Friends

A few nights ago, after accompanying Victoria to her host house, I walked the twenty minutes back on the route nationale with two Senegalese friends. While it was dark, it was only about eight thirty and we could see by the car lights streaming past us. Randomly, a shiny new truck pulled off the road. A middle aged white man, cigarette in hand, leaned out the window and called to us. We walked over and my friend whose French is the best out of the three of us stepped forward. He quickly indicated, however, that he wanted to speak with me. He told me he had seen me on the road before and wanted to make my acquaintance. Not wanting to be rude but feeling like this very forward man was being inappropriate and knowing that it would probably not be a good idea, I quickly searched for a way to kindly get rid of him. Before I could say anything my friend was already giving him my number. At that point there was nothing I could do but stand there. As I was walking away quickly as possible I realized my friend was still talking to him. A few minutes later she came running up clutching 4,000 CFA he had just given her.

When we returned to the house my two friends recounted the whole event to another friend as if we were freshmen in high school and I had just been asked to homecoming. The next day the usual “nanga deff” was replaced with “did he call?” He had but I decided not to answer. This news was met with shocked faces and exclamations of “why not!?” I tried to explain my reasoning to them but from the beginning I knew it would be difficult for them to understand since relationships are different in Senegal. Many women marry in their late teens and early twenties, often to men much older than them who already have money to support a family. In addition, Senegalese women tend to be open and flirtatious, so one of the most challenging things for many of my friends here to understand is that when I say I don’t want a boyfriend I mean it. Somewhere in the middle of all of this I realized that if any of my friends in the U.S had given my number to a complete stranger I would have been mad at them and thought they were crazy. But here, the culture and relationships between men and women are just different. Read more…

Five blogs in one: apprenticeship updates

Last Saturday, the 15th of January, marked the halfway point of our seven-month stay in Senegal. Three and a half months down, three and a half to go. I find it hard to believe that we are already on the downward slope, when so many things are only just beginning.

In my apprenticeship at l’Ecole Sebiroute for example, I have suddenly found myself launched into a whole new array of exciting activities: introducing students to the computer lab and the library, starting an english club at the high school, and sitting in on women’s alphabetization classes (see previous blog…). I feel as though my first two months here were but a gradual preparation for being able to do what I do today; and I feel as though I’ve had to travel miles to get to this point of actually starting to work. Its like when you’re hiking in Maine and for the first good portion of the journey you’re under tree cover and you can’t be entirely sure of where you are or where you’re headed, or if you’ll ever break through. And then suddenly you break through the tree line and you can see all around you, and ahead of you – the fruits of your current and past labors. The path isn’t any easier, and often times it gets rockier and steeper. But still, its definitely the best part of the climb.

I’d like to dedicate this blog post to retracing the various steps I’ve been through in my apprenticeship, in order for any subsequent stories I’d like to tell to make any sense. I apologize in advance for the length of this blog, which probably should have been staggered in four or five previous others. But I decided it was needed, to give a more realistic picture of what its really like to be a volunteer. I stopped writing blogs about my apprenticehip for a while because nothing significant was happening. There have always been lots of exciting possibilities, but nothing was concrete enough to write about. Often, a day’s worth of ‘progress’ would consist of merely managing to have a casual conversation with a certain someone; although I rarely failed to find some way to occupy myself for the remaining five hours I would spend at the school.

For my main task over the past few months has been to determine my role within the school community, a challenging, delicate process considering what I had to work from. For the teachers at the school, I arrived on day one as nothing more than a nineteen year-old white girl who looked even younger, who had no teaching experience whatsoever, and who could barely speak French. No one was openly skeptical (the Senegalese are incapable of being anything but welcoming) but the obvious question hovering in the air, that even I began to ask myself, and that I sometimes still ask, was: what right on earth do I have to claim any role of significance within this school? Even if that role was going to consist merely of sitting around and watching? Read more…

Musings on Islam

It is nine thirty on thursday evening and someone has just installed a new loudspeaker in Sebikotane, right above my bedroom. And currently blaring from this speaker, for the past half hour or so, is what seems to be a never ending chant of verses from the Qur’an. Every once in a while the voices will abruptly cease, and for a minute or so I’ll hear only the distant chatter of all the other loudspeakers in Sebikotane, but then it’ll start up again on a fresh verse. Usually I really don’t mind all the loudspeakers and the singing, and sometimes even find it soothing, but there is something about this new one (maybe the fact that it was installed, uh, right above my room) that makes this singer sound particularly off-key, and the accompanying mush of voices particularly static, and the screeches particularly sharp. I think tonight’s broadcasting must have somthing to do with the fact that tomorrow is Friday, the day of the week when all the men go to the mosque, and everyone dresses in their nicer boubous, but most evenings of the week are rarely without some sort of background narration. And if all the loudspeakers are taking a break, my neighbor, an arabic teacher who rents the room next to mine, never neglects to fill the silence with verses recorded on his cellphone, which he listens to while he prepares his academic charts, sitting at the wooden table where I am now, wearing his funny little winter hat with the pom-pom.

Anyways, I sat down this evening to write a blog post about more practical things (such as my apprenticeship, and don’t worry its on its way) but then the racket started and I felt the moment was only just right for writing a a little bit about our discussions of this past weekend, on Islam. This past weekend, we GCY fellows were in Dakar for our second monthly meeting. As is typical for our monthly meetings we spent a good portion of the time seated around table in Rachel’s living room either talking or eating – assuaging our cravings for good food, english conversation, and believe it or not, academic activity. Away from school for over seven months by now, you’d think we’d been starved for knowledge or something – the way we gulped down the information that Rachel emitted so profusely, diving into the good old tasks of “notetaking” and reading fine print. “Intellectual Stimuli” is what Matt calls it. Read more…

Transportes Rodriguez

Have you ever thought about where your water comes from and how many people are involved in bringing it to your faucet?

Recently, out of curiosity, I headed off with Don Omar in his water truck. Don Omar is a pretty successful businessman in Santo Tomas; he owns a small farm and also owns a water delivery service called Transportes Rodriguez. Starting work at 6:20 a.m., we headed to a farm nearby to use its deep well to fill up the 55 barrel truck for the first run of the morning. We then headed to a small colonia (the romanticized word for a small neighborhood on the outskirts of a small town) where “not much water falls”. We drove through the Municipalidad de Magdelana Milpas Altas, heading out one of the only roads leading toward the mountain, across a small bridge and through fields and fields of corn before we finally reached the colonia. Somehow, Don Omar’s Tigo clad water truck made it up the steep hill at the entrance and through a narrow gap between the trees before we began delivering water house by house

As we went along, I learned about the fascinating history of this small colonia of about 700 people. The neighborhood, creatively named “El Once de Augusto” was founded on the eleventh of August. Positioned on the side of a mountain, it is a very impoverished place, with dirt floors and muddy, rut covered streets. This undesirable land was formerly owned by the municipality until, on the eleventh of August following Hurricane Mitch, the government of Santa Lucia Milpas Altas purchased land from neighboring Magdelena for its constituents whose homes were destroyed in a landslide caused by deforestation. Now, the area faces problems because its position is such that no water falls into the local cisterns and the residents must purchase water from Don Omar in order to eat and bathe. Although the mayor of Santa Lucia built a public pila for washing clothes, it is void of water and the residents of the Eleventh of August wash their clothes in a nearby river. Read more…

Shadows Of Aid

The morning is still dark as I sit in my Ndiaga Ndiaye on the way to Rufisque. The single light bulb hanging from a failing red wire illuminates me, casting a grand silhouette, maybe four times my size, on the passing scenery.

The past few weeks I have been getting a wealth of opinions on aid projects in Senegal from different people. Always associated with the white foreigner, the missions seems to be like my shadow-bloated, by inefficiencies and lack of follow up. There is plenty of money being thrown into the aid pot. For if you have a cause, there is likely to be someone supporting it, from environmental protection to helping school children to mental illness. The main difference seems to come from what creates the shadow. Is there something concrete behind it, or is it just the wind?

The first popular path is the politicians route where one procures the aid funding (from the government or an aid organization), creates a project that is usually focused around “sensiblisation” (informing part of the population), obtains volunteers, feeds and gives shirts to these volunteers with half of the funding, and finally keeps the last half of the funding to fill up the coffers. Corruption is rampant in almost all developing countries and on the rise in Senegal specifically. However, there are some projects where only the government can sufficiently address the problem. As private organizations who give to the campaigns though, NGOs have the opportunity to see exactly where their money is going and what it is doing.  For their caused can be worthy, but if the money and effort do nothing but further a fraudulent system, what is the point?

The next path is a half support system, represented perfectly in my apprenticeship site of the Village des Tortues. It was created with the help of SOPTCOM, the European Union, the Senegalese government, and other donators. Currently my host father acts as the representative of SOPTCOM for the Village, working there around twice a week. The major issue within the Village itself is the structure that now exists. It was started, and can now subsist and function by itself, but there is no real room for improvement. Every now and then the government will give money if there is not enough to feed the turtles, or SOPTCOM will donate something or other to help update the Village, like a computer. Both resources give the Village a bigger safety net up to a certain point, allowing it to beg at both ends when there is some dire need, but never really let it progressively function independently. Just like this confused system, the actual impact of the Village des Tortues is buried underneath possibilities and dead ends. Read more…

Don’t think twice, it’s alright

Friday the 15th marked the halfway point of our stay in Senegal. I’ve been keeping close track of the days, and feeling the halfway mark looming upon me was, frankly, kind of depressing.  A month ago, I had written a proposal detailing all the activities I wanted to initiate at the preschool. The director approved it the day I submitted it, and said he would explain it to the preschool teacher. After a week, I tried to organize a meeting between the three of us. While I waited for that meeting to take place, I continued what I’d been doing at the school – helping the kids color, opening snacks, handing out materials, and drawing the curricula on the boards. A month passed while I waited, and I decided to just explain it to the teacher myself on Wednesday. I launched into a long, painful speech in my stunted French, and she listened and nodded. Then she brought me a stack of 50 notebooks and told me to copy the same picture into all of them (I’ve been designated official artist, because they somehow think my atrocious drawing skills are fabulous) so that the kids in my group could color the next day. She had obviously missed my entire point – that coloring every day was getting them nowhere, that I was tired of being forced to draw pictures and make endless paper chains, that I was not accomplishing anything at this apprenticeship. As I sat there, drowning in a sea of empty, waiting notebooks, I could feel a scream rising rapidly inside my throat. I was perilously close to either letting it out or bursting into an absolute torrent of tears.

That was and will undoubtedly be my lowest point throughout this bridge year. That Saturday, there had been an extremely uncomfortable situation with my host family. Sunday, I got the news that my aunt had just succumbed to her fight with pancreatic cancer. I took some time off work to cry and calm myself down and when I returned, I was still pretty high-strung. When that conversation happened, the frustration and feeling of helplessness that had been building up over the past week completely took over. Luckily, I refrained from exploding, knowing that would distress the teachers to no end, and that moment became a pivotal one for me.

I truly love GCY. I think the program is absolutely phenomenal and plan on being one of the loudest, most enthusiastic voices promoting the GCY experience when I return to the States. Read more…

El café

Of all the possible skills I thought I might be able to learn while living in Guatemala, using an espresso machine never ranked very high. But that is where expectations could be deceiving.

Helen, another volunteer with Soluciones Comunitarias in Nebaj, brought a small espresso machine back from the States so that El Descanso, a small restaurant and favorite hangout place of gringos passing through town, could improve its coffee options (currently, they fill a big container of instant coffee).

What better way to get tourists to stay in Nebaj a little longer and put more money into the local economy than by offering quality coffee – there’s no shortage of it growing here.

That said, the majority of the highest quality coffee is sent directly for export. So, needless to say, the first three blends we’ve experimented with have come out less than ideal. But, we’re still hopeful to find something incredible and then teach the meseros in the restaurant how to make our favorite lattes, cappuccinos, and espressos.

So, even if the coffee we’ve made has been less than superb, Shreya (another volunteer, pictured) and I are already stellar espresso machine users. Ultra important life skills for the win.

