25th Birthday

Epic. There is no other way to describe the events that manifested themselves on April 2nd 2011. Epic.

I had originally planned to spend my 25th birthday in the same fashion I celebrated Christmas, alone in my hut with a bottle of vodka and some lukewarm soda. Birthdays are no big deal here, most people have no idea how old they are. So, throwing myself a village birthday party didn't seem appealing. Also, we had just gotten back from an amazing, but rather expensive, birthday blowout in Dakar for one of my volunteer friends. So, I was content to embrase my quarter of a century with a night cap or two.

I went to the health post the morning the day of to help with the vaccination campaign. You better believe it was a stroke to my ego, my narcissistic brain was running with thoughts like 'what an amazing person to give their birthday to vaccinating babies against polio' etc. After sitting around at the health post for an hour or so the doctor announces that we don't have any of the vaccinations to do the scheduled tourney. Typical. When planning a vaccination campaign I could see how ensuring that the vaccinations are available could easily be overlooked.

So, rather than heading to the bush to help babies, the car heads to the regional capital to pick up the vaccinations. The ride to Linguere is just long enough for my altruistic, but rather self-serving, mindset to change into 'eff this, I want a cold beer on my birthday'. So I get out of the car and head to our regional house.

I walk in the door and my friend Abby slaps we with a sashet of wine and yells 'you got sacked'. It's 10am. So, begins the day that can never be adequately described or ever surpassed.

I head to the closed post office and sweet talk my way into picking up an amazing birthday package courtesy of Mike and Robin. After I squealed at it contents and blew up the balloons, I thought the day couldn't get any better.

Friendship test: What would be my favorite birthday gift?
Answer: a CAMEL.
I walk outside to find my friend Justin sitting proudly atop an ugly, snorting camel. BirFday Camel! My friends had walked into a shop in Linguere owned by people from Mauritania, Nars, and said 'got any camels for riding?'

I excitedly scurry up the snorting camel to sit atop, happily waving my limp birthday balloon. Now, we, the volunteers in the region, are natural spectacles. We can't go to the market without making a baby cry or cause old women to gather round in awe of the pale face speaking their native tongue. So, please just imagine the jaw dropping, head turning scene that results when a toubap, word for white person, is riding a camel down the city's main drag. epic.

The tale gets spicier. As the Nar guides the camel back towards our house, my friend goes to pay him their previously agreed upon price. He freaks out and demands an outlandish fee for having let extra people ride the camel. He yanks the mouth foaming camel by the nose ring and starts sprinting away declaring that he will not let me down until he is paid in full.

Again please take a moment to fully appreciate this scene:
An angry Nar is yelling that he got ripped off while he is dragging his snorting camel down the streets of Linguere. A group of concerned white people are chasing after him making justifications and pleas in a slew of local languages. And as always in Senegal, there is a pack of children following, chanting their newly learned phrase 'BirFday Camel'. All the while, I sit atop the camel swinging my birthday balloon at the end of a loose string, giggling and leading the chorus of chanting children. Epic.

We pass what would be the equivalent of a local police station and my friend threatens the Nar with going inside and getting the authorities involved. He calls her bluff and she is forced to go into the police station. She goes inside and announces 'my friend is stuck on a camel'. Epic.

After a long, very theatrical debate involving fake tears and a mix of English, French, Pulaar, and Wolof we leave the station with one angry Nar and one hell of a story. Epic.

A year in review

Situation: little boy wakes up cranky and doesn't want to go to school. What to do? Answer: Pick his ass up and port him kicking and screaming all the way to the school. Greeting neighbors along the way, clearly.

Before I begin my windy, frequently misspelled and incorrectly punctuated rambles, I want to thank everyone that donated to the Barkedji Sud water and bathroom project. Your contribution will have an important and immediate impact on the community. You have changed lives. Thank you. Your mailed notes should arrive in 5 to 6 business weeks.

