 2-hour class at the junior high for 50 teenagers, in the elective health class called “EcoFam.” The class covers all health related things for economy/family/society. They learn about STIs, Family Planning, pregnancy, the menstrual cycle, reproductive systems, you name it. It’s all the same stuff we learn in our health classes pretty much. My class was on the diagnostics of pregnancy and the importance of diagnosing pregnancy early on, to ensure the health of the mother and the baby. So in French, for two hours, I rattled on about the primary and secondary signs of pregnancy, the different tests we can do confirm a pregnancy, how to estimate the birthdates, and of course the importance of early testing.

If it makes you nervous and anxious just thinking about teaching a technical health class, in a foreign language, in front of an audience of 50 hormonal teenagers, then just imagine how nervous I was. But I did it! And you know what? It wasn’t all that bad. Most importantly, now I know that I CAN do it, and I enjoyed myself to boot. I made them laugh, I got the information across, and they were actively participating. Now I’ve never in my life taught a proper class, on anything really, except to 4-year-old Peruvian kids about nutrition, so this was definitely a massive plunge. I think that they enjoyed it. Granted I stumbled through some of the pronunciation, and had to double-check my spelling and accent placement on the board a few times, but they all understood. Funny enough, I think that when they did have problems understanding me, it wasn’t because my pronunciation was wrong necessarily, but because my France-French accent and the Senegalese-French accent are very different. The teacher, Mr. Tall, sat and watched the whole thing and nodded his approval throughout and laughed along with us. At the end he congratulated the class in front of me, explaining to them how brave I was to teach in a foreign language, and that they should remember to use me as a resource for health class, or English class, or just for cultural exchange, and not to let my time here go to waste. I was so honored. I received thunderous applause, and lots of nods of approval. Afterwards he and I had a meeting and he told me that he thought it went even better than he had anticipated, and of course the areas in which I need to improve, and he invited me to continue to collaborate with him on classes about STIs, HIV, pregnancy, nutrition etc. for the rest of the school year!

It’s a bit redundant to be teaching a class that already exists and runs well, and ultimately sustains itself, but he sought me out to collaborate with. He teaches all of the EcoFam classes in town as well as runs the library so is an incredibly busy man. If anything, I am satisfied with the idea that I am exposing him and the students to different ways of learning, and teaching. I also noticed that during my class today (possibly because of the subject matter) that the girls were much more participative this week than they had been last week in his class. For the sake of my ego, I’m going to tell myself that it was because they felt more comfortable speaking with a woman. After all, when I was in school I remember them separating boys and girls to learn about this kind of stuff. I definitely saw some snickers (though surprisingly few) when I had to explain to them what a speculum is, and how a gynecological exam is performed. But Mr. Tall doesn’t even shake women’s hands (strict follower of a specific sect of Islam I think). I can’t imagine trying to approach a man who won’t even shake my hand and asking him my most private and embarrassing questions on sex, health, and menstruation. No way.

Ultimately I’m hoping that this class will be a jumping off point for teaching at the other schools. In fact it already looks to be. I stopped by the mayor’s office on my way back from the class and the mayor (who is also the headmaster of the private school) invited me to teach at his school occasionally (in collaboration with the same teacher) and also to perhaps plan health-related events like a health club, or AIDS or Malaria Awareness days. Once word spreads that I am teaching these classes, I hope that the elementary schools, and the pre-school will take notice and invite me there as well. They have a much less dynamic health curriculum and I’ve noticed that a lot of their students could really use some clearer health information delivered in a much more dynamic way, rather than just through hours of the dreaded “Dictée.” And although I am not a teacher myself, I think that the teachers could benefit from seeing some alternative learning tools.

Soon I’m scheduled to start “guest starring” in some of the English classes so that the students can hear a native speaker. One of them even wants me to teach a class on AIDS in English as a sort of listening comprehension test. I’m already helping to run the weekly English club with another teacher, so my involvement at the junior high has literally exploded in the two weeks since I got back from Thanksgiving. One of the previous volunteers in Kanel worked closely with the English club and consequently, several of those students went on to University as English majors! I guess you just never know who you might be inspiring and motivating.

I’m also organizing a hugely formal meeting at the mayor’s office with all of the presidents of Kanel’s community associations. The mayor has graciously agreed to let me use the conference room free of charge and I’m going to send out a formal letter of invitation to all 40 Presidents so that they can all come together and I can let them know that my Pulaar is better, give them a better idea of what my work is, and that I am available and eager to work with them.

My New Mother’s group is continuing smoothly. At our last meeting all but one of them showed up (11 in all). I talked to them about the Oral Fecal Cycle and germs and how they are transmitted and the importance of thorough hand washing with soap. They seemed surprised at the news that soap was the only way to kill germs (though I know they’ve heard that information before). They were interested, participative, and eager to plan the next meeting. For the lesson, I drew a bunch of silly drawings of children pooping, not washing their hands, and then greeting their friends, and then both of them having diarrhea. They got a lot of laughs, but also got the point across. I also showed them another comic strip of germ transmission in my health book, which they seem to take very seriously because they know it’s an “official” lesson, and not just my pathetic sketches. It feels wonderful to be able to teach a group of women who have never been to school, are totally illiterate and have absolutely no other place to learn.

(When I was preparing for that meeting though, I couldn’t help but sigh to myself and think “Gee I’m glad I have a master’s degree…it comes so in handy when I’m drawing stick figures of children pooping.”)

Sometimes I think to myself that what Peace Corps really needs is an army of art teachers instead of college grads and professionals. Because most of the information I give out is so simple: “Wash your hands with soap,” “Eat a variety of foods,” “Sleep under a mosquito net…all year round” etc. The thing is that yeah, it’s simple, but when I’m told that we could reduce global child deaths by 43% just by getting people to wash their hands…I am always re-inspired to continue my monotonous mantra.

Also, some very exciting news from home. A teacher and her class from PA have taken an interest in my New Mother’s Group and have not only held a bake sale to raise funds, but asked local stores, and advertised on their local television station asking for donations of products (lotions, creams, vitamins, clothing) for my mothers’ children. It’s funny how my notion of what is “sustainable” has changed as I live and work here. I know that technically, unless this class continues to do this, that it is not by definition “sustainable.” But I think that this project of theirs will certainly make a lasting impression on the students. Who knows? Maybe one of them will join the Peace Corps someday? And of course it means the world to my new moms and their children will certainly benefit.

I have had trouble getting my girls’ group up and running. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about things that are universal, and one of them is that teenage girls are difficult to organize. (Duh right?) They tend to talk a lot about the kinds of club meetings they want to have and the things they want to learn and accomplish, but when it comes down to getting them to commit to a date and actually (gasp) attend the meetings they beg me for…its pretty hopeless. But no matter, I’d much rather focus my attention on people who will follow through. One of the things I’ve learned over the past 7 months at site is that it just isn’t worth trying to motivate uninterested individuals. My energy is much more efficiently spent on people who already want my participation and are willing to commit to it.

I am also beginning to take over our bi-monthly health radio show (in Pulaar!) from the soon to leave volunteers. Myself and the other newest health volunteers in the region are now going to have to start writing the scripts and make the bi-monthly treks to the regional capital to deliver health messages and American music across the airwaves. Pretty cool huh? I’ll be like a Senegalese Pulaar B-list celebrity…sort of.

So there you have it. That is the work that has been taking up most of my time these days. I know it doesn’t sound like very much, but you’d be amazed at how long all of the planning, coordinating, greeting, and meeting take. It’s possible that I am also going to start to hold weekly health talks at the health post, but thus far I have not been able to have a sit down meeting with the interested mid-wife. I have more projects brewing in the back of my mind, and am hoping that the big meeting I’m holding in January with the community organizations will introduce me to new partners and open some doors.

For now though, I’m pretty proud of my very first health class and am pleased with the progress of my work.

My Yaaye

2007-12-04T04:15:00.000-08:00

Having lived in Kanel for almost seven months now, with my family, I have grown so incredibly attached to them, that if I let my mind wander and think of the day when I have to leave this place, tears come to my eyes. Walking home one day, about a month ago, I literally started to cry thinking about how sad I will be to leave at the end of my service. I think that was the first time that I realized how attached I’ve become to them. Because they really are my family, for better or for worse. I know so many of their secrets, their laughs, their annoying habits, their various tones of voices, and all the other intricacies you grow up knowing inherently about your family.

I haven’t written much about them for awhile so I thought it would be a good time to write a lengthy update about my family Lam. This week I’m going to start off with my Yaaye (mom) because I have the most to say about her and it should make for a long and inspiring entry. Maybe I’m feeling exceptionally maternal today because I’m reading The Red Tent, but lately I feel closer to my Yaaye than to anyone else in the family.

She is wonderful. She just amazes me, day in and day out. She is so wise, and patient, and strong, and compassionate, and careful, and observant, and hilarious. I just love her (probably because she reminds me so much of my own mom). Some of my favorite moments at site have been the quiet nights sitting with her on a mat, away from the television, talking about whatever I can and listening to her hilarious stories. Because she does. She is always ready to tell a story, and by the end of it she’s bound to have the whole family rolling. Her stories don’t even have to be that funny. But the way she laughs in the middle of them, pausing to show her lack of two front teeth, always makes me giggle. Half the time I don’t even understand what she’s saying, though she almost always remembers to catch me up after she is done. (She knows exactly what to say to make me understand her.) She has a knack for dragging out her stories and everyone sits around her, captivated, giggling alongside her. She doesn’t tell folktales passed down from generation to generation. She just spontaneously recounts some event from the day or week or year before that came to her mind.

And I have no idea how old she is, maybe in her 60s? It’s hard to tell. I know she’s got to be exhausted, and sometimes she will admit that she is, but you’d never know it the way she works. She is always the first one awake, having breakfast with the little kids. Always the last one working at night, freezing water to sell as ice, or preparing haako for tomorrow’s dinner. No matter how wiped out she never refuses my little nephew’s attention. He is more attached to her than to his own mom, Binta. During Ramadan in 100 degree weather with no water or food, I would see her at 5 pm, still two hours from breaking the fast, the sun beating down on wiry frame, walk gracefully past my room with 4 foot long logs balanced on her head, her grandson strapped to her back.

She never went to school, never learned anything about modern medicine or nutrition and yet instinctively feeds her grandson a greater variety of foods than his mom does. Some of this is certainly a product of raising 8 children and knowing how to care for them, but I am always still in awe. Last night, with just one conversation about germs and me explaining to her that the only way to kill them is with soap, suddenly, today at lunch she and all the kids washed their hands with soap! A true breakthrough I should add. I do hope it continues and it was not just a coincidence.

And she is so accepting. Accepting of my differences, of other people. She acknowledges that my culture and her culture are different and that I don’t have to do everything that they do (like fast, pray, wear a headscarf, have a husband etc. Things that as you all have read are regularly told to me by other more “educated” individuals). She is so quick to see the good in people. The first time I told her that my parents adopted my siblings she went on and on praising them and what good people they were and that Allah would reward them in Paradise. When Chris came to visit, and gave her a bag of dried milk as a parting gift (something he was embarassed about at first because it was so little to him, but a big deal to them), she followed us into my room and told him that he was her son (grabbing her breast) and that he did not have to give her anything. That Allah had brought him to her and they were family. That he came all that way, across America and across Senegal just to visit them. She said that he was forever family and could stay with them always, and eat, and sleep and never have to give them anything.

There is so much more to say about her, so many moments I wish I could burn into my memory and tell to all of you.

Oh!
Right now she just walked into my room and is looking over my shoulder at me typing this very entry! She has on her grand bubu with her headwrap and is sitting on my bed, perfectly content to observe my work. She can’t read or write a thing but just enjoys the quiet pleasure of my concentration. I love it when she periodically stops into my room just to have a chat. While explaing my computer to her, I mentioned to her that Faama, one of my nieces, wants to learn how to type, how to use a computer. I told Yaaye that she might take classes next summer at the school’s library.

Upon hearing this, my yaaye took a breath and launched into a story (which I’ll get to in a moment). I stopped writing and gave her my full attention, both so that I could better understand what she was saying and because I could tell by the sigh in her voice that something was weighing on her, that she needed to share this with me. That this wasn’t a story that would leave us both giggling.

Actually, her story left us both in tears. We sat together, just the two of us, in my tiny hut, my arms wrapped awkwardly around her, one behind her back and the other resting on her knee, not knowing how best to comfort her. I stayed quiet. We sat there, her on the bed, and me on the floor by her feet, my computer still in my lap, until the tears subsided. I eventually tried consoling her with my meager pulaar while she tried to stifle her sobs, and buried her face into the cloth of her bubu. She cried for maybe a minute in all, then quickly rose and splashed her face with water. I stood up, wiping my cheeks and fumbled for some kleenex. She mumbled to Allah a few times, graciously accepted a tissue and stepped out of the room, perfectly composed, leaving me in a tearful daze.

Throughout the whole thing, I couldn’t help but think that somehow, even while crying, she still looked so regal and poised, her neck perfectly straight, sitting with ease on my graceless bedframe. I noticed all of her wrinkles for the first time, and how worn she looked, yet still strikingly beautiful. You can tell that she was a true beauty in her youth. Though resilient, I know that life has been hard on her. She lost seven of her fifteen children either through miscarriage, at birth, or in infancy. She raised eight children to adulthood, one of whom passed away seven years ago, a father of three.

It was talking about this son that broke the dam. Yaaye’s story was about his daughter, my niece Faama, the one I had mentioned wanted to take computer class. I have actually been here to watch these events unfold, but hearing Yaaye recount them and seeing how deeply Faama’s actions have hurt Yaaye over the past several months was sobering. I realized how deeply important her family is to her. During her story, I couldn’t help but think of all of the grief my siblings and I put our parents through (especially as teenagers), and what a mild rebellion this was compared to all of ours over the years.

Faama is fifteen. The oldest of her three siblings. Her father (my Yaaye’s favorite son) died when she was eight. (It was her mention of him as her favorite among all the children that kept the tears flowing). His three kids moved in with Yaaye and Baabaa and their mom moved across town. The littlest one, Hapskaciel, never even knew her dad. BenOumar just barely remembers him, but Faama took it the worst. I had always thought this because I noticed that she is quick to beat up on the younger kids when they take her things without asking, or bug her just enough until she snaps.

So it turns out that their aunt, Nene, my counterpart and older sister (the one with the new baby named Diana, after my real mom), has paid for absolutely everything for them ever since her brother (their father) passed away. She never asks questions, she just gives and gives. She pays their school fees, and pushes her husbands (the first one passed away and now she is remarried) to give them money for clothes, and anything they need. Naturally, this summer, when Nene was extremely pregnant and weak and had no other women in the house to help her with the chores, she asked Faama to move in with them for a few months. Faama refused. Yaaye and Baabaa sat down with Faama and had her mother come and the three of them essentially forced her to go. So she spent her summer vacation working and doing all of the chores at Nene’s house during the day and coming back to our house at night. (Mind you, Nene’s house is pretty nice, with satellite TV, tons of kids around, two refrigerators, and a real shower.)
Towards the end of the pregnancy and in the first few weeks Faama did start spending the night there. But now that she is free of what was required of her, she has not even stopped by the house to greet. Yaaye, Baabaa and her own mother have sat her down and talked to her about being ungrateful and that she needs to appreciate what Nene has done for her and respect Yaaye and Baabaa, who have raised her. I actually came home from my visit with Chris the night that the third of these “interventions” was happening. Faama refused to talk throughout the whole thing, while they told her that she was ungrateful and needed to stop hitting the younger children and needed to respect and thank Nene for being so generous to her.
As Yaaye told all of this to me she said,
“I don’t know how it is for Toubaks, but for Muslims, for us, in our family, you must respect your family. I see you Binta, you work until you are exhausted, and you are far away from your family, in a different country, but you call your family, and you are happy and you laugh together. And you go and you greet Nene and her family every day. Why? Why do you do this?”
Dumbfounded, I muttered something like, “Because it’s my family. We’re the same blood. And here, you are my family.”
Yaaye wiped a tear from the corner of her eyes. She said, “I don’t know what to do. We’re done with her. We’ve given up on her. She is not part of the family anymore. (And then I think she said something about being disinherited, not monetarily, but in their hearts). She can come and do as she pleases, she can work, go to school, but no one cares anymore. Allah sees what she does and we can’t help her. I just don’t understand. I don’t understand why she is like this. We have given her everything, and she has forgotten her family. I don’t know why?”
Again, I shook my head dumbfounded, finally understanding the gravity of Faama’s defiance in this culture.
I told her, “Yaaye, I don’t understand why she would be like that. It’s so sad.” To which Yaaye replied, “No…it’s not sad,” trying so hard to be strong, and then immediately burst into tears. Clearly, she has not given up on Faama, and it breaks her heart to think of doing so. The combination of that and then she again mentioned Faama’s father and we were both in tears. Me mostly because seeing the anguish and grief in her face just about broke my heart.