Out of the kitchen and into the classroom

Watching Mame Ami carefully trace the lines and curves that make up her name reminds me of me when I try to help cut onions without a cutting board, or clean rice, or help with laundry back at home. I am always amazed by the speed at which Kine can shave an onion without cutting herself, rotating the juicy white sphere in one hand while hacking at it with a knife in the other, or the way she can empty an entire calabash of rice into the pot without spilling a single grain. And as for laundry, no matter how hard I try, as I rub two soapy corners of my t-shirt vigorously between my wrists, I just can’t get the right sound. Kine and Ami Ndoye will laugh – by now more at my determination and persistence than at the awkwardness of my attempts to copy them – bend over my bucket next to me and dipping their palms to the surface of the water, in one graceful gesture, effortless but firm, produce the most wonderful, satisfying sound. It’s the sound of soap suds being squelched through the layers of my host mother’s boubous, or through the frills of little Cogna’s endless collection of ridiculously frilly dresses. It’s a sound of strength and precision, of cleanliness and cool water on a hot, dusty day, and it’s the sound that I come home to almost every day at one o’clock, and that I sometimes wake up to in the wee hours of the morning. Read more…

A Bride's Moving Day

The Thursday after my debut as a Senegalese bridesmaid was the night when close family and friends accompany the bride to her husband’s home and involves much tradition and festivities. I arrived at the bride’s house just as she was being prepared to depart with a shower and two foulards (big pieces of fabric) wrapped around her. Her two suitcases of cloths and a giant supply of cooking equipment waited on a mat spread over the dirt court yard. But as the older women lead her out of the house their way was blocked by the bridesmaids who sang and clapped while demanding money from the groom’s family. The price started at 15,000 CFA then dropped to 10,000 but they ended up having to make due with 5,000.

Finally the bride made it to the middle of the mat where she sat by her little sister. I could not see their faces but their bodies shook with silent sobs. Everyone gathered around as the griot spoke about how difficult but necessary the move was. At this time I was motioned by a friend to follow her. We piled into a car overflowing with girls and were rushed off to the groom’s family’s home in anticipation for the bride. Her arrival was signaled by the honking car horns and four cars jammed packed with people and the bride‘s possessions pulled up in front of the house. Read more…

The British Are Coming, the British Are Coming!!! Or, err… the Bread?

An account from the morning…

8:00 a.m. – Wake up, get ready for the day, head over to our family’s restaurant to go eat my bread and tegga degga (natural, no added hydrogenated oil, peanut butter, yum).

8:30 a.m. – Find out that the bread has, in fact, not already arrived at Mamour’s Boutique, and so we stop and pass the time by trying to be the first person to find the white, hearse shaped, bread car. There are an amazing amount of impostor cars.

9:15am- People search the other boutiques in town for the remnants of last night’s bread, which isn’t exactly soft anymore. About three people get to eat and go on with their days. Currently the whole village is at a standstill- no one goes anywhere or does much of anything, as we are all playing the waiting game. This would be why people have so much patience here.

10:03 a.m. – Thomas and I spot the bread car, I run to the restaurant to tell Penda (and the waiting customers), and the bread arrives!!!!!!!!! We  cheer, people eat, lives commence, and I go to work.

It’s easy to take something simple out of this situation – like if there was ever a war in Senegal, just go for the bread makers and the whole country would stop – yet it exemplifies so much more. The plain, empty, usually abundant, cheap white baguette bread that is sold here is essential to almost every person and household as a cheap way to get calories. While people eat things like chocolate spread or eggs with their bread sometimes, it is simply not within most families means to make meals, most of the times for huge households, that don’t contain a one food or another that can inexpensively fill people up. Here its rice, couscous for the poorer families (even though it has more nutrients), and bread and, from what I gather, its beans and tortillas in Guatemala. Either way, it is distinct example of the poverty and fragility with which the people around me live. One little thing, like not having the bread delivered, or how yesterday there was just simply no water, can completely change or halt life here. There are no back up plans, no second options to help life continue. For that takes money, space, liberty, ideas, whatever you may- all of which are harder to come by, the poorer you are.

Introducing computers

Sitting here in the computer lab, having just given a lesson to a young woman, a friend of the school director, I am suddenly very thoughtful about computers. That’s how it is here – I came this morning without any specific plan, I opened the computer lab, spent some time exploring the various activities installed for kids, and then I was introduced to this young woman, and now I’m teaching. On my other side is Monsieur An, a school ‘inspector’ who tends to hang out in the computer lab and the library with me. We make a good team. I like to talk about what I’m doing – explain this or that section of the library, this or that site on the computer, ideas I have – and he responds with incredibly lengthy lectures on Islam and all sorts of stories and theories on human behavior. I’ll listen patiently for about twenty minutes, and eventually he’ll stop, and then we’ll continue to work. Right now he’s having a lot of fun with the keyboard; I never really thought about it before but he’s right – all the vowels are on the top row.

During the past month I have been gradually ‘initiating’ the teachers in the computer lab, basically introducing them to the machines that they have access to, and actually have had access to for over a year. Read more…

Out of the Blue

When I arrived at the bus stop today coming home from Antigua, I discovered that it was raining. It had been cloudy all day, but I didn’t expect actual water to fall. What made this occurrence of precipitation right in the middle of the dry season even more strange, was that it was the second time it has rained during the dry season this year. The last time it rained during the dry season was, I’m told by my Spanish teacher, Guadalupe, about 5 years ago and it was due to some really large hurricane or storm.

You and I would almost undoubtedly attribute this odd weather to the ever more increasingly pressing issue of global climate change. In fact, I read in the national newspaper Prensa Libre that the climate summit in Copenhagen listed Guatemala as one of the 10 countries to be most affected by global climate change– meaning increases in floods, droughts, disease, hurricanes, and much more.

Now when I said before that “you and I” would attribute it to global climate change, I was insinuating that not every Guatemalan would. And I was basing this assumption off of a number of generalized observations: the fact that it appears to me that more Guatemalans read the smutty Nuestro Diario, with its scantily clad bikini models and gory photos of gang violence victims gracing the front page than they do the Prensa, which gave front page deference to the aforementioned article; the immense amount of trash that litters the streets; the way that every single chicken bus exudes scandalous amounts of acrid black smoke as it pulls away from the bus stop; just the typical things that would alarm any environmentalist in the U.S. But back to my point: for these and many other reasons, I assumed that this hot button phrase “global climate change” was not at the tip of the typical Guatemalan tongue– including my family and others in my town. Read more…

Learning the Language

Several days ago I had one of those sudden moments of insight into the workings of my mind that shocked me and excited me at the same time. I was with Fina and her sister Irma, recounting the tale of the neck-walking “grio” (that would be a HUGE brown grasshopper, bigger than my thumb, and yes the neck upon which it did the walking would be mine, horror) and I suddenly realized that I felt a little bit uncertain about the words I was using. They were nodding along and laughing, and I knew that the words were right but it took me a minute to realize that they felt strange because I wasn’t speaking English in my head and finding the Spanish equivalent, I was picturing specific actions in my head associated with a Spanish word. I felt uncertain because I didn’t even KNOW what English word I would have been trying to say. Read more…

Senegalese Bridesmaid

Last week I had the honor and surprise of being a bridesmaid in one of my Senegalese friend’s wedding. I first heard about the event a month ago when my friend was showing me, the new toubab, off to all her friends while giving them an oral invitation to the celebration. A few weeks later I was invited to her house for the receiving of Le Premier Cadeau, meaning the first gift. This is sometime before the wedding when the groom’s family gives the bride’s money to pay for the reception.

My first hint that I might have a bigger role than just being present and giving congratulations at the wedding was a week before when a friend and relative of the bride took my measurements for a dress that was going to match hers for the celebration. However Senegalese women enjoy dressing the same for all big events so I figured it was going to be like that at the wedding.

The day of the event was spent running to and from the tailors where the dresses were receiving final touches and waiting for the bride to return from the hair salon. When she arrived in full Senegalese makeup and dress, complete with purple eye brows and gold glittering lashes she was met by a cacophony of African drums and entourage of dancing women. Camera man in the lead the group danced their way through the house. Read more…

American Holidays in Africa, or How Victoria's Heart Thawed

For our first monthly meeting in Dakar, the Fellows celebrated a late Thanksgiving at Rachel’s house. I was averse to having a “traditional” Thanksgiving dinner, but tried not to dampen everyone else’s holiday spirits. It just struck me as rather America-centric to feel the need to celebrate traditional holidays while abroad, especially while in an immersion program, and especially when the holiday is one as distinctively American as Thanksgiving. (Yes, I am aware that Canadians also celebrate Thanksgiving, but it’s really not quite the same.) Thanksgiving admittedly doesn’t hold much importance with me anyways. First of all, there are far too many questions about the cruelty of the colonizing Europeans and the resulting plight of the natives for me to give thanks for this national holiday. Secondly, Thanksgiving isn’t that much fun for me as a vegan. So right off the bat, my desire to celebrate Thanksgiving was probably less than that of the other Fellows.

However, once all the traditional fare was prepared (we actually had chicken and one symbolic turkey leg), my idealistic-youthful-activist cynicism melted away like butter in mashed potatoes. Read more…

Hot Tamale Maker

Tamales are the traditional Christmas food in Guatemala. You make a huge batch and send some home with all your family members and friends that come visiting. It’s a great gift; They’re even wrapped like little presents! And yesterday I had the privilege of learning how to make these corn-based parcels of joy.

I got home a little too late to learn the ingredients in the “masa” or corn mash, and the red sauce, although I know it contains several different types of chilies (which is not to say that this is a spicy dish– Guatemalans don’t like spicy food.) But I did get to learn how to assemble them, which to me had always seemed the most daunting part.

Take a large plantain leaf, place it upside-down on a small dish and put a section of softer plantain leaf that has been soaked in water in the center. Here throw on a generous scoop of “masa” and add a ladle-full of red sauce. Mix this with a spoon and then put a chunk of raw pork in the center. Cover it up with the “masa” as if you were burying a small piece of treasure (you can think of the cooked tamale as the treasure chest, if you want– however as far as barriers to treasures go this is a really good one to have, for it is easily dispatched and decidedly delicious). Grab both edges of the plantain leaf and roll them down like the top of a cereal bag, then bend one end of the leaf back so that you make a pocket, tap it on the dish to make sure all the “masa” settles into the pocket before folding down the top end and then tying it with a piece of dried vine, as I said before, like a little present. Now you simply put it in a pot of water so that it will boil and cook the meat

Fina and I made 70 tamales. With glee, I later overheard her telling her sister that she was surprised that I got the hang of it on the very first try– she had been expecting to show me how to do it, and then just have to re-do my tamale for me. Thank goodness I’m a better tamale maker than I am a tortilla-maker, otherwise my cooking reputation here would be utterly dismal.

Root of the Sound

I recently went to a naming ceremony for my next door neighbor’s newborn. The ceremony in Wolof is called Ngente. There was an extreme amount of rice an even more people. I had never seen so many plastic chairs in my life. All the men were huddled to one side talking about something. But like most things in Wolof it seemed intense. I have been here for a while now so people know. Once everybody heard I was there I quickly became the center  of attention. I was bombarded by questions about life in the US. I kept up in French pretty well but kind of fumbled in Wolof but it was ok.

While we were talking and laughing the women were gathering around some turn tables under a tent made from an old promotional banner for Cadillac. When I was about to leave the States I would spend countless hours watching Sabar drumming and dancing online and be blown away by the artistry. But I knew sabar online couldn’t do sabar justice. Soon the music started and the women one by one started dancing. Sabar has a rich tradition in Senegal with women in particular. It is a means by which they express their sexuality. And I was told that men who can dance sabar, dance sabar but those who can’t don’t. Read more…

First graders master the triangle

I am sitting in a CI (first grade) class right now, behind the teacher’s desk as an observer. This is usually where I end up in the mornings when I am at a loss of what to do. Today these six to eight-year-olds are learning how to draw shapes on their little personal chalkboards. These fifty little first graders start the day by marching into class in three equal lines like little soldiers. Then they usually sit at their desks restlessly for at least ten minutes, many still knawing on their identical breakfasts of white bread spread with chocolate, beans or mushy spagetti, while Madame Diatta prepares. She has to consult the charts she is required to write out to plan every lesson, following a government timetable. One of the harder parts of her job is to somehow translate the government instructions into lessons that actually make sense. This morning for example, 8 to 9 am on Thursday, the timetable calls for ‘art plastique’ (plastic art). I’m not sure exactly what that means, but there certainly aren’t any art materials to be had around here, so the teacher resorts to drawing shapes on the board. The goal today is to have the kids be able to identify the different shapes – a simple concept it might seem for kids of their age – but not such a simple task in this case.