The project is well under way. We already received the funding and purchased all the materials. Our team consists of the amazing director of the school, myself, and about 10 parent volunteers (some of whom are very happy to contribute, others I shamed into volunteering. "It's for the CHILDREN"). Last Sunday we dug the 100 meter trench to bring water to the school, laid the piping and installed the water faucet! My hands and back were rather sore, but my heart was exploding. Thank you for making this project a reality. This Sunday we are digging the GIANT poop hole for the bathrooms. I hope to personally christen the bathroom by my April 2nd birthday. (please note that subtle plug to remember my 25th birthday)

In other news, today I have been in country for one year! There are times when strings of Wolof or Pulaar phrases go right over my wide-eyed uncomprehending face, when the culture feels both smothering and so distant, when I am exhausted from refusing obnoxious marriage proposals, when I spend an entire afternoon laying sweating on my neighbor's mat, that I wonder if my presence here is doing anything. I mentioned this to a fellow volunteer which began a beautifully reflective conversation about our year in Senegal.

In a year's time I have learned a new language. I can explain technical processes, teach new skills, make jokes, bargain like a pro at the market and sing in a language that I didn't even know existed before I came to Senegal.

I have mastered the shear chaos that is Senegalese transportation, from the creeps that lurk at the garage to cramming my huge frame into unimaginably small spaces. I have traveled North on a bush road sitting on top of a truck packed 5ft higher than its cab; gone South in a smoking 7 place through a rain storm; come from the East through the bush on my bike; and gorged in the delicious treats of the West.

I have integrated into a foreign culture. Meaning I no longer notice the constant intestinal pains and explosions, I have danced at more baptisms than I can count and have a baby named after me, carried water on my head, driven a donkey cart, learned to cook for 20 people using one pot on an open fire, lived through the month long Ramadan fast, and know that when someone tells me an event begins at 4pm by showing up at 5:30 I am on time.

I have started gardens, weighed babies, painted murals, planted trees and ideas. Behavior change is a constant campaign that makes up a lot of Peace Corps service. The level of energy input is exhausting and usually the results are non-existent or non-apparent. However, I have a star that is beginning to glimmer. I decided early in my service that rather than purchasing a personal spoon I, like all the women and children, would eat with my hand. By doing so, I have a wider platform for my "wash your hands with soap" assault. It started with a lil jingle I made up, "we need to wash our hands with soap" repeated over and over and over. Then it spread to changing classic games like tag into examples of how sickness can spread if we don't wash our hands with soap. Next was using household items to MacGyver hand washing stations. I am like a constant buzz slowly breaking people down. It's beautiful. My budding star: My four year old sister calls me to wash my hands with soap before we begin every meal. GREAT SUCCESS.


Daily moment of Zen. This is our flat screen TV.

Make the right decision.

http://appropriateprojects.com/node/540

seneBRATION

When astrological bodies collide, the explosion is catastrophic. When my Senegalese world collided with my American world, it was seamless, save one traumatic experience with a dish called sake sake. Brother Aaron and girlfriend/fiancée/wife Sadie, whose status changed depending on my mood and energy level needed to explain their relationship in culturally sensitive terms, came to visit me!

They came for a short visit; nine days in Senegal never went so fast. I am overwhelmed with the fact that they would take the time and money to come see me in my village, where they can speak to no one, understand nothing, and let’s face it, there’s no tourist draw in Barkedji, Senegal.

I had an amazing time. Plus I am over the burning desert sun that people from my real life came and got a small taste of my current daily life. Note the prime transportation they rode for 6 hours without complaint. My family is awesome.

Among many beautiful moments I have a few that stand out. Mom always makes welcome signs when I come home. So, I had the kids make a welcome sign for Aaron and Sadie. Aaron and Sadie made a big impact with the kids. They played games, baseball and the typical pick-up-kids-and-swing-them-around game.

The only negative of the trip I would say was an unfortunate lunch order; Sake-sake is apparently code for plate of stinky death. Oh, and maybe a poorly told ghost story about sleepy plane passengers (good one Aaron).

I truly love my family; and not just because they put peanut butter and liquor in their bags when they visit me. I hope my impact here is great enough to rationalize how much I miss my family.

Here is a photo of my girls group slash English club at on of the primary schools. We meet once a week and it fills my soul every time.
This is a picture of my name sake, Fama. In Senegalese culture babies are named after someone as a sign of respect. If a baby is named after you, your "turrando" in Wolof, you become kind of a god parent to the child. This is my name sake, Fama. How awesome is that?! I haven't even been here a year and I have a "turrando"! I was so touched at the baptism when they announced her name. I will be spoiling this baby with lots of frilly dresses and tasty treats.