I will forever remember this day, this moment with my Yaaye.

In this culture, crying in public is reserved for extreme moments of grief. For her to weep freely in front of me, even for a brief moment, felt like some kind of strange honor. It is an honor that a woman I respect so deeply trusts me enough to seek out my company and allow herself to be so vulnerable. I understand now that I really am one of her daughters. I know that she has told me this many times over (simultaneously grabbing her breast…something all women do here when they mention their children), but in that moment I completely understand how much it means to her that I am here, in her life.

Funny thing is, I don’t feel the need to push our interactions. Rather, I know that these moments with my Yaaye happen organically, probably what makes them so special. I am beside myself when I think of the day when I will have to leave and I might very well never see her again. The thought makes me nauseous and weak.

I hope that you have all been inspired by my Yaaye, Koumba Ba. It is an honor to know her and call her mom.

I DELIVERED A BABY!!!

2007-11-25T05:23:00.000-08:00

Last week I had an amazing experience that I will remember for the rest of my life.

Driving up from Dakar after dropping off a visitor, I had already spent roughly 8 hours on the road in a hot and cramped station wagon on my way back to site. I stopped at a garage in a town near the regional house to transfer cars. Since no one ever seems to be going in the direction I do, further into the Sahel Desert, I had to wait at the garage for several hours. Upon arrival the police officer on duty decided to give me a hard time for traveling without my passport. Of course I had my Peace Corps identity card with me as always, with my passport number on it, but this guy was set on giving me a hard time. I explained to him that Peace Corps told us that these I.D.s were valid and we didn’t need to carry my passport and that if he continued to threaten to take me in to the office in town that I would get the American Embassy on the line and they would sort it out for him. After a brief yelling match and my threats, he finally admitted that because I wasn’t actually GOING into the town, but continuing on, that he didn’t HAVE to look at my passport and he would let me go…this time.

Right, I’m sure the threat of the embassy had NOTHING to do with his change of heart.

I finally got into the new car around 3:30pm. In the back seat were an older woman, a younger woman and her 7-year-old daughter and twin 2-year-old boys. I was squished in between two men in the middle seat, and then in the front sat the driver and an older gentleman. A half an hour later, the car stopped suddenly. We were in the middle of nowhere by a tiny roadside transport checkpoint. The young mother in the backseat pushed past the man in front of her and hurried out of the car. Not sure why we stopped, I sneaked a glance behind me. I saw her maybe 10 feet from the car, doubled over in pain and crouching precariously on the ground. I asked the men around me what was wrong with her. They replied, quite surprised that I didn’t know, that she was in fact IN LABOR!

Of course I blurted out something like, “What?? Now??” and jumped out of the car. As the older woman and myself ran towards her I saw that sure enough, she was in labor. Not only that, but the baby was already crowning! The woman and I arrived just in time. We guided the baby out and onto the extra material from her dress that was dragging on the ground. Right there amid the dirt, sand, thorns, and dead grass, I helped deliver a healthy baby boy. With no medical facility for miles, no tools, and only my bare hands to serve as his first welcome into this world.

Instinct kicked in and I felt so lucky for my doula experiences back in California. I thought to myself, “okay, I’ve seen birth, I know what it should look like. I’ve looked at my health worker training manual, I can do this!” I immediately wrapped him up in the only ratty cloth we could find. The afterbirth followed maybe 30 seconds later. I was relieved that it all looked normal and that it happened so fast. The baby cried right away, his passages were clear, he was alert, breathing well, and a decent size-probably about 6 lbs. I didn’t notice any meconium, the fetal fluid was clear, and the blood from the umbilical cord looked red and clean.
I wanted desperately to do this right, so I started giving orders. I yelled to the men across the street “Please, bring me a blade, and string now!” Somehow, a few moments later with this minutes old baby boy wrapped up in my arms, the birth juices soaking into my green Skidmore College t-shirt, the men came running across the street with a blade and a string in hand! I couldn’t believe it. So I instructed the woman with me how to tie off the umbilical cord and where to cut it. I pleaded with her to let me run to my bag and sterilize the blade with the Hibicleanse from my emergency mini-med kit I carry with me at all times, but my hands were full of the baby and after dropping the blade in the dirt, she had already started cutting away the placenta. I wish so desperately that I had had just a few more moments notice to set up a cloth and sterilize the tools, wash my hands and help clean off the baby a little bit.

But we made do with what little we had. Ten minutes later, with the baby wrapped up in a heavy towel still pressed closely to my body, I cooed at him. As the very first person he would ever see, he opened his eyes for the first time, and I whispered to him “welcome to the world baby boy.” I congratulated the mom and held him out to her, but she was much too exhausted and spacey to do much more than give me a half smile.

By this time several women from the surrounding huts had appeared with kettles of water and a change of clothes for the new mommy from her bag in the car. We women encircled her, trying to hide her naked body from the view of the men standing idly by as we changed her clothes and got her as cleaned up as possible. We wrapped up the afterbirth in her other clothes and put it into a plastic bag. I used a cloth to wrap around her and absorb any blood.
Literally only fifteen minutes later we were back in the station wagon on our way to the nearest village with a health post.

She climbed back into the backseat with her other three children and the older woman. I carefully sat back in my middle seat with Baby Boy in my arms the whole time. Ten minutes later we stopped again. Flat tire! Of all the times to have a flat tire. I couldn’t believe it. The four men took twenty minutes to get us back on the road. All the while I’m trying to pay attention to the baby, making sure he was lucid, breathing, and making the right “nursing” motions. I tried to encourage her to begin breastfeeding so she would release oxytocin that would help the uterus contract and stop the bleeding, but she was too tired and promised me she would as soon as we got to the health post. Meanwhile she was dealing with her other three children. She even had the presence of mind to joke with her twins the rest of the ride! I was in total awe of this woman. I mean, I hadn’t even realized she was in labor. Not a single sound the entire ride. Not a groan, or a yell, or any special requests. She literally waited until the very last second to hop out and give birth to her son right there in the dirt. It was like no big deal, like she did this everyday! I have no idea when her water broke. I assume before she even got into the car back at the garage.

During the drive the men thanked me for helping and commended my attention. They joked that even though it was a baby boy, that he would be named after me anyway. I laughed and appreciated the encouragement.

An hour later we arrived at the village of her husband’s family and the health post. I promptly got into my second yelling match of the day with a Senegalese man.

The driver, instead of driving two minutes out of his way to drop her at the hospital, he dropped her off on the side of the road, at a stranger’s house, with her baggage, and her now four children. I yelled at him in French that this was inappropriate, that she needed medical attention to make sure that she and the baby were okay, that she shouldn’t be walking and that we needed to drop her off at the health post immediately. “C’est pas normale!” I shouted out him. One of the other men agreed with me, but it was getting dark and we were nowhere near their final destination. With much protest, I handed over the baby to one of the women that had come upon the scene. I gave them strict instructions to get her to the health post, and for her to start breast-feeding ASAP. With a final goodbye the rest of us piled back into the wagon and left her to the rest of the women who were already ushering her to the back of the house to wash up.

My shirt and hands soaked with fetal fluids and blood, I spent the last hour and a half of the trip in an adrenaline pumped daze. They dropped me off at the regional house at 7pm, twelve hours after I had begun the journey that morning from the Dakar garage.

Luckily I arrived at the house and all the volunteers could not wait to hear my story (I had sent them a pre-emptive text message along the way). So I got to sit down with friends and share my joy, my awe, and my anxiety at being partly responsible for the birth of a brand new baby boy.

I’m sure that by now the story has gotten out and the whole region knows that an American toubak, named Binta Lam, helped deliver this little guy into the world. I have no idea how to find them again though. I knew the woman’s name, but not the name of the village and will probably never see them again, as we were still about 5 hours away from my town. But it’s exciting and an honor that I will live in infamy in this family’s life. Baby Boy will have to hear the story of the toubak that helped deliver him for the rest of his life.

I feel so lucky that I got to be part of such an important event. And what a great story!

All in a day’s work of a Peace Corps volunteer.

Visitor

2007-11-19T07:01:00.001-08:00

My first visitor left this morning.

He was here for 2 weeks, came all the way across the country to my site, to meet my family, and to see my life and work. He also met some of the other volunteers, saw our regional house, met my Thies family, saw Dakar, and even got to spend some time on the coast. It was a rushed but wonderful vacation for him. And quite an experience for me to have such a close friend from home come all the way out here, and actually get to glimpse a small part of my life. He left saying that it was probably the most exciting, eye-opening trip he has ever taken.

I asked him to contribute a blog entry, but he said that he would just wait and comment on my entry. So hopefully you can all hear directly from him at some point (hint hint Chris).

Parts of it were exhausting, mostly from my perspective as the responsible one. I was so worried that he would get sick, or hurt himself, or lost, or not like it, or pass out from heat exhaustion, but there was not even one single minor disaster. He ate street food from the first day, drank homemade juice with tap water, ate all the national dishes (usually with his hands), slept on concrete under a mosquito net, got water, did laundry by hand, went to the fields, played with the kids, toured my whole town, and was treated like a true guest of honor by my family.

One thing that he kept repeating was how incredibly honored, and at times awkward, he felt because of the hospitality from my family. He commented that they lived in the most abject poverty he’s ever seen and yet no relative luxury was spared. They went all out and made some of the most delicious dishes I’ve had to date. He was always given tea after meals, the best seat in the house (the plastic lawn chair), made comfortable, and fawned over by my adoring nieces.

What a treat it was to sit back and watch my family interact with him, to try and speak to him with sign language, their broken English, and his ten words of Pulaar. They were so thrilled just to have him say “peace only” in Pulaar that every time he greeted and just kept repeating it he got instant smiles and laughter. People were so honored when I brought him by to greet them. And I did. I made him walk all over my entire town checking off every person on the list that I could possibly think of to go greet. He really fit right in. Which I’m learning in a country with so much hospitality is easy to do as a guest.

And what an ego boost to hear him tell me he was impressed with my language and my ease at site. Sometimes it’s so easy to get caught up with how far removed I feel, or how far I still have to go in terms of integrating culturally, or with my language, but having him here made me feel so proud. Proud of my work, of my progress, of my attitude.

Even walking around Dakar I learned so much about myself. I just take the harassment and constant attention in stride. Though sometimes to a fault because I have less tolerance and sometimes don’t trust people because my defences are up. I’m programmed to ignore people and ignore their pleas for my attention to come to their stands and buy their merchandise. I guess it’s that inherent American sense of personal space that kicks in. But because Chris was here and hasn’t become immune to the constant badgering yet, we ended up having a really great experience with a bag vendor that made me laugh and remember that while it’s much more tiring, joking and a little trust gets you a lot further with people.

We took a trip to the market. I was looking for a bag to carry back some of the stuff that I had accumulated. We must’ve had at least 5 men following us trying to get our attention and trying to get us to come into their stores. I was bee-lining to the bag shops when one guy started walking with us and really would not let up. He pulled the usual “hey, don’t you recognize me?” line…to which I replied “no I don’t know you, and you don’t know me either.” He wouldn’t give up and said he was sure he knew me so I stopped, gave him a sarcastic look and said “oh yeah? What’s my name then?” To which he replied (in English)…. “I know your name…it’s Impossible!” Chris and I both thought that was pretty funny. And he took it upon himself to take us around to stores to help me find the bag I was looking for. When I didn’t see any, he started leading us away from the market to another street. I started getting a little nervous, and wouldn’t have even considered following him without a big strong guy by my side, but eventually I just said forget it, we’re going back to the market. He pleaded with us to follow him a little further. But I refused. We started walking away and from up behind us he comes RUNNING with a bunch of bags in tow. Exactly what I was looking for. Then he explains to me that he can’t sell on the street because if the police catch him he’ll be fined. Sure enough, in the next ten seconds the police turned the corner and he and his buddy gestured for us to follow them…hurriedly. So we did. And what did we stumble upon? A huge, airy shop full of men sewing bags, cloths, clothing, in every pattern and style imagineable. So we haggled for a while and I walked away satisfied with the bag I had chosen and him satisfied with succeeding in bringing a tourist to buy his goods.

It was such a small interaction, that lasted maybe 10 minutes, and not only makes a great story, but made me realize that giving in just a teeny bit to the bombardment can be absolutely worth it in the end. And now I have a friend and he actually DOES know my name, and next time I’m in Dakar I’ll find him and buy beautiful cloth for you all at home…on my HUGE Peace Corps salary (insert dripping sarcasm and sly smile).

Having the time to really sit down with Chris and talk to him about my work at site was extremely helpful. Though he admitted that he does not know the culture as well as I do of course, it was refreshing to hash out ideas and take some of the primary health problems one by one and go over new and innovative ways to tackle them. I appreciated this so much because coming up with things on your own is always difficult. One of the things I hope that the Peace Corps will implement are standardized To Do manuals written by other volunteers who have had successful projects.
Again, patience and understanding…development moves slowly.

Chris suggested that I take an itemized list of health concerns that I want to work on and how I’m addressing them so that you can all follow along. A sort of mini-work proposal if you will. I’m going to try and get around to that soon.

I guess I hope that some of you out there will be inspired to come visit or at least to maybe visit another place you’ve been meaning to go to.
Once you catch the travel bug…

The only bummer is that now I’m left alone again and dealing with going back to normal life.

Chris will literally be remembered and talked about for the rest of my family’s life. He was invited back anytime and told he could stay as long as he wanted. In their eyes coming to greet someone from halfway around the world is one of the greatest honors anyone could perform.

So who’s next?

Skype Webcam

2007-11-10T09:59:00.000-08:00

My dearest blog followers,

Skype should probably pay me for this endorsement, but I just got a webcam up and running so if you all sign up for skype and add me (profile name: caitlingivens) then when we talk online you can actually see me! It's such a wonderful tool so I hope that some of you sign on. And it's totally free to call another skype user!

So log on because I'd love to hear from all of you. And you can see me in my sweaty glory.

Also, I'm uploading brand new pictures from my trip with my very first visitor. Check the new album called "Visitors."

I promise a better update soon.
Cheers,
Caitlin

Being Busy

2007-10-30T12:44:00.000-07:00

I can’t begin to describe how wonderful it feels to be busy again.

For the first time since IST (because of Ramadan) I am satisfied with my schedule and I actually feel useful and needed and well, like my old self. Everyday when I wake up I actually have tasks to accomplish, meetings to attend, greetings to do and events to plan. It’s a relief to wake up and not think “gee, would it really matter if I spent the whole day reading?” I mean, I’m not running around like a chicken with my head cutoff, like I was through all four years of college, but for Peace Corps standards, and given the speed of development, I’d say I’m one of the busier PCVs. Granted a lot of that has to do with the size of Kanel, but I’m learning how to pace myself and not get caught up with attending every single little thing. I remind myself that living in another language, and the heat, and just daily chores do take a lot out of you and it’s okay not to go greet a family if I’m feeling tired. At the same time, it’s a lot easier to be motivated to get things done because I have deadlines and health talks to prepare for. The key word I believe I’m searching for is BALANCE. For the time being I have achieved equilibrium.

The teachers are finally back from holiday and school starts this week. That means that my two teacher friends are back and that there are many more to meet and talk with. It will take some time for me to start teaching health classes though because the teachers need to settle into their new positions and get to know their classes and routines. I’m hoping that there won’t be as many strikes as there were last year. I want to impress them with my first few lessons so that the word will get out and lots of them will invite me to come teach. Luckily the way the children here learn is essentially through repetition and copying, so anything I do that gets them actively participating, moving around, performing, and brainstorming will be an instant hit

I’ve also noticed how much more I can tolerate than I could even a few months ago. I guess because our first three months are supposed to be spent adjusting, that after those were over I figured I would have adjusted as much as I ever could. But that is certainly not the case. It almost doesn’t phase me anymore when my family asks to borrow things. Now I’m much more willing to let them borrow things and I also have NO problem saying no when it’s an inappropriate request (my bike, or phone credit for instance).

I’m also letting myself laugh a lot more. At Baby Diana’s baptism, I was overwhelmed and sick of people asking me for money so I retreated out back and sat with a handful of young men who were making the 3 rounds of tea for the masses of guests. Obviously all eyes were on me, but I was surprised at how comfortable I was with them. We spoke a lot about health and my work and America and I even talked to them a bit about nutrition and which vegetables would help with eyesight! (This is the definition of a PC Health volunteer. The majority of my work takes place in informal settings for maybe15 minutes at a time totally out of the blue). Inevitably the conversation turned to why I didn’t want a Senegalese husband and why I didn’t want one man in particular. So I just scrunched up my face in disgust and told him, “I can’t marry you…you’re too ugly.” Some of them laughed so hard that they actually fell out of their seats. And don’t worry, he laughed too. It’s a completely acceptable excuse in this culture to call a man ugly as a way of avoiding his advances. I am spending a lot more time with men because I feel like my vocabulary and comfort with the culture is at the point where I can defend myself and make light of almost any uncomfortable situation. Also I feel like while I might never be able to formally organize a men’s health group, at least showing interest in them and laughing with them instead of running away from them and hating them for being inappropriate, will allow me to informally transfer some kind of health knowledge gradually. Or at least breakdown some gender stereotypes. Inchallah!