The second most difficult challenge Mme Diatta must face is the sheer number of wiggly, wandering minds into which she must somehow plant the first seeds of knowledge. Fifty-two is the exact number, sitting shoulder to shoulder on benches behind four rows of desks squished so close together that the teacher sometimes has to walk sideways to move in between them. Actual physical space is the only limit, the school director tells me, by which he can ever justify turning kids away each year – and he does have to do this every year. At a certain point he has to say to some child, sorry, you can’t come to school this year. Its not his fault obviously, being given only a certain number of classrooms and being at the mercy of the government for all his funding, but it still weighs heavily on his conscience to have to be the one to refuse children their right to an education. And every year more children come. Read more…

Le President

My brother Aliou Leye is my mentor in Sangalkam. I feel lucky to have him looking out for me in the village. He works for the rural village of Sangalkam youth association.  In 2002 he started an organization called the Foyer des Jeunes. He started it in order to help students get into university, mentor them while through university, and then come up a detailed future plan for a career. When Aliou first started it consisted of over 10 students and now it involves 700 student which all the in community. Everyone in the village calls him “president.” Read more…

Poverty’s Design

There are many different scales by which to measure poverty: less than a dollar a day, being able to provide food, shelter, healthcare, emergency funds, stability, etc. Compared to many places in Senegal, my community is pretty well off in that the majority of the population can afford at least their food and house, which is either a gray concrete block or a thatched hut with some form of tin usually attached. When walking home from work, I have two views in front of me. On the right, there is the lush reserve where the different flora and fauna create a quilt of beauty. To my left though, is the plain and gaunt grey concrete wall that seems to never end – changing from wall to wall, house to house, and grey to grey to grey to grey. To be sure, this design is not representative of a culture which is full of so much character and color in every aspect of life. So here’s another face of poverty, shown by the simple fact that putting color into one’s life is almost always beyond ones means.

Poverty's Design

There are many different scales by which to measure poverty: less than a dollar a day, being able to provide food, shelter, healthcare, emergency funds, stability, etc. Compared to many places in Senegal, my community is pretty well off in that the majority of the population can afford at least their food and house, which is either a gray concrete block or a thatched hut with some form of tin usually attached. When walking home from work, I have two views in front of me. On the right, there is the lush reserve where the different flora and fauna create a quilt of beauty. To my left though, is the plain and gaunt grey concrete wall that seems to never end – changing from wall to wall, house to house, and grey to grey to grey to grey. To be sure, this design is not representative of a culture which is full of so much character and color in every aspect of life. So here’s another face of poverty, shown by the simple fact that putting color into one’s life is almost always beyond ones means.

Sheep instead of turkies

Earlier last week I believe I reached an important turning point in my homestay experience: I was allowed to do dishes! It has been a long month of sitting on the highest, softest chair and watching; having the choisest morsels of ceebujen into my corner of the bowl; being allowed to stir the pot but not touch the knife; and feeling often like I was being treated like a five-year-old princess.

But the past few days have been a flurry of activity: the preparation for, the celebration and the aftermath of the Muslim holiday of Tabaski. I came home from l’Ecole Sebiroute early on Thursday morning, after all but three other teachers decided take an early vacation and didn’t show up, and after all of 20 computers in the Salle Informatique refused to let anyone log in (I think that was a sign…). Having nothing planned, I just kind of fell into things, starting as always with helping cook lunch. I don’t think sweeping, peeling vegetables, washing dishes and hanging laundry has never done me so much good. Hundreds of washed bowls, peeled onions, scrubbed panties, swept up grains of sticky rice, three sacrificed sheep and five days later, I already feel like something had shifted, whether in me or in my surroundings, that makes this place feel a bit more like home. I’ve always believe that shared experiences are what bring people together, I just had never considered the massacring of three very large rams to be one of those. Read more…

Perroquia/Las Pacayas

One of our major projects in Guatemala is to support Soluciones Comunitarias, an NGO which trains Guatemalans to sell health related products such as reading glasses, water purifiers, and vegetable seeds. This week, we spent two (long) days traveling around northern Quiche and I produced the following video to document our journey:

“We don’t want Guatemala to be dirty”

“We don’t want Guatemala to be dirty because otherwise it would not be beautiful and people would get sick,” said one of the kids in our last day during drama class when acting out how Guatemala would look if everyone kept throwing trash in the streets. It was such a powerful moment to witness such consciousness, especially since it was coming from kids about 9 to 12 years old. It was also a moment when I felt that things could change.

I‘ve been in Nebaj for about a month and a couple of days and I have only seen a man picking up trash once. Honestly, sometimes I feel like, why pick up trash when a few minutes later I get on a micro-bus and about 2 to 3 people throw their empty plastic water bottle or the empty bag of Doritos through the window? People in general seem not to realize the harm to the environment they are creating.

Last week as I came from running around the beautiful mountains that surround Nebaj, I saw a plastic car for little kids with clothes and a bunch of other trash being burn in front of a house while little kids and other adults were watching the event as if it was such a common and normal thing to do. Last week in a meeting with all the GCY fellows and Erin we were discussing how through the Guatemalan’s eyes there is not much motivation to try to make a conscious effort to take care of the environment when there is not a system that supports them. In the states is so easy to throw away trash! and recycling is not that hard either.

On Monday we went on a campaign to an aldea about 6 hours from Nebaj call “La Parroquia.”As I was wondering where the trash went I walked outside of the Hospedale (very similar to a Hotel) where we were staying and there was a hole on the ground with a lot of trash inside. This makes me wonder how much the Government is providing Guatemalans with an alternative to throw away their trash. Situations can always go both ways. The more developed a country is, the more it affects the environment in a negative way with pollution from industries. But also the less developed a country is, the greater lack of resources and consciousness for the environment there is. Guatemala is beautiful !!! but the closer one gets to the road sides the clearer it becomes that they face big challenges to keep it that way.

"We don't want Guatemala to be dirty"

“We don’t want Guatemala to be dirty because otherwise it would not be beautiful and people would get sick,” said one of the kids in our last day during drama class when acting out how Guatemala would look if everyone kept throwing trash in the streets. It was such a powerful moment to witness such consciousness, especially since it was coming from kids about 9 to 12 years old. It was also a moment when I felt that things could change.

I‘ve been in Nebaj for about a month and a couple of days and I have only seen a man picking up trash once. Honestly, sometimes I feel like, why pick up trash when a few minutes later I get on a micro-bus and about 2 to 3 people throw their empty plastic water bottle or the empty bag of Doritos through the window? People in general seem not to realize the harm to the environment they are creating.

Last week as I came from running around the beautiful mountains that surround Nebaj, I saw a plastic car for little kids with clothes and a bunch of other trash being burn in front of a house while little kids and other adults were watching the event as if it was such a common and normal thing to do. Last week in a meeting with all the GCY fellows and Erin we were discussing how through the Guatemalan’s eyes there is not much motivation to try to make a conscious effort to take care of the environment when there is not a system that supports them. In the states is so easy to throw away trash! and recycling is not that hard either.

On Monday we went on a campaign to an aldea about 6 hours from Nebaj call “La Parroquia.”As I was wondering where the trash went I walked outside of the Hospedale (very similar to a Hotel) where we were staying and there was a hole on the ground with a lot of trash inside. This makes me wonder how much the Government is providing Guatemalans with an alternative to throw away their trash. Situations can always go both ways. The more developed a country is, the more it affects the environment in a negative way with pollution from industries. But also the less developed a country is, the greater lack of resources and consciousness for the environment there is. Guatemala is beautiful !!! but the closer one gets to the road sides the clearer it becomes that they face big challenges to keep it that way.

Tabaski

Tabaski is most important holiday in the Muslim community. The reason for celebrating Tabaski comes from the Koran when God asked Abraham to sacrifice his son Ishmael as a test of his faith. Abraham took Ishmael to the top of Mount Kaba and was blindfolded. Before he could sacrifice his son, the angel Gabriel snatched Ishmel from Abraham and placed a sheep in his place. So now as part of the holiday every family kills a sheep.

This year I helped killed the sheep with my family. The sheep was delicious but while I was eating it I kept thinking about the abracadabra mentality that we have in the states towards food in the states. For example most meat eaters in the US have never killed an animal in their lives but we probably consume the most meat in the world! A lot of people have no idea where their food comes from. My friend Abdoulaye has a message for America about the importance of Tabaski and eating eat.

The Giche

The Giche. The words African and American have never carried so much weight as they did while I was on Goree Island. When I was in Dakar, I went to Goree alone because I knew that it would be a special experience for me and I knew that the fellows would respect that. I took a ferry to the island and when I was sitting on the boat I couldn’t stop thinking about my family and our history.

My father’s side of family has knowledge of our origins in America. A lot was retained orally. I know the slave port where my family comes from. It’s called Paris Island. Paris Island is a tiny port outside the Carolinas. The slaves on Paris Island were annexed to the mainland in the 20’s and it’s now a US Marines base. Paris Island like most slave ports carried over a lot of African culture despite enslavement. The culture and language that comes from Paris Island is called Giche. Almost all of my family down south is Giche and can some of the language. I take pride in being a fifth generation Giche and in knowing the history of not only my family but my people in general. Earlier this year I did some research on Paris Island and found that the slaves from that port originated from Mali, Senegal, Guinea and possibly Benin. Once I heard that GCY was sending me to Senegal I knew that it was going to be much more significant than just another “cross cultural” experience. Read more…

Last week in the city

Due to complications with my rural home stay I was able to stay in Dakar for another week. It was fine and I was willing to wait for my for home stay because I loved Dakar. Right after I got the news from Rachel I planned my week out. First thing I did was get in touch with my friend Mike, who has a program here where he brings inner city kids to Senegal. I went over his house for dinner and they invited me to the movies. I declined but he still had to pick up his family from the first showing. The theater was in a well off area. The closer we got the more affluent it became. This part of Dakar wasn’t apart of my notion Senegal yet. At the time it was hard to conceptualize Senegal without sand hugging either side of the road. Hanging and talking with Micheal  gave me a unique chance to see a different side of Senegal. Read more…

It’s a Party

Well to say the least, chickens are no big deal. I mean really, they are small, equivalent to a soccer ball. You could even kick them if you really wanted to. Rams are really not small, and I’m sure that if you kicked one, that it would kick you back, with sure damage being done. This past Tabaski was a day of Senegalese food and fashion immersion. Read more…

It's a Party

Well to say the least, chickens are no big deal. I mean really, they are small, equivalent to a soccer ball. You could even kick them if you really wanted to. Rams are really not small, and I’m sure that if you kicked one, that it would kick you back, with sure damage being done. This past Tabaski was a day of Senegalese food and fashion immersion. Read more…

“Welcoming the Christmas Season” or, “Pyromania”

On December 7, 2009 at 6 pm Guatemalans and gringos alike began the official Christmas season with a daring display of pyrotechnics in the traditional “quema del diablo” or “burning of the devil.” Looming large and leering demonically near the entrance of Antigua proper, a statue of a devil was perched on a base of household trash and set on fire at the onset of darkness. In towns all across Guatemala, families brought out small piles of household trash and burned it in front of their homes, getting rid of bad spirits in preparation for the happy holiday season.

Though initially uninspired to attend the event because of laziness, I made myself follow the guideline I set back in October, which is never to opt out of an experience just because I don´t feel like picking myself up and going (you wouldn´t believe how many times I have discovered something beautiful, cool, or moving because this simple rule.)

