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!
Monday, March 17, 2008
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Senegalese medical "care"
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?
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?
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
the grocery store
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.
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
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!
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!
Monday, February 11, 2008
Shameless Plug
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!
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!
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Radio Show
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
An Old Friend
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.
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.
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