Part of my comfort is due to my Pulaar. It really has improved immensely. In fact, I’ve gotten compliments on it when I’ve visited other volunteers’ villages. I don’t know that that’s necessarily because my grammar or fluidity is that good yet, but I’m confident with my level of comprehension and pronunciation. And I’ve learned how to focus in on people’s conversations. It’s easy when you’re sitting around and ripping stems off of hundreds of bean leaves, to just zone out and forget to listen to the conversation around you. Now I can actively engage and am not shy to ask questions about what’s going on or for people to explain or repeat. I can actually understand and follow along full stories when told to me. Today in fact, I sat with my Yaaye, and two of my sisters and I followed along for a good 20 minutes while they told me about a visitor that came to Kanel with the previous volunteer. Everyday I am SO thankful that I began learning languages early on in life. Even if I don’t know a word, I can still understand the story because of the syntax.

(Consequently, (as some of you may have noticed) living in two different languages that aren’t my native tongue have caused my English to become well, slightly less eloquent than it used to be. At least my writing anyway.)

I have so much more to say, but for the moment I am satisfied with you all knowing that I am incredibly happy, and in an upswing. I know that the next few months are going to fly by. And soon the weather will get out of the triple digits (105 right now p.s.).

My favorite new sister from Dakar who has been here since IST is going home tomorrow with her baby, my favorite fat-cheeked 3 month old nephew and I want to maximize my “baby-worship” time.

Until next time.
Bisous.

PC=Pregnancy

2007-10-23T04:26:00.000-07:00

It occurred to me recently that being in the PC is a lot like what I imagine it’s feels like to be pregnant. Clearly the reasons why we feel these things differ, but the outcome is the same.

Why the PC is like pregnancy:

1.You have constant cravings. Especially for strange foods that you never even liked or missed when you lived in the states. And especially for things that you can’t have/access easily (booze, sushi, fatty cheeses, cigarettes etc.)
2. Hot flashes and night sweats.
3. Swollen feet.
4. Nothing tastes right.
5. Back pain. (From sleeping on cement, stick beds, and flimsy foam pads).
6. Vomiting and nausea.
7. Weight gain (for women).
8. Mood swings. (You cry or experience rage at the drop of a hat.)
9. You turn into a man-hater (when you’re pregnant I understand that it’s often normal to feel some resentment towards your mate for “doing this to you.”)
10. You find yourself spending a lot of time “nesting” (sweeping your room, doing laundry, organizing your papers, folding clothes, basically cleaning house.)
11. Constant exhaustion.
12. Insomnia.
13. You track your life in segments (like trimesters.) For example, 1 month until Ramadan is over, 2 weeks until my next visitor comes, 2 months until I can take a vacation, 5 months until the new group of trainees arrives, 10 months until I go home etc.
14. You have to pee constantly.
15. You can’t wait for, but at the same time fear the end (culture shock of returning home and saying goodbye to people you might never see again).
16. It seems like it will never end.

7 month index

2007-10-23T04:23:00.000-07:00

Just over 7 months and counting.
That means that depending on when I COS (April or May of 2009) I have roughly 18 months left.
Because I got such a positive response from it, I thought that it would be fun to make another list, like the one I wrote after month 3.

# of times I’ve found teeth in my dinner: 1

# of scorpions I have killed in my room: 10
largest # of toads and frogs I’ve had living in my douche at any one time: 7

# of times per week I wake up to various bugs, beetles, worms, crickets, or toads in my bed : about 3 (yes, I do sleep with a mosquito net and am a compulsive “tucker.” Somehow they manage to get in anyway).

# of degrees at which I feel cold enough to need a sheet at night: 84 F

To date, the lowest temperature I’ve seen on my thermometer: 76.5 F

# of times I’ve eaten goat head: 1

# of times I’ve had to watch an animal be slaughtered: 5

liters of water I drink in a day: 5 (it used to be about 10)

# of packages I’ve received in country: 15 (hooray!)

largest number of mosquito/bug bites I’ve endured at any one time: 130+

# of people in my compound it takes for me to think there are a lot of people around: 30

# of people it takes for me to think that my compound is empty: 8

# of times per week I wash my hair: 2

# of times I’ve seriously considered leaving Senegal: 3

# of text messages I’ve sent since purchasing my cell phone: 1226

#of text messages I’ve received since purchasing my cell phone: 803

# of times I’ve had to have my cell phone fixed: 1

# of times I’ve been sick with stomach yuckiness: 2

# of times per day I wash my hands: about 10

# of times I wake up in the middle of the night: 2-7 (still no progress in that department unfortunately. Gotta love the side effects of Mefaquin. Beats the alternative though).

# of times per week I talk to my parents: 1-2

# of times per month I used to talk to them in college: 1-2

# of degrees in my room right now: 101.5 F (p.s. I’m not even sweating. It’s amazing what your body adapts to)

# of marriage proposals I receive per day now that I’ve henna’d my feet and hands: ~5

# of times per day I fantasize about how much better the cool season is going to be: ~7

# of times I’ve been told by people that I’m a lot prettier in the states than I am here (they’ve seen pictures) : 4

# of times I’ve ridden my PC issued bike: 0

# of PCVs in our stage that have ET’d: 6

# of PCVs left in our stage: 37

# of PCVs in my stage that have become smokers since arriving in country: 6

# of words in the Pulaar language for “thorn”: 7

# of times per day I smell something that makes me gag: at least 1

# of other volunteers sites I’ve visited up North: 4

# of times I’ve been able to sleep inside because it was cool enough: 6

# of times per day I’m peed on by a child: usually about 2 (babies don’t really wear diapers)

# of times per week I go to the market: 2

# of times I check my mailbox at the post office: 2

# of Ipods that have died on me in country: 1

# of times my computer has died and been revived: 1

# of times per car ride when I think the bus or minicar or station wagon is going to topple over:
at least 1

# of times per day I fantasize about fresh produce, whole grains, and ice cream: 3 (aka. every meal)

maximum # of hours I’ve spent at the internet in one sitting: 7

# of bottles of vitamins I’ve gone through: 3

# of hours I spend per day holding and playing with babies and toddlers: 3-4

# of times per day when I laugh heartily: at least 3

# of times during the last week when I’ve felt totally content and at peace with my work, my
placement, my life, my family, my role in this town and culture: 6 (p.s. that’s a big deal! There really is life after Ramadan!)

Hope you got a good chuckle out of these. I had fun compiling them for you.

Next time you bite into a delicious salad, or freak out because you see a spider, or complain about the temperature, think of me…and smile.

Photos and Baby Diana

2007-10-19T08:41:00.000-07:00

Just a little FYI to all of you fabulous blog followers. My new niece is in fact not being named after me, but after my mom in America, Diane. So in French it turns into Diana. So she is now Diana Ba. With about 4 zillion other names thrown in there. Apparently the tradition is that mom, dad, grandma, and grandpa all give a different name. So the two that I know are Diana and Isatou. Everyone thinks its beautiful. We had a fabulously huge Baptism for her. I have a brand new album called Korite (the end of Ramadan) and Baptism that have many pictures of these two big fetes that have been happening during the past week.

Also, some people have told me that they have had trouble accessing all of my albums. You have to sign into that first album (the link on the bottom right hand side of this webpage) and then towards the top of the page on the left click on "Cait's Public Gallery" to get into the page with all 10 albums I have up.

Hope that clears things up.
Enjoy the pictures of my family decked out to the nines and of my henna'd hands and feet.
Work is starting up again and I've been pretty busy lately. It feels great.
I promise a better more detailed blog post soon.

Keep the comments and questions coming!

Loss

2007-10-11T09:05:00.001-07:00

It is with a heavy heart that I report the death of PC Senegal's beloved security officer, Lamine N'Dongo. He was killed this weekend in a car accident while on tournee visiting volunteers. Lamine was perhaps the greatest administrative advocate for PCVs here in Senegal. He will be greatly missed.

I have attached a letter regarding donations for his family for all those interested in helping. A lot of people have asked me how to contribute to my experience, and here is one small way.

Dear Friends,

It is with regret that I inform you of the loss of a dear friend to Senegal PCVs and RPCVs from the last 4 years. Lamine N'Dongo, Safety and Security Officer, died in a car accident on Sunday, driving the PC car near Bakel. The driver was on the passenger side and is currently in the hospital, injured but stable.

Lamine was a friend to those who knew him. He took care of each of us like we were family. He knew everyone in the police force throughout the country and God forbid anyone messed with us, he would take care of it tactfully and quickly. He believed in Peace Corps and was proud to be part of its mission.

He leaves behind a wife and four children, all girls. We would like to make a collection for his family on behalf of the Friends of Senegal and The Gambia and the RPCV community at large. FOSG will match any funds collected. Some RPCVs already started collecting funds and I've invited them to join our collection so we could match the total amount. Any small contribution would be of great help to them.

Please send a check or money order to Dan Theisen to:

Pay to the order of Friends of Senegal and The GambiaMemo:
Lamine N'Dongo's Family Fund
Daniel Theisen
428 Bowleys Quaters Road
Baltimore, Md 21220

We will wait at least 2 weeks to give people time to send their checks to Baltimore for Dan to process them. If you have any questions or comments, do not hesitate to contact me through the FOSG list or directly to marielsie.avila@gmail.com.

My heart and thoughts go out to Lamine's family and friends. He is greatly missed by the entire PC family.

Lamine died, as he lived, on the road making it safe for PCV's to serve in Senegal.

It's A Girl!!

2007-10-11T08:48:00.002-07:00

I am thrilled to announce the birth of my niece and namesake, Binta Sira Ba.

She is a healthy, good–sized, baby girl with all of her fingers and toes, beautiful big dark eyes, and a huge head of dark black hair.

This morning at 7am my sister woke me up by pounding on my door and announcing that my counterpart, Nene, had given birth just minutes before at the health post.

Those of you that have been following along know that I was planning on attending her birth. Unfortunately, I’m pretty disappointed because last night when she went into labor she decided not to call me because I was getting my feet henna’d and she didn’t want me to have to walk and mess up the design. It’s a bummer and I’m still pretty disappointed, especially because I had wanted to see the ins and outs of the maternity ward and see how the midwives coach women through birth, but all that really matters is that she and Nene are healthy and happy.

I have posted some pictures online under the album “Kanel.” They are at the end of all the pictures. She is so beautiful and I am so happy that I will be able to be here for the next year and a half to watch her grow up to toddlerhood.

Work!!

2007-10-11T08:48:00.001-07:00

WORK!

You may have already seen the pictures of our nutrition project at the health post last week, but I thought I should write up a summary of my first real collaborative project with other PCVs.

Last Thursday at the weekly vaccination day at the health post, two other PCVs, Ashley and Christine, came into my town for a nutrition/education causerie (health talk). It was a great first attempt at a big group causerie. There were probably about 20 women present with babies aged 0-1. We measured about 14 children’s arms to see which weight zone they were in. We only had two or three in the red zone, several in the yellow, and the others in the green.

When we arrived one of the midwives started yelling at us that what we were doing wasn’t the “right” way to go about teaching women how to cook etc. She was mostly just blowing smoke and trying to assert her authority. But it made for nervous beginning and put me on edge.

Eventually she left and went back to work and left us to our own devices. One of the other women who works at the “desk” absolutely saved the day though. She spent the whole morning with us, helping to translate and re-explain what we were saying to the women and made sure that they understood the recipe of the baby food we were cooking.

We talked to the mothers about weaning foods, and the importance of breast feeding ONLY until 6 months and the importance of feeding their babies food from all the food groups and why. We measured the arms and explained to the moms whose children were malnourished that they needed to be supplementing their diets with more than just rice.

The porridge we cooked was a big hit and it was rewarding to see the babies eating it up. And refreshing to see them eating something nutritious—not just oily rice and white bread.

Who knows if they will actually go back and make the food for their children. There is really no way to know. But at least the knowledge is there and hopefully the message got across.

Since then I have had several people ask me to hold another talk in our neighborhood so that the women from the compounds around me can come and learn how to make the porridge. I am feeling very positive about the response and looking forward to having another one in a space where I am more comfortable and don’t have other people breathing down my neck and criticizing my every move.

The whole thing felt so good. Granted it’s never as organized or well-attended as you imagine it could be, but I felt so at home talking individually to these women about their babies and their enthusiasm was real and encouraging. Also, it was the first time that I realized that my Pulaar is in fact good enough to start seriously working in.

Ramadan is over this weekend. I have bright orange feet and hands from my henna’ing for the huge end of Ramadan celebration. My work is starting to pick up. School opens next week and I have a meeting with one of the headmasters about teaching health classes. The weather is cooling off slightly. I have a new niece, great projects coming up, and the outlook is good.

I am incredibly proud of myself for making it through probably the toughest part of my service without any major breakdowns. And I am SO ready to start my work!

Visit to the Sticks

2007-10-11T08:46:00.000-07:00

Taking advatage of the forced downtime of Ramadan, I decided to make the trek out to a fellow PCV’s site in the boonies. Out of all of the volunteers up north she is definitely the farthest out. She is 8K from the road. She has a more typical PC placement--no electricity, a working faucet in the early mornings only, and limited cell phone reception (when she stands at a certain angle on the roof at night). Friday, after a few days at my site for our nutrition project at the health post, we went into town (Ourossogui—where I do all my internet related tasks and banking) and left in the afternoon for her village. We arrived at the garage around 3:30pm, got a car at 4pm and drove for an hour to her nearest road town in the crowded and deteriorating buses we call public transport. There we were lucky enough to get a charet right away. But unlucky enough to land with probably the worst charet driver known to man. He could not get the horse to do anything and just kept beating it and beating it. It was awful, and enough to make you sick to your stomach. We must have stopped upwards of 10 times on the 8k ride. The dirt path is full of divets, ravines, muddy puddles, twists, turns, thorn bushes, livestock roadblocks, you name it. The whole way we were holding on for dear life. (Ashley has been thrown off of one of these things…not fun). I grabbed at anything I could get my hands on that was actually attached to the “wagon.” We settled for mostly just holding on to eachother. By the time we arrived at her village, filthy, tired, and dehydrated, it was 7pm.

I stayed there until Monday morning. To get out of her village, we woke up at 5:30am, ate breakfast, packed up, and took off at first light. We knew that if we could not find a charet along the way (as is often the case because they are usually already full) then we would have to walk the 8K. So we made sure to start as early as possible to beat the heat. We did catch a charet, but not until we had already walked 6K.

Besides getting in and out of her village, and the shoddy cell phone reception, I left her site with serious site envy. Her life is so much less hectic and busy than mine. I felt so at ease in her village. During the entire 3 days not one person called me toubak, or asked me for money. It was such a relief. When she walks around the village everyone knows her and greets her by name. And there isn’t that same pressure to constantly be attending events in the name of “working” that amount to nothing except a migraine.

I guess I am just jealous of the romantic, idyllic village experience that she is having, that I expected to have in the Peace Corps: mud huts, no conveniences, just the bare bones and the intimacy of getting to know the culture of and to work with a small village of people. Weaving through the mud huts and stick fences along the mud paths of her village, I realized for the first time that I really would have been fine in a more rural, “hardcore” site.

Up until now I thought that I had lucked out by having such a “luxurious” site compared to most of the other volunteers. I mean, I have electricity (most of the time) and a faucet in my compound (which usually works all day), and I’m on the road, and have full cell phone reception, and lots of resources to work with. I kept thinking that it was a good thing that I was placed where I was because I didn’t think I could have hacked it at a site like hers. Granted, when I first arrived at her site and saw how far out she was I was completely overwhelmed and told her so. I even admitted to her that I didn’t think I could have made it that for out. But I should have realized that like with everything else, we are incredibly adaptable.

Clearly her site has its disadvantages too. If she were ever to get really sick for example, it would take a lot longer to get to medical care and the process would be much more uncomfortable than it would be for me. And getting in and out of her site is truly exhausting, especially on foot. And I’m sure that there are times when she wonders what she is doing there because it is so small and there are almost no set venues to start off her development work.

But I absolutely loved sitting around with different families in her village and piling on the mats with the kids, and looking up at the stars, in complete darkness with no outside noises except for the crickets, and the occasional goat. There was no television blaring horrible Latin American soap operas, or Desperate Housewives dubbed in French. I was jealous of the familiarity and safety of knowing her way around (I definitely get lost in my town all the time). Excuse the cliché but there is something to be said for going where “everybody knows your name.” I guess I feel like in a way, it’s so much easier to really integrate in a small village and abandon the comforts of being an American. I think that sometimes I’m still too dependent on the conveniences of my site because I have no reason not to be.