And, as you might have guessed, this turned out to be a very cool experience indeed. Despite the fact that the crowd numbered possibly more than 1,500 people, Luis, Michael and I had an amazing view-maybe even the best view- owing to our having clambered on top of a fire truck which was ready to respond should any of the fireworks land precariously close to one of the two gas stations within 500 yards of the burning devil (as Michael is fond of saying, and is almost always true, “That would definitely be illegal in the U.S.”)

As I stood on the truck taking in the scene, its flashing red lights lighting up one side of my face and ash drifting through the air like snow flakes, I suddenly realized that my typical role in photographing other people doing strange or cool things had been reversed- so we´ll see if a picture of Michael, Luis & I shows up in any of the tourist magazines here. Ha!

Just as suddenly as that small realization came the sound of fresh fireworks cracking, and as I whipped my head towards the source of the noise I saw the most “illegal in the U.S.” thing yet—a man with a caging of lit fireworks hoisted on his back was charging around the square, purposefully approaching groups of onlookers to provoke screams and speedy flight as the fireworks shot straight at them. Luis informs me that this brave man is called “el torrito” or “the little bull.” Apparently he just heightens the excitement of the celebration… but once again I was thankful for my perch on top of something so singularly fire retardant.

a domesticated girl, that’s all you ask of me

Before I left Boston, my mother warned me not to argue with people if I disagreed with their cultural beliefs. It’s better to bite my tongue, she said, to avoid creating problems for myself. Before in-country arrival, GCY gave us instructions to steer clear of discussing controversial topics with our host families and newfound friends. I understand this. I may be a girl of strong convictions, but I would like to think that when GCY chose me, they saw some semblance of cultural sensitivity. I know how to pick my battles, and I know that as a Founding Fellow, I shouldn’t really pick any at all.

Nevertheless, keeping my opinions to myself is becoming difficult, especially with my host father constantly telling me “we’re your family now, I’m your father now, you should behave as if this were your house in America!” Well, if my real dad and I were sitting on the couch, watching TV, and he loudly announced “I’m thirsty!” I would probably say something along the lines of “oh.” I would not take that as a cue to run to the kitchen, pour him a glass of water, hand it to him while dropping a curtsy, stand there waiting for him to finish, and take the glass back to the kitchen. I have a lot of respect my father, and as a normally nice person, I would gladly get him a drink if he asked for one. But saying “I’m thirsty” is not akin to asking for a drink, especially not asking with a please. Read more…

a domesticated girl, that's all you ask of me

Before I left Boston, my mother warned me not to argue with people if I disagreed with their cultural beliefs. It’s better to bite my tongue, she said, to avoid creating problems for myself. Before in-country arrival, GCY gave us instructions to steer clear of discussing controversial topics with our host families and newfound friends. I understand this. I may be a girl of strong convictions, but I would like to think that when GCY chose me, they saw some semblance of cultural sensitivity. I know how to pick my battles, and I know that as a Founding Fellow, I shouldn’t really pick any at all.

Nevertheless, keeping my opinions to myself is becoming difficult, especially with my host father constantly telling me “we’re your family now, I’m your father now, you should behave as if this were your house in America!” Well, if my real dad and I were sitting on the couch, watching TV, and he loudly announced “I’m thirsty!” I would probably say something along the lines of “oh.” I would not take that as a cue to run to the kitchen, pour him a glass of water, hand it to him while dropping a curtsy, stand there waiting for him to finish, and take the glass back to the kitchen. I have a lot of respect my father, and as a normally nice person, I would gladly get him a drink if he asked for one. But saying “I’m thirsty” is not akin to asking for a drink, especially not asking with a please. Read more…

A small dose of America

Off in search of a pot of jam (to add some fruit to my diet), some face wash (to remedy the annoying spots due to an excess of oil in Senegalese cooking that tend to provoke the question: did a mosquito bite your face?) and some interesting candy (to bring home to every person who upon learning that I would be going to Dakar, requested that I bring home a present), Victoria and I stumbled upon a sort of mini-America in Dakar: a modern supermarket. We had been to smaller versions of this westernized grocery store called Casino, but never one like this. Already driving into the parking lot and seeing the enormous facade, I sensed that something wasn’t quite right. Read more…

Legos

When I first arrived in my new family, all I had to go off of were first impressions. In my head I tried to decide how I would describe these people who I would live with for the next six months, both to myself and to others. So that is what I did, I described them with words and examples of what I already knew. A mix of Mrs. Weasley and Cinderella’s step mother, jolly like Santa and his elves but a little less organized, overbearing, honestly naïve, structured, socially concerned, overtly open, all different impressions of different people.

Going into my first weekly meeting with Rachel, I figured that these descriptions would at least give her a view of what I was seeing, or at least what I thought I was seeing. That was not the case though, for I was given a quick reminder of something that I knew but didn’t contextualize: all of my views are those of the west, of what I have known for the few eighteen years of my life. My mental models are unmistakably American, which I know, but it is easily sectionalized. Read more…

a night for Los Patojos.

It takes only one idea, progressing from the mind, through the mouth, to the masses, and into reality, to bring about a revolution. The realization of just one idea can usher in the dawn of a world-wide change.

In the year of 1660 the Museo del Libro de Antigua harbored in its walls the first printing press in all of Central America. In a time of archaic thinking, when evils preyed more than ever on the ignorance of the public, the printing press lent itself to the masses as a foundation of enlightenment. Through this one machine, the rapid transference of progressive ideas led to a movement of change. Here and around the world, the spread of impassioned and inventive thinking evolved into action. the opportunity the printing press provided, for knowledge, for equity, for progress, fueled a desire for social improvement- and from this weapon against ignorance, an imprint upon history was made, and the world was ever-changed. Read more…

El Duque

The Salazar-Che family (my family) has a Toyota truck. I couldn’t tell you what year or model, but I think its unique enough that none of these labels matter anyway. It’s comparatively small in size from what most would today consider a “truck”, what with all the insinuations that if it doesn’t have a trillion horsepower or a hefty combination of letters and numbers in its name then its not manly enough to haul your junk.

Anyway… this little truck is red(ish) and the windshield is cracked in a few places. The top of the windshield has a sticker that tints the light purple and says “Guiame Senor” (Guide me, God). There are rosary beads wrapped around the rearview mirror, and a small dalmation beanie baby sits on the dashboard (Fina uses it to defrost the windows when its rainy out). The dash has a little, I guess you would call it a table cloth, of fabric that I think matches well with the outer décor. The steering wheel is wrapped in blue, green, red, and white plastic, braided in a neat sort of way. The driver’s side window is either down or (mostly) up, but whichever way you choose to have it you have to grasp the glass and pull it, then use the window crank to lock it in place. Read more…

Sweet (Potato) Success

Luis thoughtfully planned for all the fellows to have Thanksgiving dinner together in Nebaj, and invited us all to bring a dish to share. I decided immediately to bring sweet potato casserole. It seemed that the fates were in support of this decision, because when I got home that day I found a huge bucket filled with camote, the Guatemalan version of a sweet potato. Josefina told me that a woman had been selling them in the market that morning, but was ready to go home, and so she sold about 5 lbs to Fina for 25 quetzales (8 Q to the dollar). She apparently had no plans for the camote, and was graciously willing to share them with me in my attempt at sweet potato casserole.

I had my mom email me my Gramma Kat’s recipe, and bought walnuts for the topping in Antigua, since there were no pecans to be found. Then I headed home where Fina helped me peel all 5 lbs of camote, despite my repeated suggestions that “Oh, that’s probably enough…” (I only needed 6 cups of cooked, mashed sweet potato, after all.) We put the camote on to cook, and I juiced 5 oranges to add to the mix. We bought 5 sticks of butter, a dozen eggs, and a big bag of sugar at the corner tienda while it cooked, and when I returned I mashed the camote in a grinder thing (excuse my ineloquence).

In two huge bowls of 12 cups of cooked sweet potato each (!!), we mixed the orange juice, two sticks of melted butter, 5 or 6 cups of sugar, and 6 beaten eggs. I did little taste tests along the way, and was pleased that it tasted pretty good! For the topping I chopped the walnuts and mixed them with about half a stick of melted butter, a handful of flour, and panella, which is granular molasses that comes in a block, I guess it’s more or less like brown sugar, which is what the recipe called for. I sprinkled the walnut/brown sugar mix on top and we put it in the oven to bake.

We had made more than twice as much as I needed, so I left half at home with my family and took half to Nebaj with me the next day. It turned out to be absolutely delicious, and I was so thrilled. I might even say incandescently happy, because it tasted just like home, and I had made it here, so far away, and had so much fun doing it. Plus my host family really liked it too (especially after I suggested that it was a lot tastier when it was hot, and when they tried it that way, they agreed.) Fina has been teaching me how to cook a lot of Guatemalan dishes, and I was really happy that I was able to show her how to make something that is so traditional for us. All her sisters and neighbors tried some, and they all said they had never had camote prepared that way before, but that they liked it. Fina says next time she has a lot of camote she’s not going to wait for Thanksgiving to make this. Success.

Más Mani porfavor (More peanut butter please)

As time evolves so does the peanut butter project “Más Mani porfavor“. This week we made about 5 jars which 4 of them were sold for 22 quetzales (about 3 U.S dollars). Out of those 22 quetzales 2 are giving back if the jar is returned. It is incredibly exciting to see things moving along.

For right now our principal customer is the Restaurant “El Descanso” where Shreya (another volunteer at Soluciones Comunitarias) has made veggie Burgers, chow mei and a banana shake with our Peanut butter being the main ingredient. People have been buying all these new plates at the restaurant which is a sign of success for now. Today we had a meeting with our first entrepreneur from the aldea “La Pista” where the Centro Explorativo (our center point) is located. On Saturday we will be giving him a few jars. One of the jars will be a sample for people to try and the other ones are to sell. Our hope is to find other responsible young men (13 to 15 years old) to be entrepreneurs of our project “Más Mani Porfavor”. The entrepreneurs will be enroll at the community center and will be paid 3 quetzales per jar (about 36 U.S cents) which for Guatemalan standards is a fair price. Our final goal is to be able to make these project sustainable. Hopefully everything will work out!

Las Cataratas

Complimenting Zuleika’s blog post from last week, we spent this Monday in a town passed Vi Chibala called Santa Averina doing publicity for a campaign for Soluciones Comunitarias (we do publicity a few days before returning for a campaign when we bring the water purifiers, reading glasses, and other health products for sale). Usually, we just walk around town and hand out fliers describing the event; the free eye exams and such. In Santa Averina, however, we did our whole publicity in the market, where hundreds of women shopped in their traditional garb.

Following this, we found out that the town has a waterfall: “do you want to go?” My initial thought went something like “mehh, waterfall…” But, realizing it would probably be my only opportunity, I agreed to check it out.

After we walked fifteen minutes or so, we began to hear the roar of tumbling water. Turning a corner, I about lost my breath. Expecting the falls to be 20 feet or so, I was beyond shocked to see the picturesque falls stretching high into the sky in a microclimate rainforest – absolutely gorgeous. Moving closer, the falls simply appeared more and more magnificent.

I suppose the moral is to never turn down an opportunity to see cataratas?

Mama Fina

Yesterday morning when I was leaving the house, I said goodbye to my host-mom, “Mama Fina”, and gave her a kiss on the cheek– the traditional greeting and farewell here in Guatemala– when she stopped me and said, “I already love you a lot.” I, so pleased to hear that, tried to blubber out “Ohmigod, I feel the same way!” but before I could form a very coherent sentence (I managed some happy cooing sounds, funny how you revert to the communication style of a baby when you are met with an unexpected pronouncement in a still unfamiliar language) she continued, “but everyday when you walk out that door I tell myself ‘I don’t love her. I don’t even like her that much.’ because I don’t want to love you!

But then every evening around 5 I always find myself thinking, ‘Laura’s almost home!’ and I’m happy. And it’s only been 2 months. It’s going to be SO hard for me when you leave, after 5 MORE months.”

