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.

'Merica

I recently returned to village from a two week glorious feast of America's finest. I saw my wonderful friends and family, traffic that moves with laws and stops at lights not flocks of goats, and the gluttony of our food warehouses called grocery stores.

Saying goodbye to America was tearful; making the conscience decision to trade in heated, running water for bucket baths and my western throne for the squatter took more than a few deep breaths.

My shower is on the left. My toilet on the right.

I brought back to Senegal ten newly acquired pounds, jars of peanut butter and gifts for the village. Thank you to everyone that gave bags of goodies. My village is over the moon with their shinny new jewelry and toys. Barkedji is also very in support of finding a cure to breast cancer (thanks Donna); the bright pink key chains have become a status good.

Bubbles from the wedding are a HUGE hit with kids and adults alike!

This is my "grandma" wearing her new jewelry and huge smile.

My little sister sporting her new, fun glasses.

While at home a common question was 'what kind of work are you doing?'. A simple question that turns out is incredibly difficult to answer. I usually responded with 'I plant some trees and vaccinate some babies' which is what I do, but it doesn't begin to really explain what we do a Peace Corps volunteers. I recently had my Action Plan actualization meeting. I gathered my potential work partners and respected community members to discuss my long term work plans. Gardens, tree planting, hand washing and girls education are some of the main bullets on my plan. The meeting was helpful for the check list oriented, time frame American in me. It also helped to clear up that my purpose in the village is not to vomit money.

After the meeting looking at my tangible work goals I felt a sense of validation. Some days that I spend laying around on a mat in a pool of my own sweat I wonder if I am actually doing any good here. Having a tangible set of projects, with the community's blessing, went alone way to reassure me. Then my Seneglese mom rocked my perspective.

She told me that while I was in American my little brother came up to her and said, "Mom, today Fama (my local name) has been gone for one week. So, she will come back in one more week, right?" Wow.

I want to change my answer to the 'what have you been working on' question. I have been building a home and making friends worlds away from what I know.

This is my mom with her new grandson.

I am in Love.

Say 'ello to my little friend. Isn't she perfection?

I rescued her from some horrid children who thought it was okay to play football with her. After falling in love with her I introduced her to the family. They, like the majority of Senegalese people, were not so keen on the idea of my new adpotion. In fact, I learned that April, the volunteer before me, kept a dog for a few weeks. Until one day the family took the dog to the field. It never returned...I was bound to protect my new best friend.

I brought the pup to our Regional House in Linguere as a replacement for the dog that had run away. Again, people really dislike dogs here. In order to get a spot on the car I put the dog in my shirt and told the driver it was my baby. Things got a smidge odd when she started barking at the chickens that were also riding along.

I named her Helen Keller, clearly. At first I thought it was because she was both blind and deaf, turns out she's just dumb. If only Annie Sullivan were around to train her, my life smells of dog urine. I'm not sure if that's a step up or down from the usual ode de goat poop.

Rama-Don't get it.

I have reached the half way point in Ramadan, alhamdulillah (Arabic phrase meaning "Praise God" that can and should be used in any and all situations)

I decided at the beginning of Ramadan that I wanted to try and observe the fast for the experience of it and solidarity reasons. I figured Ramadan was just a buffed up version of Lent, of which I have had many years of training, and over a million people around the world are doing it. How hard could it be?

Here's the one unambiguous rule:

No eating or DRINKING while the sun is up.

I ignore the no drinking water. I tried it for a day and vetoed living in the desert with dehydration hallucinations for a month. So, I started by only half observing the fast. Still, food is the cornerstone to my positive, approachable personality. If I am late for a meal I get a little cranky. So, going from sun up to sun down with our eating is intense.

The routine of the day begins with the call of the mosque at around 4:30 am, signaling the women to wake up and start preparing the morning porridge. The next call is around 5:30, telling everyone to wake up and eat the milk and cous-cous porridge. Then the final morning call around sunrise, to make sure you've finished eating for the day. After a short crawl out of bed to sleepily stuff porridge in my face, I go back to bed until a more respectable hour like 8.

The morning is "productive" time. The heat doesn't make you want to weep pure salt tears yet and you have a little energy from your early morning porridge. So, this is when chores are done, laundry by hand, sweeping the sand courtyard, filling the water pots for the children to drink, going to market, and gardening.

My garden is awesome, by the way. I extend a challenge to anyone interested in "La Guerre de Jardin". Your improved variety seeded garden vs my desert miracle. I secretly ate the most delicious, breaking Ramadan, self grown watermelon in my bathroom. If only my spinach and carrots would sprout...

Around noon life stops. It's to hot to do anything and the early morning porridge calories are gone. Now it's time to sprawl around in the shade. Suggested activities include napping, watching leaves, talking about how hot it is, talking about how hungry you are. I have done lots of Ramadan reading. One of main topics of conversation in the village is the difficulty of fasting. I have gotten mad street credit for my fasting.

Around 6 the women start to prepare the break fast and dinner. The mosque calls around 7:30 to signal that we can break the fast. Breaking fast is deliciously patron. I pack my gurggling stomach with cold water, bissap juice, dates, coffee, yogurt and bread with a different daily spread. It is a break fast feast.

Everyone that fasted heads to the mosque, leaving me and the children (kids, nursing mothers, sick and elderly aren't required to fast) to do yoga. The family returns and we eat a giant delicious dinner around 10:30. Immediately after which I pass out, half food coma half sleepies.

It's an odd feast-famine cycle that has made me gorge myself both in the morning and at night, both cases followed by sleep. The time in between is filled my very minimal activity. Very odd existence.

Confessional

Last Thursday I found the one Catholic in my village. I now go to his house everyday for lunch, Hallelujah. RamaDONE.

rAMAZadan!!!

Special thanks go out to the fabulous Eva and Ellen, young girls from the missionary family living in Linguere, for my wonderful mail. It truly brightened my life!!