The immensity and pressure that come with working in a 10,000 person town can make it easy to be reclusive and stick with the safety of the few families nearby that I know well. But I also constantly feel guilty about not running around at every possible moment and trying to raly all the heads of organizations, and health trainers, and bureaucratic officials to band together for the sake of their community’s health. In my head I know that 99% of those efforts would be fruitless and frustrate me further, but it’s tough to shake the guilt.

I’ve always known that I was bad at being bored, but for the first time in my life I think I’m done feeling like I have to load up the activities just to keep from having a moment of idle time. Because in my 7 months I have finally learned that in fact sometimes you learn the most, and the most effective moments for change arise when you are just sitting around with people and chatting, and playing with eachother’s hair and complaining about the heat. Certainly my Pulaar has gotten worlds better this month because there isn’t much to do besides sit around and talk.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my site. Most of the time I feel incredibly lucky and think that I have the best site ever. I believe that I have the right background and qualifications for Kanel. And I love my host family and counterpart and friends here so dearly that I could not imagine my PC experience without them. Of course I would never trade it for anything. But it’s always a little sad when I’m out with other PCVs and we’re talking to new people about our sites and I mention my town and its amenities and they mutter things like, “oh well, you’ve got it easy.”
What they don’t know is that in some ways my site can be much more difficult to work and live in. Even Ashley told me as much. I’m certain that I will always be a little bit disappointed that I won’t have the bragging rights, or the intimate romantic experience of living in a proper Pulaar village.

So kudos to those volunteers who are living in the sticks, and have no amenities. I’m sure there are days that they would kill for a site with running water, a TV, electricity, an electric fan, on the road, with many avenues for work. I’ll never get to know for sure if I could have done it without these things.

Visiting Ashley’s village made me realize how wonderful it can be to live simply.
And I think I’ll always be a little jealous.

Ramadan

2007-10-05T04:23:00.000-07:00

The title of this entry is:

Why Ramadan Is The Worst Month EVER
Or
If I see one more creepy crawly…
Or
Sophomore Slump
Or
All of the above = a perfect combination for early termination of service (ETing).

Title #1

All of the other volunteers have been preparing us for how frustrating Ramadan is, but I am finally really experiencing it for myself. It really is just horrible.

Here are a few reasons why:

1. It’s still ridiculously hot. In fact, this morning at 8:30 am it was already 90 degrees in my room. I guess October/Ramadan is some kind of horrible anomaly. The rains have stopped so there are no more cool and breezy, wet days. But it also hasn’t started cooling off yet, and won’t until mid-November or so.

2. School is still out and all of the teachers and headmasters that I need to meet with are on vacation so I have been at site since mid-May and STILL can’t start my main project (which is to be teaching health classes at the schools) until it really gets going in November.

3. Everyone and their mother give me crap for not fasting and praying. And boy am I tired of it. It doesn’t matter that I attempted (or told my family I did) for one day in “solidarity.” Or that um, the most obvious one… “I’M NOT MUSLIM!” And if you’re fasting you’re supposed to be praying and obviously I’m not praying so where is the sense in fasting? For some people that’s an acceptable answer. At least for those people who have had a little more exposure to other cultures/more education. But for everyone else, I’ve gotten awful, disapproving looks, head shakes, and comments as lovely as “you’re a bad person” or “tssk, then your name isn’t Binta Lam” or “well you live here now so you should be praying and fasting and then just stop when you go home” or even from my own family “the previous volunteer fasted and prayed…why aren’t you?”
When I’ve tried telling them that they should respect my choice not to be a Muslim they just push harder and tell them that I should convert. I’m getting to my breaking point with this conversation. Every time it comes up I’m ready to scream. If anyone has any advice other than lying to them and sneaking food and water for the remaining 2 weeks, I enthusiastically welcome all suggestions.
(Oh, and actually fasting is not an option. And not just on principal. One girl in my stage put herself in the Dakar hospital because she was so dehydrated. Another girl one year gave herself a kidney infection.)
I think next time it comes up I’m just going to say, “I respect your choice to be a Muslim. Why can’t you respect my decision NOT to be one? If you came to America I wouldn’t try to make you change your belief system and pray to a different god, or tell you that you’re wrong and bad, and don’t deserve your American name.” Problem is that that is a logical argument and as I’ve mentioned in previous blog entries, the strategy of using logic to prove my points has thus far not served me well.

4. Everyone is too tired to do anything. I have tried YET again to organize a girls group meeting (I still can’t seem to get them to come together for a meeting) and none of them showed up. Classic.

5. The health post is crowded with people spending the little money they have on medicine. Why? About 90% of them all have the same complaint, and I bet you all can guess what it is: Headaches, body aches and colds. I just want to take them all aside individually and say,
“Well let’s see, it’s 4pm, it’s 104 degrees outside, you haven’t had any food or water since 5am, and when you DO break fast finally at 7pm the first thing you put into your starved, overworked, dehydrated body is Nescafe, and sugary soda. And you’ve been repeating this same thing for almost 3 weeks now! So yeah, I can prescribe something to make you feel better…DRINK WATER!! STOP FASTING!!”
I think my favorite moments are when people tell me that fasting is good for them.

Right. Especially for my 9 month pregnant counterpart (yep, she’s even fasting).

6.Children suffer because the adults are fasting. What I mean is that no one cooks meals during the day, not even for the children, because they are all so tired, so the already malnourished children subsist mostly on white bread, sugary drinks, and a hot milk and rice drink called goossi.

7. It’s impossible to sleep for two reasons:
The mosques have been going at all hours. Now instead of the usual call to prayer 5x a day, the mosques go off at all hours for unspecified lengths of time. Last night for example, a recently arrived marabou decided to sing over the neighborhood loudspeaker for two hours 12-2am. Koranic study sessions are also blasted over a speaker every single day from 11am-2pm, just a couple houses over.
Middle of the night acid reflux. Because my family cooks the main meals at night and is so hungry, that the meals are heavier, more oily, meatier, and being served later. And they get really upset when I try to bail early and tell them I’m not hungry.

8. I get harassed more than normal to give out money because it’s supposed to make for me not fasting.

9. Everyone is short-tempered, cranky, bored, and exhausted. I’ve already seen more arguments and fights breakout in the past few weeks then I have my entire time in country.

Title #2

For some reason I have had a lot of really disgusting “creepy crawly” moments lately. Everyday I seem to be battling some new bug.

*The mosquitoes are still out in full force and despite my protective night gear (long sleeves, pants, and socks despite the 90 degree weather), they still manage to make my life miserable and bite me through my clothes. I am amazed I don’t have malaria.

*Every night spiders build huge webs in my douche that I literally have to walk through in the middle of the night when I have to use my latrine.

*Today, I noticed that there were some big red ants crawling on my wall in my room. I moved my bike and sleeping pad out of the way to discover 2 FIST SIZE PILES OF MAGGOT EGGS WITH HUGE RED ANTS SWARMING ALL OVER THEM (see picture under Kanel album). After I dry heaved, I got myself together, took a picture (for proof) and then went a little bit crazy with my DDT, a broom, and a dustpan. Disgusting. I hope that none of you ever have to experience that. Worst part is I have no idea how they got there. There was no rotted food, or garbage, or piles of water, or animal feces anywhere in sight. It had only been 2 weeks since I had moved everything away from that wall and swept my whole room. As if I wasn’t compulsive enough already checking for scorpions all the time, now I have maggot nests to worry about.

*Crickets have infested my room and they make a ton of noise all night long.

*I now have 3 toads and 4 or 5 mini-frogs living in my douche that like to hop all over my feet and legs when I bathe.

*The flies. Oh the flies. The fly phenomenon is one that until you have lived in Africa during the “fly season” you cannot understand how close the constant swarms bring you to the brink of insanity. And they are not like flies at home. These guys are fearless. They fly right in your face, up your nose, in your eyes, and are not easily flicked away with a jolt of the hand. Nope, they’ll come right back. Even in the middle of my bucket baths.

*Lizards. A lizard the size of my forearm fell from the rafters in my room and could not climb back up and was trapped in my room for two days and I could not get him out.

*Beetles. I have a lot of big black, kind of dopey looking beetles that I periodically accidentally crush in my door, or step on. They never really bothered me until I recently discovered that they fly, right into my face. Wonderful.

Title #3

Maybe there is a sophomore slump that happens in the Peace Corps that is just exacerbated by Ramadan. The next new group of PC trainees arrived a few weeks ago so we are no longer the newbies, but the official “sophomores” of the groups in country. It’s a tough place to be. No real work has started yet (for the reasons I listed above), despite coming back from IST with lots of momentum to affect change (inshallah!). The next 18-20 months are still looming ahead, filling me with uncertainty and shaking my confidence that this is the right place for me. The PCVs a year ahead of us in our same programs have the end in sight and are constantly talking about COS and homecoming plans. It has helped to talk to my closest neighbor (also from Davis, CA) who confessed to me that this time last year was the worst point in her service, and if I can just hold on and make it through Ramadan in one piece then it will all get better.

I mean I’m not actually really thinking of leaving. If I really do feel on the verge of a mental breakdown and need a break I can always retreat to the regional house for some R&R. But when I’m sweating in the heat, with bugs crawling all over me, people yelling at me for not being a Muslim, and wondering when I’m ever going to be able to start working, America and all the luxuries that come with it start to sound pretty darn wonderful.

If nothing else, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger right?…Right?

Sustainability?

2007-09-29T04:00:00.000-07:00

One of the primary reasons I elected to join the PC was because of its unique approach to development. That is, that PC actually puts volunteer development workers on the ground for two years in a community and teaches us the local language. Also, it is secular, and we work entirely in countries where we are explicitly invited by the host government. This means that we are guaranteed government support/cooperation, and we do not force our work upon uninterested or unsafe communities. Theoretically without some of the most common barriers we can maximize our productivity.

Though I learned a veritable TON about Int’l Development at Skidmore, CIDH and LSE (more than I ever thought possible really), I always felt like an imposter, having never had the chance to actually work in international development long-term. Sure, working on the ground for a month in Lima with Cross Cultural Solutions was a great beginning. It gave me that first addicting taste of international development work, but I needed a longer-term test. It just felt so hypocritical to gab on about development without ever living in a so-called “less-developed” country.

So here I am, finally fulfilling that desire. I’m thrilled to have such a concrete background in all things development related, from its champions, its skeptics, and its worst critics. Thanks (in part) to a revelationary (is that even a word?) course at LSE, “Complex Emergencies” with Dr. David Keen, my idealistic acceptance of all humanitarian work as ‘good’ and ‘beneficial’ was pretty much shattered. If you’ve never heard of him, check him out. His and his colleague’s perspectives on humanitarian work and aid work in general is disheartening to say the least, but totally changed the way I wanted to approach and to work in int’l development. The point is, that because of this academic base, I feel like I am better able to grasp the complexities of the ‘problems’ I see all around me.

One thing I have observed here in Senegal is the negative long-term effect of foreign aid—governmental or not. I’m not criticizing all aid orgs outright, (clearly all NGOs and humanitarian orgs are not made equal) or proposing that the more ‘privileged world’ should not help poorer countries to develop. What I am saying (and there is plenty of great literature out there to back me up) is that the constant flow of NGOs and IGOs and all the money they bring with them, takes away from government accountability. Granted I can only speak from my observations in a very specific place over just six short months, but it’s true. Talking to Senegalese about development projects, there are never any discussions about getting funding from the government, or about why Senegal’s education system isn’t better, or why the power and water cut out 8x a day. Instead people say that it is better to ask one of the many development orgs in country for help or for money. Maybe that’s because they actually get things done-build wells, give school supplies, bring in guest doctors and nurses, sponsor causeries and trainings etc. But that doesn’t change the fact that their presence makes governments unaccountable. And that’s what Senegal needs the most: large scale projects, sweeping educational reform, infrastructure, and economic diversification of its major industries. None of those things can come from USAID, or UNICEF, or AfricaCare. They are going to have to come straight from Abdoulaye Wade’s office.

It’s dependency.

People have become dependent on aid orgs, and will wait and wait forever for things instead of organizing and doing it themselves because they know that eventually, some foreign organization will come in, fund it, and do the work for them. And in the short-term that makes a lot of sense: “Do we tell the NGO in the next town over that we don’t have a clean water supply and have them build a well for us this season? Or do we wait and wait and wait for the Wade administration to come in and do it?” I mean which would you choose?

On a large scale, the more sustainable path to development is clear, but as a PCV, the work of other development workers sometimes makes our work that much more challenging. Most foreign development workers waltz in for a few weeks at a time. They stay in nice hotels, eat in restaurants, barely interact with Senegalese people, get their work done, waste much more money on living comfortably than necessary, take some heart-warming pictures and a few tear-jerking memories back home to impress their next date and then return home feeling selfless and proud. And they should! The very fact that they care enough to come down here, or “help” at all shows tremendous courage and compassion. Unfortunately, its been making a lot of our work more difficult.
Why? Because we don’t have any money.

One example is a friend of mine down south who is in a very isolated part of southeastern Senegal. She recently met a couple in her area that received a grant to come to Senegal and do development/health work. They are pouring out money for projects all over the place. They leave in 5 or 6 months and then who is going to be there to pick up the pieces when the projects they shoddily created fail? My PCV friend. Because there is no way that they can know the culture and the community well enough to know what projects will crumble and what projects will self-sustain. Most likely, whatever they do will fail. It might sound cynical but it’s true. Even after two years learning the ins and out of our communities, many PCV projects fail.

What about the two guys I met who had started their own NGO and were bumming around the country distributing mosquito nets using funds from friends, churches and schools at home? They were here for a few months and won’t come back for another two years. They gave no thought to enforcing “good mosquito net behavior.” Like the fact that most people only sleep under them during the rainiest season, and they don’t re-impregnate them, and most of the ones I see have so many gaping holes in them their practically useless.

And how about my other PCV friend’s village that just wants her to buy them a car so that they can transport women in labor to the nearest health post? They don’t care about her re-opening the health hut and training health workers to run it and hold educational health talks. They want money for a car. They’ve seen other groups come in and give similar sums for wells and schools etc. and they want a piece of that action. They’re not interested in some young, rich, white girl preaching at them about washing their hands with soap or how to make ORS.

Bottom line is that ultimately, all development/aid orgs should be working to be out of business, or at the very least to eventually adapt to a new location, or project. Not exactly a sound business model. And certainly the Peace Corps isn’t doing that either. After all, we’ve been in Senegal since 1963!

But our work has not gone unnoticed. A couple times I have passed people in markets and they have shouted things like “American? I like Americans better than Europeans. You learn our language and you live with us like family.” And this even before I have a chance to answer. (By the way Senegalese usually assume that all Americans are PC). Although PC isn’t perfect in its development approach, maybe those small interactions mean that what we’re doing, regardless of how ‘textbook sustainable’ it is, is worthwhile?

Certainly other approaches are equally valid and sometimes even more beneficial than the work we do. But as someone who actually lives here and struggles to convince my community that every conversation we have about hand washing is part of my work, it is defeating to be the “little guy” up against the “bling” of other foreign aid orgs. I just wish there was some way to instill all the aid orgs here with the aspiration for all projects to be sustainable.

I guess at the very least, I am satisfied that I am part of an organization with a mostly sustainable approach to development.

Now if I could just get some funding….

.

Unexpected Frivolity

2007-09-25T04:38:00.001-07:00

I had all kinds of expectations about the “ enlightened” and “back-to-basics” person I would be post Peace Corps. I remember thinking that after two years living with only the basic necessities (which actually turns out not to be true seeing as I have electricity, a cell phone with perfect reception, my computer, an Ipod, and a faucet in my compound) that I would come home and be disgusted with all things materialistic, and superficial.

For example, a few weeks before I left, a friend was planning his visit out to see me. I remember triumphantly declaring to him “I don’t think I’ll want to stay in a nice hotel when you come. It will just be too much culture shock and way too overwhelming.”

During demystification I heard an outgoing volunteer comment to a fellow PCV, “Oh, look at all the incoming PCV’s stuff. It’s so new and nice and clean, and…pretty.” I remember thinking that that was such a weird thing to say. And I took it kind of personally like, “my stuff wasn’t ‘hardcore backpacker’” enough for the Peace Corps or something.

Now I totally understand where she was coming from. It’s the same phenomenon that led my Thies family to comment that my Tupperware containers were beautiful, and why my little sisters are preserving the box that the doll figurines my mom sent them came in, and why my host mom will barely let my little brother play with his new counting/rattle book, and why every article of clothing I have is “ina yoodi” (pretty).