I was so touched, and I so wanted to explain to her what I realized was true for the first time, that when I leave in 5 more months, I’ll be leaving family. And when you leave family, you don’t let them go, you know? You call, you write, and you visit occasionally. Seven months is an incredibly long time to live with a family, and to live with a family who treats you so well, and gives you love and attention when you need it most, is such a gift. The first month I was here I was a mess of emotional highs and lows– spazzed out excited, confused beyond all measure, floundering in a puddle of utter homesickness– in those first few weeks I never expected that I could find my norm here at the stable and pleasing emotion of “content”. I’m now downright comfortable in what I at first deemed to be “uncomfortable” plastic chairs for watching TV, the shower is now just delectable when 2 months ago I spent much time in honest contemplation of how long I could REALLY go without showering because it was just too stressful an experience (I couldn’t tell you if the water has gotten hotter, or if I just don’t notice the breeze from outside anymore), I’ve found there’s nothing finer for an eating utensil than a freshly made tortilla, and yeah, this is a place that is really making its mark on me. I won’t be able to forget “Mama Fina” or let myself fall out of contact with her because she has already had a part in shaping me for the rest of my life, and in a very positive way.

No Tudd?

I recently started one of my apprenticeships at Sebikotane’s Poste de Sante. For the World Day of Diabetes the health center set up a week of free testing for all the people of Sebikotane and the surrounding communities. My job was to write the names, ages, neighborhoods and blood sugar levels of the people being tested. It was funny how what would be somewhat of a mindless task for me in the U.S. was difficult in Senegal. Read more…

Beyond Turtles

Up until this point it’s been all about turtles. French turtle vocabulary, cleaning, feeding, and picking up after turtles, turtle facts (Sulcatar turtles can grow up to 100 kilos and 150 years old), and even a turtle shirt with the eleven specials of Senegalese turtles on it. This past week I finally saw more than turtles as I received my tour of the whole reserve.

Ousman, one of the two tour guides, and I started our walk on the official paths and he taught me about all of the medicinal plants protected here. Curing maladies from gallstones to appendicitis’s, some of the plants have more than three-hundred known uses. While people don’t come here every day to pick leaves or bark, the protected fauna here acts as a hospital and pharmacy for many that cannot and could not afford official medical care. We then reached the brush. While it was not exactly clear, there seemed to be a fairly wide path which was about ¾ of a foot wide. Yep, it wasn’t a path, just the trail left by some flipping massive snake. No big deal or anything, right? At least it explained why Ousman was basically hopping. Read more…

MMM…Chicken

The book Heat by Bill Buford is about his culinary education as he runs through an intense number of first class culinary jobs. He was first an understudy at Mario Batali’s Babbo, then a pasta student in Italy, and finally shadowing arguably the most famous butcher in the word, Dario Cecchini. This past Saturday I underwent a similar first hand education. I can now certainly tell you that I will never be a butcher. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

My mentor Awa, 20 years old, and I had our day planned out as we were going to visit her new husband, 30 years old, and his family a couple towns over. When I arrived in the morning ready there was a new plan: cook for the husband and his whole family by the time they visit this afternoon. On the menu were chicken, French fries, and yassa. Yassa is simple. It’s only onions, MSG, and Magic powder which is basically chicken stock. French fries are even easier as you only need potatoes, salt, and a Paula Dean butter-size-amount of vegetable oil. The tricky part had just come through the door, flapping away and trying to escape Awa’s fathers hands. So I watched those three white chickens pecking away as I cried over my onions, oblivious to their imminent fate. Read more…

Dans la Salle Informatique….

It’s three o’clock in the afternoon here in Sebikotane and the inside of the ’salle informatique’ (computer lab) at l’école Sebiroute is like an oven. There is a slight breeze through the door that opens into the large sandy space around which the separate classroom buildings are situated. I’m glad for this chance to write a blog post, although disappointed that the high school English class I was going to sit in on this afternoon is not going to take place. The high school students are on strike, if you can imagine that. This room is large and modern, with fans spinning on the tin roof and those long flourescent light bars on the walls. There are twenty identical computers on the tables along the perimeter of the room each draped in a shiny purple sleeve that reads ‘l’informatique dès l’école élémentaire, SENECLIC, c’est désormais une réalité’ which translates to ‘computering since elementary school, Seneclic, it’s already a reality’. But I seriously doubt that the majority of those purple drapes have every been lifted off the screens. Electricity; ceiling fans, and twenty computers that are never used…. some reality. Read more…

A Silent Death

This summer while house sitting for a good friend the fish died. Before the family returned my French exchange student and I spent a good fifteen minutes at the fist store determined to find a perfect replica so the children would not know the fish had died. We ended up not being very successful, however when they returned the children believed that Sounder, the fish, had changed colors due to the heat. Had they found out Sounder’s true fate I know many tears would have been shed. Read more…

and so it begins!

My apprenticeship is with the PDEF – an organization (funded by the international NGO ChildFund) that runs many things in the community, including a preschool which I am supposed to “help,” or really just study. After a week of sitting in the secretary’s office with my friendly mentor – she is the secretary – typing lengthy Excel spreadsheets, I have finally commenced inside an actual classroom. Until this week, I literally had not even seen a child. Read more…

Projects in Guatemala

Today we went to a village called Vi Chibala – about 40 minutes away from Nebaj. We went to do the publicity for a campaign to promote glasses, water filters and light bulbs that last about 5 to 8 years. Vi Chibala is a beautiful town in the mountains of Coxal, where I saw the most diverse and exotic plants. It was great publicity, and people seemed very receptive and interested in our products.

Hopefully they respond the same way to our projects, which I am so excited about. We are making peanut butter to sell with the youth at the Centro Explorativo (Community Center) we will be working at. We already bought the peanuts and roasted them which to our surprise turned out to taste really good without any burning flavor. This week we will actually make the peanut butter which we’ll see how it turns out. Our desired outcome for the peanut butter project is to create jobs and income for otherwise unemployed local people as well as the introduction of low price and high quality nutritious snack. Hopefully we are successful enough and our project becomes sustainable after doing the walk away test.

We are also building a green vegetable house with little kids at the Centro Explorativo. For right now this idea is not as developed as the peanut butter project but it is approved by the teachers at the Centro. We were thinking of ways to compost and the best thing we thought of is worms and kitchen scrap. We had no idea where to find the worms but turns out that the brother of one of the guys I am staying with grows coffee and he has worms for his compost, so he is going to let us have some. Our desired outcome for the garden project is to introduce vegetables into the Guatemalan’s diet.

La journée mondiale du diabète

My host family’s house here in Sebikotane is made up of three separate buildings enclosing an open concrete-floored space shaded by a single fruit tree (never seen this particular fruit before) and hanging laundry; it is usually empty except for me, my notebook, my nalgene, lots of little kids and a few buckets full of dishes and laundry to one side. But throughout this past week I would come home at one o’clock for lunch from the elementary school where I started my apprenticeship to find this space full of large colorful bodies, mostly women, sitting on stools and mats, bending over large bowls of fish guts or white rice, or stirring a cauldron sized pot of sizzling oil. I would go around and shake each of their hands with a little curtsy to show respect, and inevitably be commanded to sit down, after which would follow a fairly predictable series of questions starting out with where are you from? and proceeding quickly to why don’t you have a husband? Read more…

Inshallah

“We watch you on TV.” This was the first thing my eight year old host sister said to me. At first I thought I had not understood her broken French. Then I discovered I was the first white person she had met. Next, the mother pointed to the fan in the room I sleep in with one of the two girls. “This fan is not good,” she said. “You need to tell your professor to buy you another one.” Seeing the fan worked, I assured her it was fine. I was then informed that two of the children sleeping in the living room did not have a fan therefore the father would take me to the city in a couple of days to buy them one. Later, while watching a TV show taking place in an airport I was told I need to make lots of money in the U.S. to bring back to Senegal and to be able to take the children back with me. Read more…

Coming to Terms

By all means today should not have been an encouraging day. I got to work and did an hour and fifty minutes worth of raking turtle feces, feed, and pathways. I then walked home and commenced to do three hours worth of hand washing laundry. It was incredibly hot and it didn’t help that every person walking by gawked like a three year old in a candy shop. Then while hanging up my laundry I managed to get sand on about half the clothes in the bucket… meaning that I am looking forward to some exfoliating clothes. The best part is I still have to do my whites. Oh, and my hands are rawer than fish in a sushi roll. I finally got to work and was halfway through putting up my last blog when the power went out for fifteen minutes, and then I started the process all over again. Read more…

Cooking Fish and Watching Football in Senegal

Laundry Day

Today marks the day I became a self-sufficient human Laundromat. And let me tell you, I have definitely been taking my washing machine & dryer for granted the past 18 years. There’s a whole process that involves pouring water on your clothes, then soap, then scrubbing, flipping, and turning the clothes in side out while you keep scrubbing until you can’t quite summon any real effort from the muscles in your upper body anymore. Oh, and then you rinse. By hand. And then you squeeze the water out by wringing out your clothes, and that’s especially difficult with jeans, I will witness.

After about 30 minutes of this, I happily reached the bottom of my laundry bag. (I should mention here that my laundry bag was tiny, and my host-mom Josefina does about 2 big buckets of laundry EVERY DAY.) And then all I had was the easy “cool-down” task of hanging it all on the line to dry. Wait, did I say cool-down? I meant the absolute hardest part. They don’t hang them up with clothes pins, but rather they pull apart the fibers of a nylon rope and stick the edges of cloth between them. It’s highly efficient, and super difficult. I would say that the fact that my fingers had been numbed from the cold wash-water was both a blessing and a curse. I had a lot of trouble separating the smaller fibers, but at the same time, I didn’t feel any rope burn when I pinched myself, which was often.

The upside is, however, that today is a sunny, windy day. And if I’m lucky, my clothes will be dry when I get home from working at Cambiando Vidas this evening, and if I’m really REALLY lucky, they might not even smell like fire smoke. Here’s my message in brief: do what I didn’t and appreciate your washing machine & dryer!

Guat-icans

Feeling the part of an expert, I’ve decided to make a simple guide explaining how to come in contact with Guatemalans that have lived and worked in the States.

1. Go to Guatemala
2. Look “American”
3. Locate any form of public transportation (camionetas or microbuses work fine)
4. Take aforementioned public transportation
5. Sit on the driver’s side, as far back in the vehicle as possible
6. Wait

I kid you not, this plan is foolproof – I’ve successfully used it twice myself. (Okay, maybe not foolproof, but the only times I’ve met Guatemalans that lived in the US occurred this way). Read more…

Unemployment

Imagine being the Minister of Health in a country like the United States. Your jobs pretty important right? You spent a long time acquiring the degrees and credentials to be the Minister of Health. Now imagine being paid a salary of 26,000 dollars a year. If a minister’s salary is that much, imagine what the average citizen would make.

However, you’re lucky enough to even be making anything in Senegal. Like so many young men, my host brother doesn’t have a job. It’s not because he doesn’t want one, and it’s not because he’s stupid. There simply aren’t enough jobs in Senegal. Without jobs, imagine how bored these men get. Imagine how unhappy they are. Read more…

Kids Will Be Kids

Kids will seriously put anything in their mouths. Anything. If it looks like it’ll fit, they’ll try it. And if doesn’t look like it’ll fit, they sure as hell going to make it fit.

I woke up one morning, tied up my mosquito net, brushed my teeth and got dressed. I go to put on some chap stick. I open it, and a huge chunk is missing, with teeth marks riddled all around it.