Lastly, a lil ditty about my recent biking resume. I safely returned to my village yesterday morning after an epic journey. Two and a half days to cover 200 kilometers of bush road on a bike. We rode through some of the prettiest and the thorniest country. We rode sweating under the burning sun and exhausted under the bright moon. We rode on abandoned roads of gravel and walked through patches of deep sand.

It was unbelievable to see the villages tucked deep into the bush. I thought I was “roughing it” living in Barkedji, but compared to the bush villages, I live like a queen. In one of the villages that we stopped in to get water, the women were pulling from a well so deep that they had to run donkeys out. It blew me away that in our ever-globalizing world, characterized by commodities and convenience, there are still places where the huts are made of straw and the children have never seen a book, let alone a white person.

sweet nectar of life.

My current MO is "I do what I want". I was sitting in a botique talking with one of my friends when the man that works with my village watertower walked in. I proceed to demand why he has not invited me to climb the water tower yet.
I regularly demand outlandish things. One, it helps my psychological health. This culture is what I call a "give me" culture. It's not considered rude to say something like "That's a pretty bag. Give it to me."; or if you come home with a pack of cookies all of the children will swarm with hands out stretched saying "give me". It is exhausting. I combat it by regularly demanding that people give me ridiculous things like cows, herds of goats, and I've been known to walk away with a baby or two. Next, I get some fun experiences out of asking for wierd stuff. Enter the water tower.
After I shamed him into not inviting me to climb the water tower, he said let's go right now. Um okay! I scramble up the inside of the 100meter owl infested tower and sit on the top to see miles around my little village. It was awesome!

Keeping with the water theme let's flow right into my next point. I've always known that water is life giving miracle juice, but living in Satan's asshole has burnt the reality of just how precious water truly is to existence. My village ran out of water for two days and life was miserable. No water means no showering, minimal drinking, no watering garden, restricted washing of hands and butts (remember no toilet paper), and no washing dishes.

I know the exact amount of water I use every day.
1 bucket for shower with hair washing
1/2 a bucket for drinking/ teeth brushing
1/2 a bucket for "toilet paper"
4 watering cans for my garden
2 buckets of water to cook lunch for my family of 20
1 bucket for washing all dishes

While I dream of the day when I can again stand under running water showers, I want to remember how precious water is and continue to be aware of my water use.

Birds taste better

I recently headed to the North for Thanksgiving celebration with some of the other Senegal volunteers. It was a beautiful celebration; and since we slaughtered our own dinner, made headdresses, and shared weird parasites with one another, it was probably as close as I can get to the original Thanksgiving.

Just traveling up to the Futa (northern region) was an adventure. My friend Emily, living in a neighboring village, amazingly set up what we thought would be smooth travels through the bush. Her dad, we'll call him Fat Cat to protect his identity and let you in on his character type, regularly makes the trip from her village to the Futa to transport goods between markets. He assured us that he would take us from her village to our desired destination in the Futa. Done. Let's go.

Well...we end up waiting in the village for Fat Cat until around 11. I live in Senegal, my life is waiting. No big deal. We, myself and five volunteers, climb into the back of a pickup truck and form a giant spoon pile. Compared to usual travel in Senegal, this is pretty high roller. No urinating goats, crying babies, or stinky Pulaar milk, just the 6 of us and one overwhelmed Senegalese guy starring at the amazing stars as we cruse through the bush. Perfection.

We pull into a random Pulaar village, Irai, around 3:30am. At which point Fat Cat says, "Get out. We spend the night here." Without questioning we pile out of the car and plop down onto dirty pieces of foam spread over the floor in a woman's bedroom. We nap for three hours then Fat Cat informs us that this is where he is leaving us. WHAT?! Oh, and he wants more money for our "tickets".

I have no effing idea where we are and I can count the number of Pulaar words I know on my fingers. Not okay. Fat Cat assures us that there is a car that goes from here to another random village, then from that village to where we intended on going. This wouldn't be terrible, but in Senegal "ci kanom" (in a bit) can mean anything from 5 minutes to the next rainy season, usually closer to the latter.