Because there just aren’t new, or shiny, or different-looking things here. Everyone has the same stuff and they literally use it until it falls apart. Nothing stays looking new for more than a few hours and ten more people in your house probably have the same thing anyway so its pointless to get excited about.

I might still go through the “hate everything materialistic and wasteful and pop culture related” phase when I COS (Close of Service), but at this point in my service the total opposite has happened.

In my amazing birthday packages for instance, I received a Glamour magazine. Now, I almost never read that stuff at home. I’d occasionally skim People magazine at the gym to keep myself entertained during mind-numbing Elliptical machine workouts, but that was pretty much the extent of it. And I was (and actually still am) irate at the hype, attention, and media time that Anna Nicole Smith’s death received right before I left. I mean really? Uninterrupted reporting on a porn star’s funeral? Seriously CNN? Really?

But when I got this Glamour magazine, I literally spent the entire afternoon outside in the shade with my family, on my stick bed and read that magazine cover-to-cover. I positively devoured it.

And I can’t believe I’m about to admit this in a public forum, but I feel like you should all understand the extent of my newfound appreciation of all things pretty, clean, and good smelling…

I had some useful things that arrived in my packages like soap, food for Ramadan, pocket packages of Kleenex, vitamins, etc.

But my favorite new item, (that when I saw it I think I actually shrieked out loud with joy), was the shiny, new, white Ipod headphones with GREEN RHINESTONES. My dad sent them to me because my old ones were barely functional, and I think he meant them as a joke, but they are absolutely my new favorite thing that I have in country. I mean, they’re totally frivolous, and I love them for that. Sure I have other stuff that is kind of functional, but probably unnecessary (a silk pillowcase from Mom for my birthday for example), but the rhinestones are so totally over the top and non-functional that they take the cake.

In a way it’s kind of pathetic. Who would have thought that Peace Corps Senegal would bring out my inner (some might argue NOT so inner) princess?

But at least I’m not alone. When I’m at the regional house, we girls all sit around and look at 6-month-old magazines. We talk about clothes, and trends we’re “missing out” on and complain that we don’t have more up-to-date “junk” magazines. I mean we all know that they are trash, and “in life” (as PCVs are fond of saying) most of us probably took pride at being disinterested in celebrity gossip, but not anymore.

I think at root here is that it’s exhausting to constantly talk about our “PCV lives.” And of course we talk about that a lot of the time. But it can get so depressing and frustrating to constantly talk about what isn’t working in Senegal or at site, being discouraged by the slowness of grassroots development work, failed and successful projects and meetings, sick children, the heat, gross food, being lonely, and our families peculiarities.

Sometimes you just want to look at pictures of Brad Pitt and wonder if he and Angelina Jolie really will make it? Or yearn for fall weather just so that you can wear that perfect J Crew sweater with matching earmuffs.

So for the time being I am mostly comfortable with the fact that the Peace Corps has brought out the princess in me.
And the next time I wear my rhinestone headphones I am going to smile…and maybe even do a little dance.

The plight of a health volunteer

2007-09-25T04:37:00.001-07:00

Sometimes being a health volunteer is utterly exhausting.

There are so many myths, beliefs, and practices about what to give people and how to treat them, or not treat them, that sometimes it’s hard to know how and where to start re-educating them.

In about an hour today I had two different “health volunteer moments” (as I’ve come to call them), both of which with just a little bit of proper education would make my job obsolete.

Case #1

I stopped by the house of one of the women from my new mommies group, Aminata, and found that her 2-year-old son is really ill. She said he had been vomiting and his fever had to be at least 104. I felt his head and it was burning hot. Of course she asked if I had medicine to get rid of the fever, but I have to say no. I told her that she should go to the health post, or to the pharmacy to buy some. Then she pulled out some child’s dissolvable aspirin and asked if it was appropriate.

I was thrilled because it was exactly what he needed for a fever reducer, but she wasn’t sure how to give it to him, or how to use it because the instructions were written in French (classic). And she knew enough to read the date on the back and didn’t know what “Aug” was, but it said ’07 so she figured it was expired. Which, it technically is, but only by a few weeks so I gave her the okay (figuring it couldn’t hurt anyway) and explained how he should take it.

Like any normal two year old, he saw the meds going in the cup and refused to drink it. He hit it out of her hand and spilled about half. So I tried to salvage the little bit of powder that was still in the packet. Then we added sugar and he still wouldn’t take it. So I had her switch cups and tell him it was water. Then of course he drank it right down.

It was clear that he was dehydrated and even though he did not feel well he was gladly accepting water. It was news to her to give it to him. It’s a common belief that if stuff is coming up through vomiting or diarrhea that you should withhold water because it will just make them expel more. So that was the very first thing that I told her, that he needs to be well hydrated. She responded well and ran to get water. She is a very eager mommy and wants to learn how to take care of her first baby.

I told her to give him another dose in the afternoon (around 5 o’clock prayer time because they don’t usually pay attention to hours, and the mosque call to prayer is a good time marker) and that I would be back to check on him that afternoon. I am going to teach her one-on-one how to make ORS (Oral Rehydration Salts) so that at least she can keep him hydrated. Hopefully the aspirin will work and this is just a passing flu, and not malaria. But if it continues (it has already been 4 days) then I am going to have to keep pushing her to go to the health post and have him tested.

Interactions like this are so scary. Panic sets in immediately. I get so anxious for these kids and these families. It’s sort of like having a town full of 10,000 children. I always feel so responsible. Especially for the ones that I actually do work with on a regular basis and am trying to teach better health practices.

If anything happened to any of the kids I’m close with I don’t know how I would recover. I worry about them every night when they are outside sleeping without mosquito nets, or sitting on the ground near animal feces and then eating, or climbing walls and scraping their hands on rusty nails.

Because at least at home in the states you know that you can take care of most illnesses on your own. We all have huge medicine cabinets and know how to wash out a cut. And if a situation ever becomes a real emergency, trained and reliable personnel are just moments away. And there are roads to get there, and ambulances, and telephones etc.

The anxiety and the fear build in the pit of my stomach and I constantly ask myself what else I can do. And I get so frustrated that my Pulaar still isn’t better and that I still struggle so much to actually explain things, especially related to health.

But then sometimes little kids surprise you and they bounce right back and you can’t believe that they pulled through. In a way I’m starting to understand why people are so fatalistic and believe that the choice of who lives and who dies is out of their hands. Because a lot of times it defies all explanation and logic.

For example, I am SO happy to report that the baby that I wrote about in May, Oumou, who is the baby of a sister in another villages (the one that was having trouble breast feeding), has somehow gone from a 1 kilo premature infant, to a fat, happy, normal 4 month old. And it’s thrilling. She is always all smiles and never cries. I just don’t get it. I just didn’t expect her to make it. She’s a fighter I guess and has been since she was born.

(Next Day)
I went back to Aminata’s house this morning to check on her son. His fever is almost gone as far as I can tell. When I asked her what she gave him she said that she went to the pharmacy and picked up malaria medication.* She had just given him the first dose that morning. Who knows if that really what it is, but at least he seems better and was sleeping.

*(This is one of the reasons that some strains of malaria in some regions of Africa have become resistant to certain drugs. Here during the rainy season, everything is immediately diagnosed as malaria. I am pretty sure that the health post does not have the resources or take the time to test people using malaria smears. They just prescribe the prophylaxis to anyone with symptoms of malaria (which are pretty general and apply to almost every other illness).

Though he still wasn’t drinking anything. I sat her down to talk about giving him ORS and I was pleasantly surprised that she already knew how because she learned how to make it from the previous volunteer. Again, knowledge is there, behavior change is slow. But she thought that the ORS could only be used for diarrhea, so I assured her that it would be good because he is very dehydrated. She said she would make it right away. Fingers crossed that she did. At least his fever is gone. Hopefully he’s on the mend.

Case #2

The second “health volunteer moment” of the day happened right when I came back from Aminata’s house. I walked in and there was my 15-year-old sister, Faama, (who goes to school by the way) about to put BRIGHT PINK NAIL POLISH on her friend’s infected blister beetle bite! Are you kidding me? Nail Polish? What??

(If I could make a movie of this moment it would be in slow motion.)

I basically yelled, “What are you doing?” and ripped the bottle out of her hand. She is always the first to argue with me and question my health knowledge and it took me a good 10 minutes to convince the two of them that nail polish was not going to do any good, has NO antiseptic, or beneficial properties, and would make the infected blister worse. I had to plead with them that all they needed to do was wash it with soap and water and keep it clean and dry and eventually it will heal and go away by itself.

(Clarification: Blister beetles are these horrible things that if they land on you they often pee and their urine leaves a huge blister that is painful and can get easily infected (mostly because people don’t keep them clean or know how). Luckily, all you have to do is keep it clean and dry. It is still a very annoying bug to deal with. And everyone seems to have one so I’m assuming it is the season for them. Yuck.)

Last night I saw someone with one on his neck and it was absolutely covered in flaky white junk. Of course I freaked out and told him to run to the health post immediately. But he laughed and just said that it was a blister beetle blister, but that he had put “cream” on it. God only knows what it was…toothpaste? Soap shavings? Lotion? I have no idea.

I have decided that my very first lesson for the kids at the schools will be a first aid lesson. The things people put on cuts and scrapes make me cringe: sand, leaves, toothpaste, dirt, nail polish (apparently), hair pomade, cologne, random lotions and creams. You name it.

Although these moments are scary, at least I know there is a lot of work to be done and that I am definitely needed here.

Now I just have to work on not making myself a nervous wreck every time I see a sick child. Because if I don’t, I’m never going to make it through this.

Why does everything take so long????

2007-09-25T04:36:00.000-07:00

Some days I want to throw an all-out-no-holding-back temper tantrum. I want to stamp my feet, scream at the top of my lungs, grab people by the shoulders and shake them, and yell “WHY IS THIS TAKING SO LONG??? DON’T YOU SEE?! THIS IS WHY YOU NEVER GET ANYTHING DONE!!”

(The sick irony is that I’m having this reaction today after having just written yesterday about never asking “When?”).

I know that if I ever did throw a fit it would do me absolutely no good. In fact people’s reactions would probably just anger me further. (The typical reaction to anger is uncomfortable laughter and teasing). But for my own sanity I think an occasional tantrum thrown in the privacy of my douche might actually be beneficial for my mental health.

It’s just so hard to put culture aside and get over that feeling of “This is the most ludicrous waste of time EVER!” Because more often than not, it IS. It’s not like I’m being unreasonable in these instances. I am worlds more patient and flexible (a PC motto) than I was six, or even four months ago. But sometimes even when I come fully prepared, the waiting and the idle time are insufferable.

Today I opted not to attend the weekly vaccination day at the health post for 2 reasons:

Because it’s Ramadan and when I’ve been at the health post on other days almost nobody has been there. So I didn’t see any reason why I couldn’t miss this one.
Because my counterpart is the President of my quartier’s association (quartier = neighborhood, my town has 8 or so) and today the members of the association were having their first meeting in over a year.

I figured, what a great opportunity! I’d get to meet some more motivated people from my neighborhood and we can discuss problems our area is having. I thought maybe I’d even be able to bring up the issue of the ridiculous amounts of standing water, garbage and therefore mosquitoes we have around. Maybe we would talk about organizing a World AIDS Day event for December 1st, or a fundraiser to get a landfill started (one of my “big idea” projects for my two years).

I didn’t even come close to discussing any of that.

The meeting was supposed to start at 11am. Yeah right. Even I knew better than that. My sister is the “secretary” of the association so when I came home from the market that morning she said “Binta, wait for me, we’ll go together.” Knowing this would mean at least an hour, I grabbed a book and sat outside with the fam while they napped in the shade and kept the babies entertained. We finally sauntered over to the meeting at around 12:45. And guess what? No one was there. Of course.

A few women trickled in about 10 minutes after us. (I think there is some unspoken rule that you can never arrive earlier than two hours late.) And then a couple of men showed up. We rolled out the mats in a shady spot in the compound and chatted. Then we passed around the babies and chatted some more. Then people started laying down, retreating to shadier spots in other parts of the compound, or left to watch TV inside. Then my counterpart finally went inside for her notebook and a pen. Her pen didn’t work so she asked me for one, which, I did not have. Twenty minutes later she got back up to go look for another one that worked.

Now I got kind of excited because I figured, “Okay! Great! Notebook and pen. Let’s make this official, this meeting is going to get started.”

Yep. You guessed it. No such luck.

It’s now about 2:30pm. I did not bring any water with me because it’s Ramadan and out of respect for everyone fasting I try not to drink or carry around water in front of them. I also hadn’t eaten since breakfast because I figured the meeting would only take an hour or so. Both were bad ideas, and both unquestionably added to my level of crankiness and inability to tolerate "time wasting."

I did have the foresight to bring a book with me, so that held my attention for most of the waiting. I also got to play with a couple of the babies which of course is always fun. But I felt myself getting really antsy so I asked my counterpart if the meeting just wasn’t happening? She said that they were still waiting for the “men” to arrive and that we would start in 10 minutes.

Fingers crossed.

Thirty minutes later, the men she was referring to got up from napping on the stickbeds across the compound after much nagging from the women and we finally began the meeting.

I felt better that at least some of the women were getting annoyed at the wait. And it turns out that they were waiting for so long in hopes that some of the other 20 missing members of the association would show.

The meeting itself lasted about 45 minutes and though I was lost for most of it (it was in Pulaar) I got the jist of it.

Nothing was accomplished.

They decided to hold another meeting next Thursday so that everyone could be there.

So for 45 minutes in the sweltering heat, famished, thirsty beyond comprehension, with everyone fasting (which includes not drinking water by the way….and yeah, we still live in the desert last time I checked) all they talked about was
Attendance
When to have the next meeting
What to do with the 100,000 CFA they had raised during the previous year.

At least the money part was intriguing. When that came up I waited for the perfect moment to snap my hand up and say “hey…what about an AIDS event? Or a landfill? Or more trees? Or a community garden?” or anything useful for that matter.

At 4pm, roughly 4 hours after I thought I would be finished, my neighborhood association decided that with their YEAR’S worth of savings they would buy….

Drumroll please…

Plastic chairs.

Tremendous.

They didn’t decide when, or from where, or who would pick them up, or where they would keep them or even any of the logistics. Nope. It took 5 hours just to decide to buy plastic lawn chairs.

If this is pace of development work, I don’t know if I have the patience for it…and it’s only been 6 months.

Television

2007-09-25T04:34:00.000-07:00

I have decided that television ruins and homogenizes cultures.
Let me explain.

I didn’t watch much television until later in college and into grad school. Having not had a TV in high school, or the time to watch it through most of college, I missed out on a lot of my generations’ “pop culture” references. In fact, I am still catching up. (For example, I have yet to see a James Bond or a Batman movie, and I can count the number of Saturday Night Live shows I’ve seen on one hand). So I wasn’t that concerned with not having access to TV during my service. Granted I’ve seen my fair share of movies when I’ve taken days off at the regional/transit house up North, but that was an unexpected luxury for sure. Because my family here does have a TV, I’ve actually been exposed to a fair amount. Most of it is entirely unwatchable. French, American, and Venezualan soap operas prevail, but the Senegalese shows are even worse (if that’s possible).

But I prefer the banality of RTS (the national station) to the effects of American television networks on Senegalese culture. What I mean is that on several occasions I have observed totally inappropriate programming and I’ve seen what cable does to “family togetherness.”

During PST my Thies family had basic Senegalese TV. They watched the news, various Senegalese music videos and of course the beloved Venezualen soap, Barbarita. When I came back for IST, they had expanded their channels and among others now have a 24 hour all-American music video station. As a result, our nighttime interactions were drastically different. Before, we would sit around together, eat dinner, maybe cook together, visit neighbors, look at magazines, chit-chat, braid hair etc. But with the new MTVesque programming I absolutely could not ever talk to them without hearing and seeing Sean Paul, Britney Spears, Kelly Clarkson, Usher, and Snoop Dogg videos in the background. Most of which are wholly inappropriate for such a conservative culture.

I understand that to some extent it might be beneficial for Senegalese to be exposed to other cultures, expand their horizons, etc. But I doubt that exposing them to half naked, subservient women in rap videos is going to do very much for the blatant gender inequality in this country. If I were my host father, I probably would have locked up and immediately married off my daughters after seeing some of those videos. After being here for just a few months some of those videos actually made me blush and squirm in my seat. They were so inappropriate and suggestive. Because of the television my family spent less time interacting with me, and there was little incentive for me to come home from training right away. Thus during IST, I spent much more time out with other volunteers socializing.

Now I’m not saying that television should be censored. I’m just sharing my observations about how awkward I felt and how disappointed I was at the reduced “family” time.