I then go out to have breakfast with the family. But as I was eating, I was watching Aminata, the one year old. She crawls away and proceeds to stick dried bird poop in her mouth. I guess she decides it isn’t bad, and goes for another helping. After that, why not try a leaf? Okay okay, you must be thinking “Why in the world would you just watch?” Well, after eating the bird poop, I really didn’t think she’d go for seconds. How was I supposed to know she’d find it tasty? I thought she’d gag or something. So when she went for some more, I was too shocked to say anything. Then she went for the leaf, and I opened my mouth to say something, but the father grabbed her before I could. Read more…

My House

My house is much smaller than my house in Dakar, but I like it much more. It’s quite small, but more conducive for socializing. There are three buildings. The largest is the one with all the rooms. There are three bedrooms, including mine, and a living room. There is another small building that simply a room with a refrigerator in it. I think they want to turn it into a boutique though. The last building is where the cooking is done. I don’t exactly know if I would call it a “kitchen,” at least not a Western kitchen, since it’s just a room with a propane tank for the cooking. There’s no stove, no sink, no table. The room also smells a little funky, due to the lack of ventilation. There is an outdoor “sink,” which is just a spout and drain. It’s the only source of running water in the entire complex. There’s also a pen for the sheep and turkey. I have no idea why we have a turkey, but the sheep are for Tabaski. There’s a courtyard in the center, and that’s where all the hanging out, the eating, the laundry, the playing happens. There are always cats in the courtyard. My family gives them leftovers, so now they just loiter there. It’s interesting though. It’s like having a new pet every day. Read more…

Yankhoba, The Mentor

Yankhoba is quite the guy. He took me to his house to meet his family. He introduced most of the men as his brothers and most of the women as his sisters. I thought he had 20 siblings. He later told me most of them weren’t actually his brothers or sisters. He just considers them family. The Senegalese consider their friends and neighbors as part of their family. As Americans, we have a very structured view of what family is. I think we should adopt the Senegalese idea of family. Read more…

Sangalkam!

Pulling up into Sangalkam, I got extremely nervous. The thought that loomed in the back of my mind was “What if you’re stuck with a family you don’t like for six months?” I was just getting closer to my Dakar family, after buying them a cake as a “thank you.” Cakes really make everything better. And now, I was being transferred to another family, another environment.

The moment I met my family, I knew I was worrying about nothing. Read more…

Great Expectations

Everywhere I go I meet people along with their expectations. With one exception, I am always greeted with the French “Ca Va” instead of the ritual “Assalam Alekum”. I have no qualms with being viewed French, as most toubabs here are. Where my uneasiness comes in is how along with the Ca Va comes the undertone that I, because I am a foreigner, don’t care enough to learn the local language and greeting. Then there is what I like to call Pere Noel Syndrome… Read more…

Baby Steps

I sat watching baby Muhammad run (or waddle depending on your definition) across the courtyard and realized that while we are definitely opposites in almost every aspect, (I do no wake him up at ridiculous times in the morning each and every day); at this moment we are more alike than we ever will be.

See, we both want to do everything, and all at once. He wants to run up and down the stairs and tries to put his shoes on by himself. I already want to know every routine of ever day, what to do in all the different turtle situations, and how do things without asking everyone… just so that I can start learning and doing even more. Muhammad can now get in his rolly without falling, most of the time. So far I’m really good at raking turtle feces and feed for extended periods of time, weighing, measuring, bathing, and feeding baby turtles, and painting giant rusty metal barrels with oil paint. Read more…

El Instituto

“Touch your head…head…touch your ears…ears…now jump…” About 30 minutes ago, I finished teaching my first ever foreign language class. Sure, teaching English isn’t as impressive as some other language, but the class was exhilarating nonetheless.

School is on vacation this time of year in Guatemala, but “El Instituto” in Nebaj is the city’s first fully public (and free) escuela basico – high school (mas o menos). Ambitiously, though the school has existed for less than a year, the director decided to open up the doors during vacation to encourage further learning. This means 13, 14, 15 year olds that actually want to learn – to the point where they are willing to go to school when they aren’t required to. Whoa! I can’t help but think that if my high school had opened its doors for classes over the summer, you would have been able to hear a pin drop. Read more…

Sant wa? The importance of names in Senegal

Its pretty likely that upon arrival as a guest or even a visitor in a Senegalese home, you will be given a new name. The head of the household, usually the most elderly woman, will probably name you after someone very dear to her, or even herself. In Dakar I was Astou, Astou deux to  be precise (Astou number two), and here in Sebikotane I am Adja Adama Ndoye. The trouble is that Adjaa also happens to be the name of my host sister, so whenever my host mother calls me I’m not sure which one of us she’s calling and we usually both answer. This name also, coincidentally, sounds very similar to a constantly heard expression “aycha!” – which would translate to something like ‘vas-y’ in French or ‘go on’ in English. So basically I feel like I here my name called everywhere, constantly, all the time. Oh, and I also apparently don’t pronounce it correctly, which just adds to the laughter each time I try to introduce myself to people in Wolof. Read more…

Sebikotan Neexna

Earlier today as I sat on a stool just outside the entrance to the kitchen, here in my new home in Sebikotane, sifting rice, I thought back on our arrival yesterday that already felt so long ago. Sifting rice is a good thinking activity. You let the sand-like white grains run through your fingers as you scan the bowl for little black bits – black grains or little beetles – and you pick them out and flick them away, like picking through your thoughts, gathered and flowing. You look up at the blue sky from time to time and breath in the Dakar-smog-free air.

I thought back to the incredible/craziness of jumping in a van to be driven off to my new home for the next six months. I wondered why I didn’t  feel anything out of the ordinary, but most of all I wondered vaguely about how its possible that after having already come so far, learned so much and started to settle down amongst my new surroundings, its time to start over. Read more…

can’t keep from changing, my brain’s bending

As a female here in Senegal, I am often asked if I know how to cook. This is just one of several questions that are posed to me on a daily basis which require in my answer “Aux Etats-Unis, je suis vegetarienne.” People are quick to accept my explanation of why I eat meat while in Senegal, which is that the factory farms, battery-cage facilities and all the abhorrent practices that go hand-in-hand with these places do not really exist here. I have had a few very interesting discussions with people on the issues of animal cruelty. However, while I am obliged to mention my ex-veganism almost every day, the morals behind it have been pushed far into the back of my mind. I assure my questioners that yes, my meat-eating will come to a cessation once I return home, but I had almost forgotten why.  Wednesday morning, I received a powerful reminder.

Since I am here for the year in lieu of college, I’m trying to supplement my “field education” with a lot of reading. Wednesday morning, I was reading Zoë Weil’s Most Good, Least Harm, in which she explains her principle of “MOGO” – Most Good. The idea is that by making conscious and ethical choices in life, one not only finds inner peace, but creates peace in the world around them. Ms. Weil wrote a truly enlightening chapter on making good choices with food. Aside from all the typical “meat is murder!” discourse, she explains carefully and captivatingly the health benefits, huge environmental benefits, and most importantly, how the food we consume affects the people who inhabit the earth with us. She not only reminded me of why I choose to be a vegan, but caused me to reweigh my convictions to see which is the most critical reason. Read more…

can't keep from changing, my brain's bending

As a female here in Senegal, I am often asked if I know how to cook. This is just one of several questions that are posed to me on a daily basis which require in my answer “Aux Etats-Unis, je suis vegetarienne.” People are quick to accept my explanation of why I eat meat while in Senegal, which is that the factory farms, battery-cage facilities and all the abhorrent practices that go hand-in-hand with these places do not really exist here. I have had a few very interesting discussions with people on the issues of animal cruelty. However, while I am obliged to mention my ex-veganism almost every day, the morals behind it have been pushed far into the back of my mind. I assure my questioners that yes, my meat-eating will come to a cessation once I return home, but I had almost forgotten why.  Wednesday morning, I received a powerful reminder.

Since I am here for the year in lieu of college, I’m trying to supplement my “field education” with a lot of reading. Wednesday morning, I was reading Zoë Weil’s Most Good, Least Harm, in which she explains her principle of “MOGO” – Most Good. The idea is that by making conscious and ethical choices in life, one not only finds inner peace, but creates peace in the world around them. Ms. Weil wrote a truly enlightening chapter on making good choices with food. Aside from all the typical “meat is murder!” discourse, she explains carefully and captivatingly the health benefits, huge environmental benefits, and most importantly, how the food we consume affects the people who inhabit the earth with us. She not only reminded me of why I choose to be a vegan, but caused me to reweigh my convictions to see which is the most critical reason. Read more…

What is Left Afterwards

On tuesday our schedules took us to a beautiful little town call Acul where we had to do publicity for a campaign to promote the use of reading glasses for people older than 35 years old who has lost their vision with time. “Soluciones Comunitarias” the organization we do the campaigns with also gives protector glasses and drops for Carnocidad, which is a layer of skin over the eye produce by the exposure of too much sun, dirt and chemicals in the air. Carnocidad is a very common illness in rural Guatemala. I have seen people of about 35 years old with Carnocidad already. This is an indicator of contamination and the amount of hours that people work under the sun.

Ana, a 17 year-old women who is in charge of the campaign, and I walked on the streets of Acul for about 2 hours and a half giving flyers about our campaign and talking to people about it. As I walked and looked up the mountains and waterfalls I could not ignore the feeling of peace. But as I also looked down I notice the dirt on my shoes from the moody streets, a Mayan women with a baby in her back while gracefully taking all her strength to carry corn in a pot on her head. People would stare at us questioning every gesture and word that we would say with only an eye stare. Personally, I would not be surprise since the fears and consequences of the Civil War in 1996 (not too long ago) are still not fully overcome. In addition, it says a lot about the lack of basic resources that Guatemalans face in the present due to the short period of time since the war ended. Read more…

Bienvenida Nebaj

On Saturday, around 8:15AM, Ian, our team leader Luis, Maria Clara, and I left the department of Santo Tomas. I was so excited with the idea of being in Nebaj and starting my apprenticeship in education with youth at the community center in “La Pista,” a little town a few minutes outside of Nebaj.

The road to Nebaj was an adventure that added enthusiasm to the headache of the curvy roads. The first main city we went through is called “Chimaltenango” and for about 20 minutes we saw nothing but small businesses that repair cars. Apparently, years ago many people drove to the United States and bought cars damaged in accidents in order to repair and sell them in Guatemala. Nowadays there are more regulations to cross the border into the United States and people don’t do it as much.

Personally, I think having so many small businesses that offer the same service in the same area leaves very little room for development.

As we drove further northwest, we crossed another main city call “Chichicastenango” which is an area were tourism has become big. Then we cross “Quiche” and it seemed very similar to Santo Tomas in terms of development and a lot of little shops where I found the best chips ever called “Tortrix.” The houses, like in Santo Tomas, were mainly made of bricks and iron. In Quiche, everyone had gathered in excited groups waiting for a big bicycle race to pass, in which athletes from many countries in South America and neighbors of Guatemala were competing. My heart started to dance when I saw a Venezuela jersey there since I am Venezuelan. Read more…

Bienvenida Nebaj

On Saturday, around 8:15AM, Ian, our team leader Luis, Maria Clara, and I left the department of Santo Tomas. I was so excited with the idea of being in Nebaj and starting my apprenticeship in education with youth at the community center in “La Pista,” a little town a few minutes outside of Nebaj.

The road to Nebaj was an adventure that added enthusiasm to the headache of the curvy roads. The first main city we went through is called “Chimaltenango” and for about 20 minutes we saw nothing but small businesses that repair cars. Apparently, years ago many people drove to the United States and bought cars damaged in accidents in order to repair and sell them in Guatemala. Nowadays there are more regulations to cross the border into the United States and people don’t do it as much.

Personally, I think having so many small businesses that offer the same service in the same area leaves very little room for development.

As we drove further northwest, we crossed another main city call “Chichicastenango” which is an area were tourism has become big. Then we cross “Quiche” and it seemed very similar to Santo Tomas in terms of development and a lot of little shops where I found the best chips ever called “Tortrix.” The houses, like in Santo Tomas, were mainly made of bricks and iron. In Quiche, everyone had gathered in excited groups waiting for a big bicycle race to pass, in which athletes from many countries in South America and neighbors of Guatemala were competing. My heart started to dance when I saw a Venezuela jersey there since I am Venezuelan. Read more…

El Dia de Los Difuntos

On Sunday, while my host parents Josefina and Omar went to the community cemetery to decorate the graves of their parents with the wreaths I helped them make, I went with the other fellows to a town called Santiago, famous for its huge kite festival.

Upon arriving, we walked about 2 miles down a street crammed with vendors of all types– some selling tissue paper kites in various sizes, designs and colors; others selling food of all kinds, grilling the meet right in front of you or displaying handmade candies in baskets; some very entrepreneurial types just posted signs that said “Se Alquila Sanitario- 7 Q” (Renting their bathrooms! Haha.)