A packed truck and a rocking bus ride later we make it safely to our destination!

The Thanksgiving feast was beautiful, alas we were without a deep fried Turducken. We ate mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing, pies and killed 5 chickens and 2 turkeys. The process of slaughtering, de-feathering, cleaning, and cooking a bird was intense. The delicious convenience of genetically modified, giant breasted, frozen Butterball turkeys has my gratitude.

Post Turkey day the trip home was even more ridiculous. We were instructed by Fat Cat that we needed to meet him in the village he abandoned us in at afternoon sharp. We climb in the back of a crowded truck to begin our trip. Every bush village we pass adds people. Not to mention, the further into the bush we get the amount of luggage per person exponentially increases. I now have a bucket engulfed by my ass, cutting off the circulation to my legs that are woven around a sack of rice and three laundry buckets. A nine year old child is on my lap.

The driver ends up trying to screw over the white kids. The pass is 1000cfa, the white kids are told to pay 1500cfa. Our local language skills, sharp eye and constant vigilance bring this to our attention. Options are: pay the extra dollar, throw a fit and make a scene about equality and racism, obviously name dropping Rosa Parks for the irony.

I chose the lesser traveled third path. I did a little dance number. Looked kind of like a line dancing chicken. Works every time. I walked away without paying a cent.

We meet up with Fat Cat to find giant sacks piled three feet higher than the top of the cab. Goats are in bags tide to the back and approximately forty chickens are hanging tied upside down along the sides. Nice. We scramble up the steep grade, barely able to stay seated while the car is parked, only imaging the ninja like skill required to not fly off once we are hurtling down the bush roads or ducking to avoid a thorny branch in the face. Oh and Fat Cat wants more money for the inconvenience of letting us scramble up the side of his over packed car.

We crash into one bush village and the men on top with us start screaming ndyiam and ndox, meaning water. Next thing I see women are scrambling around their compounds to bring their plastic drums full of water. The first thing I think of is how far they had to go to fetch that water and how precious it is. The second thing was what kind of new parasite I am going to get. As I am half way through drinking this water, the car lurches forward again. The man beside me tears the cup from my mouth and flings it back in the direction of the village. I am thirsty, shocked and once again brought to the hysterical giggling of never truly understanding this weird place.

Amidst the potentially drama filled moments where I could have easily gotten mad, I found myself laughing. I was safe, I mean 'ish', and in good health. In the scheme of things what really else matters? No sense in getting mad; it doesn't change anything. I am learning more and more the uselessness and even harmfulness of frustration and anger. I am far from a zen master, but I have a feeling when I re-enter the world of everything, America, not much will be able to "get my goat" (Thank the lord that "goat" will be figurative. Goats are currently the bane of my existence.)

Thank you Emily for the beautiful photos!

Old Meat.

I have experienced the equation for world peace.

One of the volunteers in my region recently had her 25th birthday. We hosted a dinner party at our house and invited the Missionary family and the JICA volunteers (Japanese peace corps type). Picture this: Japanese and Americans laughing over a plate of Italian food speaking in their only common language (Wolof) in Senegal. World Peace.

Last Wednesday we celebated the Islamic holiday, Tabaski. The day commorates Abraham's sacraficial offering of a lamb in place of his son Issac. I was told for weeks leading up to the holiday how great the day is, every house kills a sheep and eats all day. I figured it would be something like Thanksgiving. Nope.

I am all for eating of tastey animals. Seeing the slaughter process doesn't make me queasey; in fact, I think since I eat meat I should know how it gets to my plate (of communal bowl). However, I was not ready for the massive bloodshed of Tabaski. My family compound killed 2 sheep, we had a lot of meat. My neighbors slaughtered SEVEN!! I went on a run after Tabaski and found piles of sheep innards decorating the bush. We ate the leftovers for three days after the slaugher. By the third day the meat had the tender, burn-by-the-sun, aged flavor. I quite enjoyed it.

I had a "this is Peace Corps" moment. Yesterday, I was riding the 35K into Linguere. About 10K out of Linguere my tire blows out. So, I toss my bike on my back and start walking. Peace Corps.