Up at site I’ve also had some moments where I wanted to run to the TV and rip the cord from the wall. Desperate Housewives plays on Saturday nights on RTS (24 hours, LOST, and Monk also play weekly). This particular Saturday I was watching an episode of Desperate Housewives with my 13 year old nephew, Oumar. I have no idea why this episode was chosen, but it was one of the racier and more controversial episodes I had ever seen (granted I’ve seen about 3). The whole thing glorified infidelity, and addressed sexuality (kind of). It’s probably a matter of time before I’ll have to have a conversation with people in my town about the spectrum of sexuality, and homosexuality/bisexuality/transgender/queer culture, but I just was not ready for it at that moment.

At the end of the episode of the actresses’ sons was making out with his boyfriend in a pool and a neighbor walked in on them. My little brother was so perplexed. He had no idea what was going on even though he speaks French (all shows are dubbed in French). He asked me, “Binta, what are they doing?” Now homosexuality is actually illegal in Senegal not to mention that it’s so taboo that I’ve never even heard it talked about in country. In that particular instance I chose to totally ignore the opportunity for dialogue. I lied to him and told him that they were playing and that the woman was surprised because they tricked her into thinking it was her kid…or something ridiculous like that. He just nodded and said “oh.”

Looking back on it, I HATE that I felt so helpless to address something that I feel so strongly about. And yes, I do look at it as a wasted opportunity. But it’s a slippery slope when you’re dealing with such a sensitive subject. I felt that using Desperate Housewives as a means to bring up homosexuality would not exactly help me make a point. Instead I opted for silence. My point is not that the topic should not be addressed (obviously it is high time) but that the exportation of scandalous images and mothers walking in on teenage boys making out, and then ultimately not supporting his choice (a later episode), is a horrible way to start the dialogue.

Talking to volunteers in villages without televisions, I am always slightly jealous of the peaceful, quiet evenings they spend under the stars, laying on mats with their families. My evenings are relaxing and I cherish the family time, but they are always tainted and a little less romantic when theme songs and commercial jingles resonate in the background.
(Disclaimer: Though I might be “anti-TV” now, give me a few more months and we’ll see if I’m not glued to the screen the next time RTS airs a re-run of Monk.)

Homecoming

2007-09-25T04:28:00.000-07:00

I am so happy to be home!

After almost 6 weeks away because of IST, med appointments in Dakar, and regional health meetings up North, I was really worried about readjusting to site. But I could not be happier to be back.

When I arrived, totally exhausted, sweaty (of course) and carrying my huge bags, it was dusk and no one was in my compound except my baabaa (dad).

He was in the middle of praying, but came running over to me (as much as he can run for an old man who uses a cane to walk, and can barely hear) and gave me a HUGE hug and was so happy and smiling and kept hugging me and saying he was happy and how much he missed me.

It was so nice to be welcomed home that way. Usually people give handshakes but there isn’t a lot of hugging. It even made me a little teary. (No surprise there).

Then people started trickling in and I was greeted over and over. My favorite sister even came in town. She was married a few weeks ago very suddenly while I was gone, to a young French Senegalese man who I’ve met and seems very nice. (But I don’t know what I’ll do if she moves to France. I’ll be devastated. I hope she at least stays to finish her schooling.)

I had been so worried about my room flooding. I had heard horror stories from other volunteers about coming home to inches of water and totally destroyed possessions. But as it turns out, my room was only a little mildewy and dank smelling. No puddles.

I even only had one scorpion waiting for me! Hooray! As my dad pointed out “How nice for you!” (Insert biting sarcasm). Really though, with my track record I was practically expecting them to be covering the floor. And I knew exactly where to find it. Under that trunk where all the other ones like to hide out. I had about 40 huge black beetles, a cockroach, lots of spiderwebs, and piles of sand. But everything was intact and in good condition.

I spent the last couple of hours of sunlight sweeping furiously, unpacking, and greeting people. Then an incredible rainstorm came out of nowhere and I was able to bucket bath in it. It was like taking a real shower. Incredible. And it was even cool enough to sleep inside my room that night. A luxury for sure.

Point is I’m so happy to be back. I really missed my host family and my routine and my work. Coming back made me realize that it finally feels like home here. I’ve noticed the progress that I’ve made and how much more comfortable I feel compared to the first few weeks when I arrived.

And to boot, I had 6 packages and 3 letters waiting for me! THANK YOU EVERYONE! Those made for such a warm and wonderful homecoming. It means a lot to hear words of encouragement and support from people at home.

Although I haven’t been using it that much over the past few weeks, for some reason my Pulaar really does sound better. Maybe it’s just because I’m more confident? Or paying better attention and am making more of an effort? I’m not sure, but I’m getting there.

As for the month of Ramadan, well, thus far it’s not as bad as I had heard. I mean yes, people are tired and do a lot less in the afternoon, and it’s sort of a strange existence having to hide my eating and water-drinking habits from my family. I told them that I did not want to fast and they agreed that unless you are praying, there is no point in fasting anyway. For the most part I’m hoping to still be able to have meetings and get some lesson plans finished and maybe finally be able to have a meeting with my new mothers and girls groups. That has been a challenge I had not expected. Between my own insecurities with Pulaar, and everyone’s schedules we have yet to meet at all. Numerous attempts have been made, but nothing as of yet. Hopefully because there are a lot fewer chores for the girls and women to do during the day (aka. no cooking) we will find time this month.

As for the weather, there hasn’t been any rain for a few days and the temperatures have started to climb again. The rumor is that the month of Ramadan is sweltering because the rains have stopped but it still hasn’t cooled off yet. It doesn’t really get cooler until mid-November.

My first guest is coming in 6 weeks! Very exciting. I cannot believe that I’ve now been here 6 months. It has flown by. Roughly 19 months left…but who’s counting? If I start thinking about how little time I have to accomplish everything I would like, then panic sets in. I have to constantly remind myself to take baby steps.

Someone recently told me that he learned that in Africa, you never ask “When?” If you do it will make you crazy. Things happen slowly, sometimes not at all, but I’ve just got to keep pushing and keep trying.

Until next time. Thanks for reading. Keep the questions coming.

Homecoming

2007-09-17T07:55:00.000-07:00

Cross-Cultural Comparison

2007-09-13T06:21:00.000-07:00

Someone recently suggested to me that I should include more cross-cultural comparisons of the US and Senegal.

I’m unsure how to do that more than I have been, but I thought I would take a list of questions that people have asked and address them in blog entries. Remember that my blog is an open forum for any questions you all might have. If any of you do have questions do post them so that others can benefit.

Do you ever feel that the gender situation is so remarkably unjust that it has transcended into situations beyond reach?

The simple answer is yes; I do, all the time. Sometimes the lack of women’s empowerment is so disheartening and depressing that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make any kind of headway. But to be a successful PCV you really have to believe that you are planting the seed and that you might not necessarily see the fruits of your labor. Someday some little girl could be inspired to go on and get through school and be a teacher, or have a little bit of knowledge that she learned from me that will help keep her children healthier. We just can’t know. But to stay sane, I have to believe that somehow, someday my work will impact at least one person. It’s just so difficult to measure.

One of the things I desperately want to work on is to have a boy’s group. In my own studies and experiences I’ve been consistently disappointed with how frequently men are left out of the development/gender/reproductive health conversation and I want to find a way to work with teenage boys.

(Also, see blog entry called “Atheist Man Hater” from July for a more thorough description of some of the more negative experiences I’ve had.)

Have you been able to do any doula work?

I have not yet been able to attend any births, but my counterpart is currently very pregnant and is due soon. I spoke with her about my volunteer doula experience and offered to be there for the birth and she emphatically agreed. I’m definitely excited about it, but also kind of nervous too. I mean the other births I attended were in a modern birthing center with teams of surgeons on call just next door. Every woman had her own room, bathroom, shower, rocking chair, birthing balls and bars, mirrors, and ample room for family members.

This time around it’s going to be a completely different experience. If the mid-wives even decide to let me in the room with her for the birth then it will be done in a tiny, dirty room with 6 “beds”, no running water, sketchy electricity, no medicine, and obviously no emergency supplies or staff. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that I won’t have to witness anything traumatic and that the birth will go smoothly. I am slightly worried because she is older and her last birth was 9 years ago. But I am still honored and looking forward to being there to support her and hopefully make her more comfortable.

What is the mother and infant mortality rate in Senegal?

The Infant Mortality Rate (IMR) for Senegal is 78 per 1,000 live births. Though progress has been made because it’s down from 164 in 1970 By comparison the USA’s IMR is 7 per 1,000 livebirths.

The Maternal Mortality Rate (MMR) for Senegal is 690 per 100,000 live births. Whereas in the USA its 17 and in Iceland it’s actually 0.

(For more statistics see the Human Development Index from the UN.
http://hdr.undp.org/hdr2006/statistics/ )

How much teaching do you get to do?

Now that I’m back at site, and summer vacation is finally coming to an end, I’m preparing to do a lot of teaching. There are actually 5 schools in my town. One pre-school, two primary schools, a middle school, and then one private school. I have made friends with many of the teachers and I’m hoping to come in and teach regular health lessons to the kids. Health lessons are written into the national curriculum, but they are certainly not comprehensive and usually the way the kids are forced to learn is by repetition and reading. So my goal is to spend the majority of Ramadan preparing lesson plans on all kinds of health topics: hygiene, malaria, first aid, dental hygiene, nutrition, STIs, family planning, etc.

Ideally I’d like to be teaching at least one class a week but even more would be great. I’m particularly excited about working with kids not just because I adore them so much (as you all know…I didn’t get voted “PCV Most Likely To Adopt A Senegalese Child” for nothing!) but also because then I can work in French and I won’t be intimidated to get started. I might even be able to do some of the lessons at the middle school level in English with the English classes.

How much do the mothers understand?

The issue that most volunteers face is not so much the lack of education and knowledge (for those who have been to school) but behavior change. My family for example knows full well that they need to wash their hands with soap before they eat, and that they should always sleep under mosquito nets…but do they? Nope. They rinse their hands with water, and only sleep under nets after I begged them too. They know about malaria, and how it is transmitted, but it’s getting them to that next step…to actually change their behavior that is the biggest challenge.

But I don’t think that that is much different than anyone else I know. How many people do we all know that are lifetime smokers? They know it’s horrible for them but they continue to do it anyway? It’s really no different. And what about obesity? Everyone knows that it increases your risk for heart disease, diabetes, cancer, etc. And yet people still don’t exercise and eat horribly.

So yes it’s frustrating and there are some myths that are so counterproductive and preposterous that sometimes even I am baffled by them. But all I can do is try to find creative ways to talk about them.
Plant the seed and hope for the best.

Is the care of their infants built on folklore?

I guess I can use some examples of typical myths that mothers and grandmothers have regarding their children.

That if a child has diarrhea the last thing you want to give them is water.
That colostrum (the first milk) is not good for the baby so you should give them water instead.
If you have a cut a way to stop the bleeding is to put it in the sand.
That babies should be fed, water, butter, and other random food scraps during the first 6 months of life because breast milk is not enough.
The list goes on…

If so, how do you even begin to break those barriers?

Breaking those barriers? I wish I knew. My strategy is to ask lots of questions, be incredibly patient, and have many conversations. Oh, and repetition. I have to constantly ask breastfeeding moms about their children and what they feed them, but also to observe their behavior because they often lie about what they are doing. Luckily because I am an outsider and a Westerner and a health volunteer I can get away with bringing up weird subjects like breastfeeding and family planning. But there are days when it seems like I’ll never be able to change anyone’s mind.

I am really only touching the surface of addressing these questions, but I hope that it has been informative and given you all a glimpse into some cross-cultural comparisons.

Please keep the questions coming. Sometimes I have a hard time knowing what to talk about and what people want to hear about.

Thanks for reading and caring enough to ask!

soccer riot

2007-09-13T05:02:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, for the first time in this country I felt unsafe.

Nothing horrible happened, but the situation definitely had the potential to get out of control.

Driving back from the regional house after our regional health IST meeting, 6 other volunteers and I were driving in a 7-place (station wagon that holds 7 but should really be for about 5). We were an hour from our destination when we came upon a huge crowd of young boisterous men. Our driver slowed down and they surrounded our car. They were yelling and telling us to turn around. Then they started yelling at us and banging on our windows and pulling at the doors. The confusion of where and how to turn around plus the huge cloud of billowing black smoke (we still don’t know what they were burning) made our driver incredibly flustered and nervous. As he was deciding how to back out, people starting throwing things at the car.

Nothing broke and no one was hurt, but it shook us up a bit.

Our driver turned off the road and we took a minor detour through the sand and grass to double-back and find a way around the village. Luckily, a local kid said he knew how to get around the mess. He jumped in the car and directed us for about 1K across sand dunes and grass, dodging bushes, divots, goats, cows, and huts. It was quite the adventure. The seven of us were bouncing along and a little wary of running into another crowd of angry youths, but we were mostly just excited about the story factor.

We found out that the reason for the riot was a cancelled soccer match! Two nearby villages were supposed to play a final game for the regional title but the match was called off.

I just don’t get it.

I guess people just have too much time on their hands? Too much time, and too much pent up frustration/testosterone.

But this phenomenon is not rare. Especially when it comes to soccer. Remember when the Brazilian goalkeeper was killed for failing to block a goal? Ridiculous.

Even when I was in Costa Rica and two rival teams, Saprisa and La Liga were playing a normal match, the fans pelted the losing team with food, bottles, and whatever they could get their hands on.

What is it about the sport that makes people so crazy?

I mean I love soccer as much as the next guy (okay, maybe not quite as much), but to inflict pain on another person, and to riot, and destroy property just because of a cancelled match seems totally over the top to me.

In any case, we took all the right steps and called our PC security officer who notified the gendarmes in the area. Two big cars full of them actually whizzed passed us on their way to break up the crowd. We assume they took care of it. But there is no real way to find out what happened.

At least now I know that the next time we come upon a roadblock of people and smoke it would be wise to stop a little sooner, and find an alternate route around BEFORE we drive straight into the mess huh?

No harm done. Lesson learned.
At least it makes a decent cocktail party story right?

The evolutionarily superior mosquito

2007-09-08T06:20:00.000-07:00

I have come to the conclusion that the mosquito is an evolutionarily superior being.

Superior to what? I’m not sure. But recently they have succeeded in making my life absolutely miserable.

“How are they superior?” you might ask. All they do is fly around, bite other creatures, suck their blood, and die. How sophisticated can they possibly be? All you need is a little deet, some screened in windows and doors and your interactions with them are almost non-existent.

While that might be the typical experience with them at home, that is certainly not my experience here in Senegal.

Have you ever really stopped to think about how powerful they are? I mean mosquitoes transmit the biggest killer of children in the world! They force us to develop new medicines, chemicals, and techniques to eradicate them and the diseases they bring. Sewage systems, DDT, screen doors, bug repellent, citronella candles, bug zappers, anti-itch creams, standing water removal, malaria prophylaxis, yellow fever vaccines… the list goes on.

I’m probably starting to sound a little crazy to most of you at home so let me explain why mosquitoes have recently become a top priority in my life.

Up north they are not anywhere near as bad as they are in other places, like down south, or even in Thies. But maybe that’s what makes these Northern mosquitoes more vicious, cunning, and brilliant? I don’t know. I do know however that because I sat outside at the transit house (on my way back from IST), for an hour in shorts with no bug repellent (stupid now I admit), I now have over 100 mosquito bites on my legs alone. 23 individual bites just on my left hand, and the list goes on. I truly look like a leper. I even took a picture of my legs and have posted it for your enjoyment/sympathy.

Maybe I am evolutionarily inferior. I mean, other volunteers did the same thing and only suffered a few very mild bites on their ankles. Why me? Granted I know that mosquitoes “like” me or whatever, and I made the poor decision to risk being outside without protection, but a month ago it would not have been a problem.

I think that I’ve been lured into a false sense of security living in the desert. I left for IST thinking, eh, there really aren’t a lot of mosquitoes up here. But after a month of rains and flooding it is like a totally different country. All of the sand is covered with bright green grass, the trees have leaves, and subsequently, the mosquitoes are out in full force.

Another example. Last night I set up my bed after dark. This is something I try to avoid because the mosquitoes are attracted to my headlamp and find their way into the net as I’m tying it up. After nodding off for a few hours, I awoke to that horrible whining sound they make as they dive-bomb your ears and face looking for an uncovered place to bite. Thinking that there were just a few stragglers and that I could easily get rid of them, I turned on my headlamp and began the dance. I managed to kill 4 or 5, staining the net and my hands with (what I assume was) my blood. Just to make sure I had gotten all of them I took a quick scan around the net to make sure. Nope. No chance. There were at least 6 just hanging out on the other side of the net…on the INSIDE of it mind you. I don’t get it? How did 10 or 12 of them get INTO my net? There are NO holes, the thing is permethrin treated! Shouldn’t it kill them off? Or repel them at least?