At the end of the road, we filtered into the cemetery where hundreds of people were crawling like ants over the mausoleums and graves of their ancestors, graves that were covered in marigolds, here called “la flor de los muertos” or the flower of the dead. Though it felt sort of sacrilegious to me at first, I ultimately decided that when I die, I would much rather have a party thrown above me than to never be visited. And in truth, the “party” is in honor of the dead. The whole reason for flying the kites in the cemetery is to create a signal for the spirits of your ancestors so that they know where they should come down to visit you. Also during the day family members visit the graves of their ancestors and clean and decorate them, as a sign of love and respect. I actually love the idea, since in the States my perception of graveyards is dismal, sorrowful, and somber. In fact the more that I think about the spirit of the day, the more it seems to fit in with the culture of Guatemala, and the more fitting of a tribute to those you have lost it becomes.

Oh, and the kites themselves? Breathtaking. They are made out of tissue paper, fashioned in intricate, colorful patterns, depicting aspects of the life and history of Guatemala. There was not much wind while we were there, and so we didn’t see too many fly– but to see them in person and hear the crowd cheer when a new giant kite was hoisted up to be displayed was definitely worth the trip.

my heart’s aflame, my body’s strained (but God, I like it)

First of all, the road to Sebikotane was the longest, bumpiest road I have ever traveled on. By the time we arrived, I had been bounced fully out of my seat at least a dozen times and hit my head on the ceiling once. However, we passed a lengthy stretch of what looked like a hundred twisty, almost skeletal baobab trees. It was worth the head trauma just to see this unforgettable landscape. Then, our arrival itself was much more of an event than it was in Dakar. Gaya, Hilary and I were received by a delegation at City Hall that included the mayor, vice-mayor, one of each of our host parents, our mentors and various other folks. Afterward, we met some village elders near Gaya’s house and one of them gave us a blessing. It was obvious that the community in Sebikotane was excited to receive us and that we would be well taken care of by everybody here. Read more…

my heart's aflame, my body's strained (but God, I like it)

First of all, the road to Sebikotane was the longest, bumpiest road I have ever traveled on. By the time we arrived, I had been bounced fully out of my seat at least a dozen times and hit my head on the ceiling once. However, we passed a lengthy stretch of what looked like a hundred twisty, almost skeletal baobab trees. It was worth the head trauma just to see this unforgettable landscape. Then, our arrival itself was much more of an event than it was in Dakar. Gaya, Hilary and I were received by a delegation at City Hall that included the mayor, vice-mayor, one of each of our host parents, our mentors and various other folks. Afterward, we met some village elders near Gaya’s house and one of them gave us a blessing. It was obvious that the community in Sebikotane was excited to receive us and that we would be well taken care of by everybody here. Read more…

Just Call Me Galileo

Sitting here listening to Shania Twain serenading me from the television – in Dakar, in Senegal, on my last day of my first month – I cannot help but notice an odd juxtaposition. All at once it feels like I have been here the longest time, yet it also feels like I have only been in Senegal for a few hours. Reflecting on this beginning of my journey that has stretched from the Institute of Noetic Sciences to the sewage lined streets in Dakar after the big rains, I feel like I am entering my own Renaissance, my own rebirth. Like those of old, it is not a rebirth that forgets everything that has happened in history, but one that is putting the puzzle pieces of the past in their place and building up from them. So I have not found huge new things to care about yet, but I have had the opportunity to shine a light on things that usually sit happily in the shadows. All that I have know of myself up to this point is centered, acknowledge, and there for the pondering. My renaissance is in its infancy, but now it is time for me to show everyone that, in fact, we are not the center of the universe.

• Cuisine: I never quite realized how much joy cooking gave me, whether it was for myself or for others. Then there is the feeling of absolutely being alive when you have the perfect meal with the perfect ingredients.
• Aesthetic: I now see how being surrounded by beauty that lets in the world, and doesn’t make you draw connections to prison cells, resonates with you, whether you notice it or not. To me, clothes are a form of personal expression but the different societal norms have brought in this freedom.
• Language: I’ve always loved books an absurd amount. Really, the smell of new books is a paramount thing in the world I think. Somehow though, I have never loved writing; I was always bored with my papers by the time I was finished with them. That is, until now. Even as I write this, I am secretly smiling. Writing something out makes me crystallize my ideas and thoughts, finding the flaws and the gems in them. The moment that I find the word that slides into the sentences perfectly is comparable to a tempurpedic mattress: it makes you feel comfortable and content with life. Living in a world that does not pass through my language has only furthered this idea, giving every word in every language more value. Read more…

je parle le francais

I am struggling in French class. I didn’t think it would be as bad as it is but, now that I think about it, I’m the only fellow who doesn’t speak another language. The only training I had was a couple semesters of Spanish where we conjugated a few verbs and watched the Lion King in Spanish. But I don’t let that get me down or think of it as a handicap. In fact, I take comfort in the chance to start over with a new language because that means that I a lot more room to grow. I feel like a baby in a 6′2 frame and I even make my host brother read me children books in French at night.

I think the hardest thing about learning a new language it’s not being able to think in that language. It’s so annoying when trying to read French while thinking in English. It makes me lethargic and the grammar is outrageous. I have to honest, one of my biggest fear is not being able to speak a language that is not mother tongue before I leave.  I plan on doing more work in Frencspeaking West Africa in the future so I use that as incentive to study harder. I take French and Wolof seriously but I’m trying to have fun while growing. It’s like my professeur always says:

ca viendra…. mathieu….. ca viendra

What is photography and why?

Yesterday afternoon I had a very troublesome discussion with my host brother Amadou about photography. After being in Dakar for about two weeks without taking out my camera, I have only recently started to photograph, trying to do it discreetly while  just sitting around, taking spontaneous shots of random things that made interesting compositions, hoping that eventually everyone would just ignore the camera. But I have yet to feel comfortable hanging out with my camera in hand. Photographing like that has always made me feel kind of sneaky and dishonest, because the only pictures I like to take are the ones people don’t know about (after of course letting everyone pose as much as they like), but now I definitely feel that way - now that I have learned how unwanted these sorts of pictures are here. Read more…

A typical evening chez nous…. + spagetti!

To follow up on last week’s blog post, I feel obliged to share a few basil-related updates.

Firstly, it turns out that the basil is also an essential ingredient of the tea that my host mother brews daily to assuage her headaches. Its a mix of kenkeliba leaves, basil and mint (and a lot of sugar) and it is quite delicious, as I discovered last night after a very satisfying meal of pasta, a l’italien! Not knowing that my host mother had fried some fish for me, I asked if it would be ok if I cooked for myself this evening. I was afraid it would be too late to buy vegetables since it was almost dark, but its never too late when your neighbor is the one who sells them to you, or when the boutique you buy groceries from is just around the corner. So I ventured across the street into another home – Assalam Malekum, Malekum Salaam ecc. - and asked for Madame Diop, and some vegetables. I didn’t have enough weccit (change) at the time, but, grawul (no worries); I took my two tomatoes, eggplant and carrot and returned later to deliver the weccit. I like the way food is bought here daily, in small quantities (for example, I can run around the corner with my baguette and ask for the shop owner to spread some chocolate on it for 50 cfa) often from your good friend around the corner. My host mother recieves many visits daily of other friendly women which generally involve a discreet exchange of money or a bucket of fish. In Sebikotane, one of our assignments will be to investigate women’s organizations, and so I hope to find out more about these relationships in Dakar before I leave. Read more…

Valhalla Farm

Were I to be handed a five hundred dollar disability pension check from my job as a paramedic, I might not immediately think to move to Guatemala and start planting macadamia trees. This is why I wasn’t the founder of the Valhalla Farm.

The farm, tucked behind a small bridge and a jumble of vegetation, lies on one of the main roads out of Ciudad Vieja. Only steps beyond the bridge, I found myself in a place of utter beauty. The massive macadamia trees create a picturesque deep green landscape, made even more majestic by the clearly laid footpath that could have easily fallen straight off the pages of a JRR Tolkien novel.

Before receiving a formal tour of the property, we sat around a simple wooden table, carefully placed to fit in perfect harmony with its surroundings. Before long, we all had breakfast on a plate in front of us — three perfectly cooked pancakes served with rich homemade macadamia nut butter, blueberry jam, honey, and fresh pineapple and melon. Simply stated: the best breakfast of my life — every flavor impeccably intense, every color vivid, and every texture smooth. A meal for the gods.

Still immersed in a state of food-imparted ecstasy, I pulled myself away from the table to observe the small pond with fish. Come to find out, this pond exists for the purpose of creating natural fertilizer, dually using fish excrement and the roots of two breeds of quick growing plants. In fact, nature was a pretty important concept at the Farm. The six acre campus has no electricity and prides itself on not using clones of trees, rather encouraging biodiversity “as God intended” to ensure that the macadamias can survive changes in environment. I can’t help but feel that these kind of projects are the most promising ways that humanity can combat our environmental problems. Read more…

Photos by Victoria and Alec

Metaphor My Life

Two days ago, while struggling to fall asleep (due to the hilarious wolof jokes being told outside my window by ten Senegalese men), I pulled out a stack of Visual Explorer cards, from the Center for Creative Leadership, that I had gotten during training. Visual Explorer is basically a stack of really nice photographs that are card sized. I then asked myself questions, and tried to find out which picture perfectly explained my emotions or ideas about that question. It is surprising how much more you find out about yourself when you make yourself realize why one image or phrase resonates, and another doesn’t. This led me to think about how much of my life is explained like Visual Explorer – in metaphor. Read more…

Fabric Frenzy

It was like entering a giant maze of fabric yesterday when we went to buy fabric for Tabaski, a big holiday at the end of November. Little stalls were squeezed together forming make shift streets and allies. Umbrellas and blankets were hung over head between the stalls giving the illusion that we were inside when we were really out. Fabrics of all different colors and textures covered the sides of each stall; some shiny and all one color, others bright with patterns made from eyelet cutouts, some sparkly and bedazzled and others with bold waxed patterns. As we made our way through the bends and curves of the allies, shaking our heads at the many fabrics placed right in front of our faces and people motioning us to follow them I felt like I was in a fabric cave. Read more…

Cooking!

So I’ve recently gotten into this cooking thing. I want to study gastronomy in school and I figured since I’m in Senegal, why not learn some things about Senegalese cooking? I talked to Gaya, one of the fellows, and she actually invited me over to cook with her family. I was so excited. It was awesome. And since Gaya is pretty much fluent in French, if I had a question, I could actually ask it. Read more…

An Unexpected Event

Last night, after finishing my french homework and talking to Erin on skype, I left the Baobab Center around seven as usual. I walked back to the Corenthin house, trying to not fall in the brown river the street turned into after the rain and was just about to walk in, when I realized the front door was open. This was very surprising since I have never seen the front door open and the rare occasion I was given a key to go out I was given specific instructions on how to make sure the door was fully locked. I cautiously peeked around the door to find the front room crowded with women reciting a prayer. The first thought that came into my mind was ‘oh no the grandmother died.’ Considering I heard her listening to Bob Sinclair, a French DJ, earlier that day this was probably not the best guess as to what was going on, at the same time she has not left her bed since I arrived.

A tad nervous and not knowing what to do, I walked out of the doorway to think of a plan which, as the sun was about to disappear and therefore make waiting outside not a good option, was to call Rachel. In the process of getting my phone I was surprised by a ‘bon soir’ and found Victoria’s host cousin standing beside me. After explaining to him what was going on he insisted that I just say bon soir and pass through.

Later that night I found out that during the months of October and May the Christian women pass a statue of the Virgin Mary from house to house each night.  This is accompanied by a gathering for prayer at the house.

Baobabs, Swimming and Thunder

Yesterday after language classes we took a field trip to i’ile de la Madeleine, an uninhabited island off the coast of Dakar. In order to get there we took what looked like a long row boat with a motor. Due to the rocky shore around most of the island we were taken into a little cove that, aside from little pieces of plastic and other debris floating in the water, was absolutely beautiful. Being the group of people we are we all decided to explore the island. As we were lead up a rocky path by our french speaking tour guide, having to push away shoulder high grass and dodge tree branches, it was like going through a jungle! The whole time Ananda was narrating everything for a GCY flip video and Victoria was singing a song about baobabs which got us all laughing.