I’ve watched them around nets before. They will land on them and hop from spot to spot looking for an opening. And when you have to slip out to use the “facilities” you better watch out. That’s when then dive right in. And of course when you are actually sleeping you have to make sure that no part of your body is touching the net because that’s when they bite you right through the damn thing.

And they hide out in the places where you’re forced to be still and wait for their bites…aka. the “loo.” Middle of the night, usually with a lamp (which of course attracts them) maybe some standing water (so they’ve been breeding), and obviously, the 20 or so seconds of idle time as you do your business. That is when they attack. Needless to say most volunteers have complained about bites on their bums at one point or another. Not fun.

The thing about them in Senegal is that whereas at home you can usually tell when a mosquito is biting you, here that is just not the case at all. You can’t even FEEL them when they land on you let alone when they’re sucking your blood. The bites are smaller and more similar to fleabites, but if you START scratching…forget it. You might as well carve off your top layer of skin with your leatherman. You’re probably better off.

And that rule about dawn and dusk. Absolute rubbish. I see them and am bitten at all times of the day. They hide out in the shadows, in the shade, where of course WE are all hiding out as well because it’s still sweltering.

It is miraculous that I do not have malaria. After all, it only takes one bite right? Good thing I’m a PCV and have free access to anti-malarials at all times right?

So there you have it.

Senegalese mosquitoes: 123+
Caitlin: 0

You tell me who is the inferior species.
The jury is still out.

normalcy

2007-08-28T04:29:00.001-07:00

As someone who has traveled a lot and lived away from home for a long time I am used to being away from family and friends. I pride myself on being independent and not getting homesick. But there is something about being back with other volunteers and being in a city (Thies, and now Dakar) that makes me really miss home and friends and family. At site I’m so far removed from my previous reality that I’m not tempted by “normal” things. But being around other volunteers and being in a city with access to luxury, air conditioning, restaurants, going for coffee and delicious food makes me miss the normalcy and the comfort of home. Maybe not even home, but places that just aren’t as hard.

I met up with someone who was in Thies on a brief internship with a NGO. Talking to him about the Peace Corps experience and the way we PCVs live and the kinds of challenges and stories we all have, made me realize how exceptional this program really is. And how hard. It also made me incredibly proud of how much I’ve changed over these past months (almost six). I can tolerate so much more discomfort and frustration then I ever could before. Things just roll off my back much more easily than they used to. And I’m much more patient. Though that is not always consistent.

I have become totally jaded over some things, like going to the garage. The moment I walk into the garage I put my mean face on. I am ready to be harassed, to be grabbed at, swindled, lied to, and surrounded by people. So much so that today when we met a perfectly polite, nice, driver I was already so heated that it took me a few minutes to realize that he wasn’t trying to take us for all we’re worth. He was polite, helpful, and considerate. It was refreshing. Turns out that he was not Wolof. Unfortunately, the stereotype is that the Wolof men are aggressive and in my experience most times so far it’s true. I am not sure what it stems from, but my only real interactions with them are at the garage so that’s probably pretty unrepresentative.

So I’m heading back up to site later this week. Part of me is dreading it. The heat, the frustrations, the language barriers, the starting up of huge new projects etc.

But when I visualize coming home and having my little siblings and my family run into my arms to greet me…I wish I was already back…and that I had never left.

PC training

2007-08-15T13:27:00.000-07:00

Peace Corps.

It’s impressive as a whole, but some of the pieces are far from perfect.

As a PCV I am learning firsthand about the frustrations that come from working for a large, bureaucratic, governmental organization.

For one thing, there seems to be a lot of ‘wasted’ idle time. Particularly when it comes to training and PC policy. Many of our training sessions are repetitive and common sense based. It’s as if those planning the trainings don’t trust the initial PC selection process. As if somewhere along the line, someone decided that we needed to have basic trainings in subjects as fundamental as peer counseling techniques. I am hard-pressed to find one American college educated adult who has not had to help a peer through a difficult moment, addiction, or major loss, at some point in their lives. To spend several hours discussing how to be an active listener instead of giving us tangible teaching tools for working at our sites is a colossal waste of everyone’s time.

Talking amongst other volunteers, a lot of us feel like we are treated like children instead of as capable, educated adults. I’m not sure if this is because a lot of us are so young? In our stage, there is no one under 28. Because our training staff are all much older it is an easy trap to fall into. And to be fair, when we first arrived we were new to this culture, the languages, customs, and acceptable behaviours. In some ways we were infants in this environment. But after three months at site, having adjusted and figured things out for ourselves, it is endlessly frustrating to be thrust back into that same power dynamic.

It is also trying, after being largely independent for several months at site, to come back into a large group of other Americans and be back in a community where I do not speak the local language (Wolof). It is almost impossible for me to be thrown back in with 37 other young Americans and not feel homesick for those close friends and loved ones we have all left behind. In fact, one of the only times that I do get homesick is when I am surrounded by other volunteers. I think this is because it reminds me of the history and memories I have with friends at home. Not that we all haven’t bonded intensely over these past 5 months (5 months as of today!) but we are all still so new to each other.

Some of my most frustrating moments have arisen when I’ve been here at the PC training center, immersed in Pre-service and now In-service training. Training certainly has some positive aspects, but I am learning how difficult it is to create a cohesive and productive training curriculum, when the overarching theme of the Peace Corps is that “every volunteer’s experience is different.” Having heard this all through PST we thought we got it. But I don’t think we grasped the truth and wisdom of this statement until those first couple of weeks at site. Even in a country as tiny as Senegal, it is impossible to categorize and generalize the PCV experience. Perhaps this is one of the most appealing things about the Peace Corps?

More disturbingly from the administrative side though, are the accounts I have heard from my volunteer friends about their site placements. This is probably the most important factor in determining the success and endurance of a volunteer’s service. Truly it is. And there have been several instances where it has just gone horribly wrong.

I am so fortunate to have been placed in my town and with my family. I know that I am in the perfect site for my goals, and background. But the horror stories that some of my friends have told me just highlight the lack of communication between staff and administration, and between Senegal and Washington.

One such example was a friend of mine who lives up north nearby. She was put in the second largest site amongst the health volunteers, without speaking a WORD of French. While I admire her perseverance, it is absolutely absurd that PC would place a volunteer in a regional capital without any French, negligible health experience, and only rudimental Pulaar. Upon installation the staff member turned to her and said, “You speak French right?” Ridiculous that he didn’t know that already.

Meanwhile, another volunteer who speaks fairly decent French, and who desperately wanted to be in an urban setting and has more health experience, was placed in a tiny village nearby where she has struggled to find a niche for herself. The happy ending to this story is that both volunteers have settled in for the time being, and have carved out lives for themselves. But one can’t help but wonder if they would be more productive at each other’s sites? Such a needless and easily avoidable blunder. And the lack of awareness from the administrative side does nothing to instill confidence.

These kinds of placement inefficiencies are numerous.

Another female volunteer was placed down south in an extremely difficult site where she is barely holding on. Why? The volunteer that set up that site emphatically recommended that only a male volunteer be placed down there because of the abundance of leering men who are seasonal workers at the mines in the region. She was told that she was placed there as an exception because of her HIV expertise. When she mentioned this to a staff member intimately involved with the PC Senegal health program she was told that “oh no, don’t work on HIV/AIDS issues. You should be focusing on respiratory illnesses and diarrhea.” So then why was she put there?

I am so proud that she has made it this far after hearing about everything she has had to overcome.

I recognize that one of the fundamental principles of the PC experience is patience. Patience and flexibility. But there is a fine line between expecting volunteers to roll with the punches and sheer negligence. Unfortunately for some volunteers, the latter has overshadowed their placement.

I am learning that development work is full of inefficiencies, false starts, slow progress, and miscommunication. But the most important thing that the Peace Corps has going for it that so few other NGOs and development organizations do is that we are here. We are present in these communities for two years. We intimately get to know the people, the culture, and thus the potential success of particular projects.

I have heard of so many instances of NGOs giving mosquito nets to villages, only to discover that they should have given big ones because families all want to sleep all together and they cannot fit under a single bed net.

Or that a development organization will spend hundreds of dollars to build a well in some remote village because they noticed or were told that women must walk far to pull water. When the well is finished no one uses it because lo and behold, the women enjoyed walking and that was their only social time for the day.

These are the kind of wastes that can only be avoided when you have an agent in the community. A PCV who is constantly watching with his or her observation goggles and creative thinking cap on. Paying attention to every minute detail so as to bring the most sustainable projects to our communities that we can possibly muster.

For now I’m rolling with the punches, though my patience is being tested every day, especially back here in training.

Brunch

2007-08-12T10:28:00.000-07:00

Today has been the best day ever.

This morning, about 8 of us PCVs met up at one of the volunteer’s apartments who lives in Thies. She has an incredible place. A beautiful, breezy roof terrace, full kitchen, a real bedroom and a bathroom, the works. We spent the better half of the day cooking, sipping mimosas, dancing to music, dreading hair, laughing, and talking. It felt so normal, and so good to be so decadent and indulgent. And it really was.

We made vegan pancakes and smothered them with peanut butter, bananas, and chocolate spread and put them on a huge plate and sat around Senegalese style, eating with our hands. Then we moved on to the veggies, potatoes and egg course (all cooked over a gas tank mind you), and then feasted on fruit salad, yogurt, and topped it off with horchata.

But the part that was the most fun was realizing how easy it is to spoil ourselves now. I mean, eating pancakes and pb with your hands probably isn’t most people’s idea of a delicacy, but boy was it ever!

Then I went to a hotel pool for some sun and pool time and wireless internet. It started to rain so it’s cooling off. And then a few of us are meeting up for dinner in a bit.
Who ever said Peace Corps volunteers never get time off!

Back in Thies

2007-08-07T12:04:00.000-07:00

After only three short hours in Thies I had already eaten a hamburger and ice cream, drank a beer and an espresso, all while emailing on wireless internet at a café/restaurant in the center of downtown. Tremendous. It feels so wonderful to be “normal.”

Being here makes me remember how much I love living in cities, and how relaxing it is to be able to be anonymous and wander the streets and run errands without running into cousins and uncles, siblings, friends and colleagues. And how much I love being independent and not having to constantly report back to anyone about where I’m going or what I’m doing. Thies feels like what I expected Africa “should” feel like. It’s mildly humid, not too hot, breezy, green, lots of trees, and you can hear birds all the time.

It’s such a treat to see all of the volunteers I have been away from for 3 months. I didn’t realize how much I missed them until we were all back together. It’s like seeing long lost friends and family. Collectively the boys have probably lost about a person in weight. I think the most anyone has lost is 43 pounds. Some of them are looking pretty skeleton-like. Many of the girls have lost weight too. At least half of the group has already been to see the medical officers in Dakar already. Most for GI problems like amoebas, and others for various skin fungi, rashes, and side effects of anti-malarials. I feel fortunate that although I have been mildly ill at site a few times (most recently last week with a lovely 24 hour full body “purge”) nothing has been serious enough to warrant the trek to Dakar.

We all just can’t hang out together enough. Everyone has so many incredible stories already. Yesterday, in health technical training we went around and shared funny stories from site. I haven’t laughed so hard in a long time. It’s comforting to hear that everyone has had the same kind of awkward interactions and embarrassing misunderstandings. Today we each presented the health concerns of and activities within our communities. It’s informative and interesting to hear how varied the health problems are even within regions. It really is true that every volunteer’s experience is totally different. Speaking with the few other semi-urban health volunteers made me feel better about being so overwhelmed with how much there is to do at our sites.

I know that the next three weeks are just going to fly by. It’s a challenge to be back on a 6 day a week 7am to 6pm schedule, but we are all attacking IST with lots of energy and motivation to gain the necessary skills to get back to our sites and start implementing some great projects. We’re going to receive training specific to the needs of our sites. I want to learn some teaching tools for presenting health information to children, and women, and how to make things like Neem lotion (anti-mosquito) and present effective visual aids, how to access resources for women’s groups etc. The great thing about the training during IST is it’s all going to be concrete practical information that we can actually use back at site.

This weekend we have a trip to Dakar planned. The American Club is going to hold an exclusive party for all of us with a barbecue and we’ll spend the day by the pool and have a dance party in the evening. Sunday I plan on tracking down the Ethiopian restaurant in Dakar and having a feast. (Any of you sensing a theme to this entry yet? Aka. FOOD!)
Seeing my Thies family has been so great. It’s tough to balance spending time with them and getting in time with the other volunteers. But at least this time around I feel a lot less guilty for spending evenings out with the other PCVs. Family guilt is something that was pretty all consuming during PST for most of us. It was so great to see them though. The 4 sisters ran to greet me when I came home and my Baaba and Nene were just all smiles. It really did feel like I was coming home. Even the cockroaches were excited to see me!

I was impressed with how easy it felt to come back here. The first time we went to our host families in Thies it was totally overwhelming, and that was nothing compared to installation up at site in the Fouta. So coming back felt like no big deal at all. I caught myself thinking I was such a baby for being so nervous the first time around. But it’s all part of the adjustment process. And I’m proud of myself for being able to tolerate so much more after just 5 months.

Part of me feels a little schizophrenic being back here. As one of the other volunteers said, “how many lives can we lead at once?” She is absolutely right. I am a 24-year-old American named Cait Givens, but I am also Oumou Sall, a PCV at training in Thies, but also a Pulaar Fouta inhabitant volunteer named Binta Lam. It feels a little crazy to be juggling all three at once.

Here’s to a busy and productive three weeks!

And of course, to three full weeks worth of ice cream…

Elation

2007-07-29T13:27:00.001-07:00

Worrying that my most recent entries were downers, I decided that I wasn’t being representative of the full range of emotions I’ve been experiencing. Namely, that I hadn’t written enough about the happy moments that warm your heart. So not only am I going to upload lots of happy cute pictures of adorable children this week (Inshallah they go through), but I am also going to include this list of blissful moments.

To totally plagiarize…

Caitlin Givens’ Moments of Zen…

Walking back from the mayor’s office. 4 young girls (age 5ish) running full force at me yelling “Toubak! Toubak!” with huge grins on their faces. One of them ran straight into me and gave me a huge bear hug. It was so cute. I busted out laughing and smiled all the way home. Here she came barrelling towards me, a perfect stranger, and her little head only came up to my hips. Adorable.
When people emphatically correct me and tell me that “No, you speak Pulaar very well” when I apologize for only speaking a little bit. A little compliment goes a long way.
The day that my newest nephew (Albert age 18 months or so) recognized me and not only stopped being afraid of me, but spent hours playing with me.
My birthday. I spent it surrounded by new PCV friends who I’ve only known for a few months, who trekked out from their villages (no easy task) to spend time with me, just so that I could have a nice day. One of whom called for a circle of “Why We Love Caitlin.” Then each went around in turn and gave one reason why they love me. It’s hard to explain how important fellow PCV support is out here. We really do become eachother’s family.
Recognizing people from my town!
Prepping people in my town for my departure for IST and them all telling me how much they are going to miss me.
Finally feeling accepted by the matrons and sage-femmes at the health post.
Double trouble. My two little nephews toddling around our compound with their big bellies (not cuz they’re fat) hanging out, babbling in babyspeak, and herding our family’s goats. They are fearless and will just go right up to them and smack em if they aren’t going the right way.
A solid night’s sleep.
The 2 days when my alarm clock thermometer did not get above 100 degrees!
Successfully convincing my family that they NEED to sleep under mosquito nets.
Attending my quartier’s (neighborhood) winning soccer match. Everytime they scored a goal we all rushed the field and my sisters and their friends and neighbors danced and sang throughout the whole game.
The realization that I’m going to be able to eat ICE CREAM for 3 weeks when I’m in Thies for IST!
Finally tracking down the health supervisor in his office after months of unsuccessful attempts.
The sound of the robinet in the morning (the faucet). Because it means that the water is on.
It being cool enough at night to finally start sleeping in my room.
Haco nights! Yum!
Going to the post office and discovering that I have letters, packages, or postcards of any kind. (THANK YOU ALL!)
Not freaking out when I found a full chicken head and neck in my “yassa poulet.” (I did not eat it.)
Catching a whiff of something that smells good-soap, lotion, perfume, anything.
Eating as much all natural, not processed Senegalese peanut butter as I want. A half kilo is only 75 cents!
Doing laundry while jamming out to Whitney Houston’s Top 20 and singing at the top of my lungs.
Quiet moments talking with my yaaye when its just she and I and the littlest kids.
When my little 7 year old nephew and 10 year old niece came to my door the other day and held up a tiny slip of paper asking me what it said. My eyes fell on the words “erectile disfunction.” My sister Binta found some generic viagra in the house and was wondering what the pills did, but the instructions were written in English. Hilarious. Of course no one has admitted ownership of the meds!
The realization that I am really going to miss my family for the month that I am gone for IST in Thies. When I almost cried leaving my baby nephews I realized that this really is my home.
And finally…those moments when I’m walking around my town, or riding in a van and I think to myself “I’m doing it!” That I’m living my dream. I’m here, in West Africa, on my own, doing what I love, working for something I believe in, challenging myself every moment and not just surviving, but thoroughly enjoying almost every moment.

The Health Post

2007-07-29T13:10:00.000-07:00

The Health Post

Every Thursday is vaccination day at my town’s health post. It coincides with the weekly market so that everyone knows what day it is happening. This is very effective and I have been consistently impressed with the turnout. At my first vaccination day 64 women showed up to vaccinate their babies! Women come from all over the region, not just from my town. They come in from nearby villages, and towns nextdoor.

I have recently started attending the vaccination days, not to vaccinate any babies of course, but to hang out and speak with the women, to practice my Pulaar, and to have a chance to talk to them a bit about their health concerns (in my broken Pulaar). All the while I have my PCV observation goggles on. I take in every site, sound, concern, and emotion I can until my head is swimming with ideas and of course, frustrations and disappointments.

As I said, 64 women showed up several weeks ago. Most of them arrived between 8-9am. The last ones did not leave until 2pm. They waited to be seen for 6 hours, in the heat, with their infants. There are only 2 benches, which means there is room for about 4 women on each. The rest sprawl out on the cement floor and when that is full the others wait outside in the sand or on mats. When the power goes out, so does the running water and on this day, the power was out, so no one had any water to drink.

But despite all that, these women persevere. They pay the money to travel by cart or van, they brave the heat and the thirst, all to come and vaccinate their babies. I am always inspired by their drive. None of them speak any French which means that they have not been to school and I am consistently impressed that it is now common knowledge for babies to even be vaccinated in the first place.

All that aside, my days at the health post are exhausting. The first vaccination day I had my first run in with really sick, tiny, skinny, malnourished, swollen-bellied newborn babies who will most likely not even live to 3 months. This is just devastating every time. My first day I had to leave because I couldn’t hold back the tears. Even thinking about it now brings tears to my eyes.

I try to single out the mommies with the sickest looking babies and talk to them about why they are so tiny and what they can do to make them well. Because it’s not as if they do not notice. And I can see all the other women with healthier babies glancing knowingly at the tiny ones. I spoke with one woman about her baby and I asked her if she was breast feeding exclusively-no water, no butter, no oily coffee dipped bread, breast milk only. She nodded at me sheepishly and then later of course I saw her giving her newborn tap water out of a filthy sippy cup. Sigh.

It’s these kind of interactions that have motivated me to start weekly health talks at the health post on vaccination days. I have already cleared it with the head midwife and she was very encouraging. I mean, I will have a captive audience of bored, hopefully interested women. I know it will not be ideal, because it will still be hot and uncomfortable, but it is the perfect opportunity to take advantage of a captive and idle audience. I will be giving talks on breastfeeding, diarrhea, explaining the vaccination cards (because they are in French), the importance of pre-natal visits, tracking their babies weight, first aid, malaria, you name it. I am eager to start as soon as I come back from IST. I know that the women will be appreciative because they are always very receptive to me when I am there. They just cannot believe that there is a toubak at the health post who not only speaks some Pulaar, but who wants to do nothing else but sit around and talk to them and hold their babies, and laugh, and make them feel at ease. (I will admit that these days are very good for my own ego because the women always tell me how good my Pulaar is. Not true, but nice to hear. And of course I get to hold adorable drooling, giggling, babies all day. Heaven!) I even had one woman give me a bin bin a few weeks ago just for talking to her. I was touched.

From hanging around at these vaccination days I now understand first hand the complexity of the health problems in my town.

For one thing, the quality of care is almost absolutely zero. Women are literally afraid of the nurses and midwives there. And I entirely understand why. If they are late vaccinating their babies, they get yelled at; when they get injections there is no forewarning, the nurses just stab them gossiping with their friends all the while; if they don’t jump up and run to the vaccinating room the instant they are called the midwives roll their eyes and sigh as if they have somewhere else they are supposed to be; the babies are thrown around like pillows and vaccinated on a cold hard slab of metal; and don’t even get me started about the birthing room…

Perhaps that needs to be reserved for a whole other entry?
But ultimately, there is no privacy. There are 5 “beds” (wire structures with old foam pads) all in one room and the door is left open at all times so that when the health post is crowded women can come in and sit in there. So women who are in labor are always surrounded by strangers. The midwives might check on them every once in awhile, but ultimately they are left to their own devices until the very last minute. Most bring a family member who fetches them water and whatever they need, but if they can’t, they are totally alone in a crowded, filthy, hot room with no bathroom facilities, and no medical facilities. There are no ultrasound machines, or heart monitors, or medicine for pain. Nope, it’s pretty much just a room and as far as I can tell every woman is indiscriminantly given an IV drip of glucose.

So there is little incentive to even get to the health post in the first place. As a result many women choose to give birth at home. I spoke with one woman recently who told me that when she was in labor, she trekked to the health post at midnight, got ahold of the midwife who told her to go back home because it was too late at night, and the woman most likely would not need to be there until morning. On her walk back sure enough, the baby arrived and she gave birth right there in the sand. In the sand, with animal shit and urine, and tires, and trash, and rotting food. And the stories don’t end there. Every week I hear new ones, each more horrifying than the last.

And on the other end, the midwives get jaded and frustrated because they repeatedly see women doing exactly the things they tell them not to, like not exclusively breastfeeding until six months, or not coming to the vaccination days on time, or not coming for prenatal visits. So there are frustrations all around and no one seems to be working to retrain the health workers to be more compassionate, and the women are not receiving the necessary education to help keep their babies healthy.

I suppose this is where I come in, as a middle person, to transfer simple health knowledge and to live by example.

But I am going to start this work off right. Namely, by gathering data. I can access any records I want (health post, mayor’s office) so I am first going to accumulate statistics on the number of deaths of children under 2 in my town and then after two years I will actually have something to compare to. Granted it is not ideal because reporting is not required and there is plenty of room for error, but I think that concrete results are important and unfortunately they are difficult to come by and overlooked in a lot of grassroots development work.
I am ready to start helping mommies keep their babies alive, healthy, and giggling…one vaccination day at a time.

Atheist Man Hater

2007-07-29T13:04:00.000-07:00

I called my parents last week and the first thing I blurted out was
“My site is turning me into an atheist man-hater!”

I didn’t think it was possible, having grown up with atheist parents in a liberal town in Northern California, but I think that living here in a conservative, Pulaar, polygamous, Muslim, region of Northern Senegal, has actually made me less religious and turned me into more of a champion of all things women’s rights related. And I realize that addressing this topic in this public forum has the potential to get ugly, so let me qualify what I’m about to say. This entry is about my observations, and the frustrations I encounter as a development worker working, living, and trying to integrate into a culture wholly unlike my own. I am not passing judgment or criticizing. I mean only to share my experiences with you all at home.

I’ve been thinking about this entry for over a week now. Thinking about how to write it and how to dive into a topic that is so complex and sensitive. Because ultimately, religion ties into this, but this entry is mostly about a culture of male dominance and female subordination (in my opinion, partly due to religion and of course many other factors such as lack of education, unemployment etc.). And I decided that no matter what, I can only capture so much through writing and I might as well just dive in and try my best. I hope that you will all be patient with me as I ramble.

Here is how it started.

About 2 weeks ago I was invited to a conference on girls’ schooling. A dynamic and educated young woman I met while drinking tea at my counterpart’s house invited me. I quickly accepted the invitation and agreed to put on my best Senegalese outfit, headwrap and all. To boot, I was going to get a ride from my counterpart’s husband who has a car. So Sunday I went to my counterpart’s house to check on when we’d be leaving. I walk in and she’s lying on the floor resting at 10am and looks horrible. She’s about 7 months pregnant and she’s older and has been really tired and in a lot of pain lately. I tell her that she should spend the day napping and rest as much as possible and try to eat more frequently and stay hydrated etc.

She laughs/groans and says she has to prepare lunch. I look around. There are not one, not two, but 6…count them 6 able-bodied young strapping men LAYING around in their living room watching TV doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. And SHE gets up, nauseous, in pain, and spends the ENTIRE day preparing their food, cleaning up, and then preparing dinner. I almost went nuts. So being the assertive toubak I asked them all why they weren’t helping. “Men don’t cook,” was the response I got as they changed the channel on the TV. Brilliant.

So later that afternoon when I headed back to her house I was already annoyed and worked up about her feeling so badly and not having any help. I was all dressed up in my grande bou-bou, (Senegalese attire) wearing my headwrap, and my desperately uncomfortable hot, wrap skirt. I was sitting around waiting for my counterpart’s husband to get going (Senegalese time. At least an hour late) and I started talking to one of his guests. Now, I’ve met this man before and I knew that I was in for a conversation about polygamy and why I would never ever in his dreams be his second wife.

Maybe it would be better to write out the conversation. This isn’t ver batem but it is the best I can remember. (It was all in French. He doesn’t speak Pulaar).

“Caitlin, you still won’t accept polygamy in your life and be my second wife huh?”
“Nope. Never. Not a chance. Not even in your wildest dreams.”
“But why? Polygamy is good!”
“Yeah it’s good…for the men.”
“Right. So?”
“So? That’s entirely unequal. If men can have multiple wives, why can’t women have multiple husbands?”
(Hilarious outbursts of laughter from the men in the room).
“No Caitlin, that’s not right.”
“Why not?”
(Be prepared for this one…)
“Because it’s in men’s very nature to NEED to have sex with more than one woman. It’s our right ordained by Allah.”
Fact Check: Islam does NOT promote polygamy outright. It merely tolerates it. And limits it to 4 wives.
(Stunned silence from me).
“That’s ridiculous. I do not agree. Polygamy is merely legalized infidelity. In my opinion it should be one person for one partner. I will never be your second wife. Quit asking. I’m bored of this conversation. I get asked every day and the answer will always be no!”

Then the conversation dissolved into laughter (his) and I excused myself from the room. Normally these conversations are routine and I can bounce back from them, but I was already in NO mood to tolerate anymore patronizing “maleness.” It was hot, I was waiting to get to this conference and nervous about having to try and understand all of it, and I was just done defending myself. It becomes exhausting to talk about 10 times a day.

But some days, there is just no rest for the weary PCV.

I went outside hoping to find some comfort in the younger brother who I often talk to because he is extremely patient with me and always wants to talk about America and asks lots of questions and helps me with my Pulaar.

Unfortunately, he was the straw that broke my back…

We started talking about the conference, and that it was promoting the importance of girls schooling. He asked me why it wasn’t about boys schooling too, and brought up the scholarship program that the PC offers to girls of middle school age, but not to boys. So I told him about the statistics, about how many girls drop out after middle school because they are given a husband by their parents. How there are many more boys in high school than girls and this conference and the scholarship program were designed to encourage people to let their daughters and wives continue their schooling.

He chuckled and I knew I was in for a tiring debate. (This time in Pulaar and French).

“But girls don’t need to go to high school.”
“What? Of course they do? Why would you say that? Boys and girls are equal.”
“WHAT? No they are not. Boys and girls are not equal.”
“What are you saying? Seriously? So then what you’re saying is boys are better. They deserve an education. Is that what you mean?”
(Nervous laughter on his part.)
“All I’m saying is that they are not equal. I won’t say who is better. Besides, girls don’t need to go to school because they get husbands and they work in the house. They don’t need to be educated.”
“That’s ridiculous. I definitely don’t agree. Besides, the more education a woman receives the higher chance of survival of her children. Don’t you want your children to survive?”
“That is up to Allah. Besides, girls need to be married early.”
“Early? But here it happens as early as 13! Another volunteer’s brother (age 25) just married an 11-year-old last week! Is that okay?”
“Of course.”
“But she’s just a child. She probably can’t even conceive yet. Ask ANY teenage girl. None of them want to be married yet. When I went around and did my scholarship interviews I did not meet a single girl who wanted to leave school and be married off to some man twice her age and leave her family. That is no future.”
“No. Early marriage is good.”
“Right, for the old men that are marrying them.”
“Yeah it’s good for the men. For us. (Chuckles). But Caitlin, Caitlin…early marriage is good because if they don’t get married they will start running out at night and having sex. You watch…they all do it.”
“At 13? That’s ridiculous. I have 3 teenage sisters in my house right now. And you know them, and you know that they aren’t doing that. They don’t even have time to study let alone have boyfriends because they’re working in the house all day long.”
“No Caitlin. You watch and see. I am going to marry a young wife. I want 3.”
“But imagine if you were a 13 year old girl, going to school, living with your family, enjoying time with your friends and one day your father comes home and gives you a husband. You’re pulled out of school, you’re dressed up and married off and terrified of the wedding night. You have to leave your friends and everyone you know, and live with his family and spend the rest of your life in the house, cooking, cleaning, and caring for children. I mean why do you think so many young girls sit and sob with their groups of friends on their wedding days? Would YOU want that fate?”
“Of course not. But it’s good for them. And I would because I would have to.”

You get the point. It’s not really worth continuing because it just gets me riled up. The conversation ended when I told him point blank that I did not agree. I think I actually stamped my foot and turned my back to him to avoid punching him in the face. And I know. I know that this is not being culturally sensitive, or accepting of his opinion, and his upbringing…but damnit I can’t always be on my best behavior. And sometimes silence is more harmful in the long run. I’d rather risk being rude and have a shot at making him think about what he’s saying. It was just that suddenly, the reality of the kind of centuries of ingrained teachings I am up against loomed in front of me and within seconds I was fighting off tears of frustration and desperation.

This whole thing was so devastating. Not just because of what he said, but also because it came from someone who I enjoy talking with and who I looked forward to sharing experiences with. It was so disappointing.

Thankfully we headed to the conference. My counterpart’s husband, his friend, and myself. Of course they were joking the whole way that the three of us were going to spend the night there and that I was going to have to sleep in the middle of them. Gross. And patronizing. And the joke is old and was never funny in the first place.

The Conference.

As I said, no rest for the weary.

Upon arrival men and women are separated and seated on opposite sides of the compound. In the middle sat a bunch of men on huge cushy couches and were served ice water and tea. They were marabous and Imams mostly. The women meanwhile are sitting in plastic chairs and must share a few sachets of water between themselves and the babies they all have on their backs and in their laps.

Within five minutes I realize that the whole conference is going to take place in Wolof, so I won’t understand a single thing. And it’s not exactly about GIRLS schooling. It’s about the role of Islam and schooling.

3 hours later. I am bored almost to tears. Only ONE woman has spoken the entire night and only to briefly explain her role in organizing this event and that she wants to see more girls kept in school.

On the way home my counterpart’s husband briefly summarized the event (and only after I pestered him). Basically the Grand Marabou talked the entire time. His point was that Koranic schooling should come first. He did not speak a word about keeping girls in school.

Koranic school? Are you kidding me? I want those 3 hours of my life back. I just couldn’t believe it.

I mean, what kind of skills do these kids get from going to Koranic school? Young boys are sent away by their parents during some of the most fragile years of their life (6-10) to sit all day long, filthy, hungry, exhausted, reciting the Koran, and begging for food. I just can’t wrap my head around this idea. I mean what skills do these kids leave with? None. What prospects do they have for employment? Zero. Senegal can’t have thousands of marabous, or Koranic scholars. And they can’t go back to normal school after they’re finished if they’re over 10 years old because they’re not allowed in after 10.

This just baffles my mind. My counterpart for example, chose to put her eldest son in Koranic school instead of regular school. When I asked her what he was going to do afterwards for work, like maybe be an Imam, or a marabou, or teach the Koran, or continue his studies at University, she sort of laughed and said “Oh no. He’ll move to France and work and find a French wife.” Great.

Not to say that everyone has to have schooling to be productive and have successful careers, but we all know it makes it that much more possible. The sort of unreal expectations and the lack of planning and the total absence of logic all for the sake of studying the Koran…I just cannot relate to. And I don’t even know where or how to start.

But maybe I don’t have to relate.

And I’m not here to change anyone’s beliefs or pass judgment on his or her decisions. That’s not what I’m getting at. My intellectual challenge is to find ways to transfer the knowledge and skills that my community asks me for, despite these enormous obstacles I have laid out in this entry. As I said at the beginning, my frustration comes from trying to work through and with these ideas, some of which are entirely contradictory to the work I have been asked to do and see tremendous need for.

If you’re still reading, thanks for your patience and understanding as I grapple with how to sort through of all of my emotions and thoughts from that day. (Remember, that was all just one day). I hope that I have at least made all of you think!

Finding the silver lining. (Because that’s what I do best).

Through it all, even at my lowest moment of the day, even though I was so discouraged, I still didn’t want to leave. Yes, I was overwhelmed and wondering how in the world I was going to be able to affect change. But I am in no way, shape or form going to call it quits. I have made a commitment and I am in this for the long haul.

Wish me luck!