At the top of the island there was an amazing view of the ocean and Dakar. The tour guide explained to us that the French had originally tried to build a fort on the island however each attempt failed because the spirit of the island did not want people to inhabit it. The island is also known for its baobab trees, a symbol of Senegal. There they have grown spread out along the ground due to the wind. One of the baobabs is said to be home to the spirit of the city of Dakar.

After our walk around the island we all went swimming in the little cove. We had to watch out however for the sea urchins that covered the bottom. Before it was time to go we walked over the basalt rocks that make up the island to a little out look where we watched the waves crash into the rocks over time forming tunnels and caverns. On the way back we saw a gorgeous sun set just before the sky filled with the thunder and lightening of what is most likely the last rain, making a great ending to our day. Luckily we all got home before the deluge began!

I sweat salt and the Earth sweats heat

There are few times in my life when I can honestly say that I was drenched in sweat. Today was one of those times. Not once before today have I been drenched in sweat without some kind of physical exertion behind it, be it a strenuous martial arts practice, a long run or even dancing at prom with 500 other sweaty people. Actually, now that I think about it, I guess there was a different kind of physical exertion today. Here’s what it looked like:

8:57 AM: Wake up. Realize I am late. Jump out of bed to wash my face and brush my teeth.

9:06 AM: Arrive at Baobab Center. All the other Fellows are already there, watching a French-dubbed version of the cinematic masterpiece known as Paycheck.

9:25 AM: Ananda calls Samba, our guide for the day, who was supposed to meet us at 9. He says he’ll be there in 5 minutes.

9:45 AM: Samba arrives. After handshakes we leave with another guide. Ben Wallace.

9:52 AM: We all pile into an infamous car-rapide. Normally, this is where the sweating would begin, but I got some prime real estate next to a giant window. The ride is very enjoyable, and I am in high spirits. Read more…

note the trees, because the dirt is temporary

Now that we’ve been in-country for three weeks, I find myself settling into more of a routine. This is a very good thing in some ways, but I’ve realized that it has its negatives as well.

The upside is obviously that I am becoming more comfortable in Senegal. I honestly don’t think I experienced much culture shock to begin with – probably largely because we are in a city that has been rapidly Westernizing for the past few decades – but anything that did surprise me at first has faded into the background of everyday life. My initial difficulty with sleeping is a distant memory, especially since my move to a new room with a spring (!) mattress. My body has almost fully accepted the steady consumption of meat. I can hold my own, in regards to French, when walking through the neighborhood – from buying snacks at a local “boutique” to returning the enthusiastic greetings of children or young men, to their great amusement. I’ve made peace with the heat and humidity and even, to a certain extent, the pervasive sweatiness and odors that accompany them.

The downside is a little more complicated. I truly hate to say it, but I’m getting a little bit bored at my homestay. My French still isn’t at the level where I can talk about topics of decent depth or breadth, so I’ve found that my host brothers and cousins and I have exhausted our meager conversational capabilities. I try to talk to my host mother, a soft-spoken woman with one of the kindest faces I have ever seen, and she is always obliging. However, try as I might, I can barely understand her responses to my stuttered questions, much less answer any of hers. I sit with the women of my family as they watch their daily soaps, but (if you can believe it) the campy melodramas are even worse when you don’t understand the dialogue, regardless of how inane it probably is. I don’t want to perpetuate the idea that I’m another American kid studying abroad with the intention of “expanding my horizons,” only to sit in my room and read all the time, emerging solely to be fed. I am using my best efforts to stay engaged with my family to avoid falling into that dreaded cliché. However, my frustrations with communication, coupled with my aforementioned move into a more private, more luxurious bedroom, are making it a little too easy for me to give in.

Nevertheless, there are still things that cause ripples in these very comfortable days. As I was taking a break from class today for a quick snack run with Alec, a boy about our age spotted us coming out of the Baobab Center. He proceeded to trail us to the boutique, where he greeted me like an old friend, which was a little odd to both Alec and I, but he bought something and left fairly soon. I was extremely surprised when he came back AGAIN a few minutes later to shake my hand a second time and ask Alec if I was his sister or wife. In retrospect, I should have made like the Senegalese, told a white lie and said Alec was my husband. But I didn’t, and the persistent boy then lingered around the door until we left, following me down the street and asking me if I was married. I had figured out by now to say “oui, je suis mariee,” but it was too late and we had some trouble shaking him off.

I know culture shock will happen in Sebikotane, so I’m definitely going to appreciate air conditioning and wi-fi while I still have them. Even so, I don’t want to let myself get so comfortable that I stop observing things around me with a fresh and inquisitive perspective. I’m definitely making an effort to keep an open mind and open eyes for the rest of my stay in the city. We’ll see how many new surprises I encounter in before I dive into an entirely new experience in Sebi.

Mel ak Tapha nungi toog ci ker ga….

…Ibou xaritu tapha new na.

The translation of the above phrases would be: Mel and Tapha are sitting in the house; Ibou, Tapha’s friend, has arrived. This is a direct excerpt from one of the first dialogues in my Wolof textbook. During my daily three-hour Wolof classes, we generally dedicate a generous amount of time to repeating dialogues, which would probably explain why, of all phrases, I seem to have absorbed this one so well. Years from now when I struggle to remember any Wolof (not that I plan on forgetting it…) I may not remember how to say “my name is” but I will almost certainly remember “Mel ak Tapha….” Its very satisfying to say. Read more…

Scenes From the Ile des Madeleines

Basil in Senegal?!!

This evening while helping one of my host mothers cook dinner, I made a very unexpected discovery. Tonight’s meal was grilled chicken, which in Senegal means chicken that has been cooked in a very oily sauce, then deep friend in pure oil, and then grilled. To go with the chicken there were fried potatoes, chunks of the same old machine-made baguette and a thick, pungent, oily, brown onion sauce. My role in “helping” basically amounted to stirring the stuff in the pan every once in a while, but I was happy to be sitting in the hot kitchen, on my little wooden stool in front of the gas stove, and to be able to say in wolof “mangiy togg” (I am cooking) and I think my host mother was happy too. Read more…

baobabs & baobabs some more – you can’t outwait fate (w/ photos!)

As I am writing this, it’s raining for the first time since I left Boston a month ago. Inside my house. The way the house is structured, the staircases leading from floor to floor are essentially outside. There is no roof above them, so it is raining INSIDE MY HOUSE! There are sheets of water flowing down the staircases! This is pretty cool, but I can’t even begin to imagine living here in the rainy season. The floor outside my room is already starting to become wet and I fear how it will be if the rain keeps up. Read more…

baobabs & baobabs some more – you can't outwait fate (w/ photos!)

As I am writing this, it’s raining for the first time since I left Boston a month ago. Inside my house. The way the house is structured, the staircases leading from floor to floor are essentially outside. There is no roof above them, so it is raining INSIDE MY HOUSE! There are sheets of water flowing down the staircases! This is pretty cool, but I can’t even begin to imagine living here in the rainy season. The floor outside my room is already starting to become wet and I fear how it will be if the rain keeps up. Read more…

Golden Arches

Those Golden Arches. Oh dear. I miss those beautiful, Golden Arches. I couldn’t really sleep very well last night. Perhaps it’s because my mind was too preoccupied thinking about that image in my head. Oh how the gold pops with that red background. And here comes a little girl with beautiful fire-red pigtails and freckled cheeks. I think her name is Wendy?

I don’t even like fast food that much. I have no idea why I’m craving McDonald’s and Wendy’s. I mean, Wendy’s has the best chicken nuggets, with McDonald’s close behind. Wendy’s breaded nuggets are flavored with heaven I swear, while McDonald’s incredibly crispy nuggets are fried with the oil of the gods. I am quite the nugget connoisseur. I remember those late night Wendy’s runs since Wendy’s in Burlington, Massachusetts doesn’t close ’til 2 on Fridays. But as I think about it more, it’s not the fact that I miss fast food or I’m really craving those nuggets. I miss the comfort. I miss the comfort of piling inside a van with your friends late at night to satisfy your hunger, with the only thing that’s open. I miss the memories.

I thought I’d see a McDonald’s in Senegal and I thought every time I see one, I’d be comforted by those memories. But when I Googled it, Senegal actually doesn’t have a single McDonald’s. Which is probably better for my health, but it just reminds me exactly how far away I am. When there’s no McDonald’s, you gotta be in a far-away world.

The Iles de la Madeleine

Right now the rain continues to pound the tin over my room. Since last night the rain has been torrential, pouring over every crevice, dripping from each edge, and slowly seeping over every surface. To say the least, it was quite the opposite of my experience yesterday.

Saturday began like every other day this week- the same breakfast, the same walk to the Baobab center, and the same 9-1 French class. This was where the routine stopped though, for we were off to the Iles de la Madeleine this afternoon. Our first task though was to obtain lunch, as we did not have enough time to go home. So all of us set out-some to the nearest boutique and others to the super Marché. It eventually ended up that Alec and I went to the boutique-buying baguette like rolls, eggs, and onions (and he got a potato). We then continued back to the Baobab center and ended up making the most delicious egg sandwiches, and the others followed suit when they came back from the super Marché with whole wheat bread as their prize. Read more…

In Pictures and Video

French Adventures

Oh la la,where in the world is my mind? Last week the we had our first french lesson here, and Hilary and I are with Madame Dianaba (Jana-baa). Before the lesson we had to take an exam to find out which class we would end up in and the exam consisted of a speaking conversation with the french teacher. Now in our group Gaya speaks impeccable french, Hilary is pretty darn good, I’m okay, and we have three who speak absolutely nothing. So we of course are tell the teachers, no these people don’t speak french. Instead of being like oh they don’t need to take the exam Dianaba goes (in french) “super, lets start with them. To say the least, it was a quick exam. Anyways, Hilary and I are in the same class, which is quite a nice 1:2 ratio if I may say so. Anyways, our first task was to interview a man who works at the Baobab center in french. So we had gone through all the formal things-what is your name, occupation, where you were born, family, political believes, and so on. Anyways, he then states the question, as-tu un copain? Now literally copain means friend, as in do you have a friend. At the current time I was exhausted, so of course I was like yes, I have tons of friends, and rattled off a bunch of people. Then he asks Hilary if she has a friend? Her response? No. It was at this point that I remembered that in slang french, copain means boyfriend. To my horror, I had just told the man working at my ’school’ that I had tons and tons of boyfriends. So I back tracked to say the least. Read more…

Elephant Gun

Looking at the majority of my days, there are usually some things that go wrong, but every day seems to turn out at least a little bit great. Its funny though how sometimes, even when so many things go right, the few wrong things that actually happen consume you and your day. Yesterday I recieved an e-mail from Ian, one of the guatemalan fellows, which made me elated beyond belief, as we became fast friends in San Fran. I got to talk to Mrs. Lindquist and wish her Happy Birthday (Happy Birthday!!!!!!!!!!!!). I improved my french. I ate an orange. I got to listen to some good music, met a new friend named Boxie who can rap and beatbox, had really good food (eggs for the first time!!!!!! They are fried like the fries at mcdonalds, so I dont know how I feel about that), and the heat wasnt even that bad. Oh, and I am in Africa, so thats pretty beyond amazing as well. I cant really say how much better all of these things make me feel. Read more…

Saturday Evening

Saturday evening might have been my lowest low and I say that with some ambivalence in conscience of the fact that I still have six months to go and the fact that it is always too easy to oversimplify things in retrospect, soften past pains to heal lingering ones.

On Saturday evening Rachel and I were stuck in a traffic jam in Dakar, in an old cranky Mercedes that kept on stalling and seemed as though it could break down at any moment. Rachel was driving me home after an afternoon visit to the Parc Forestier de Hann (a nature preserve and a zoo where Rachel’s good friend Mr. Diaham works). Having been extremely ill for the past three days with traveler’s diarrhea I was exhausted, weak and nauseous, and Rachel was probably tired too, if anything from driving around constantly to check up on me and my medical needs. There were bright colorful flashing lights, incessant honking and rumbling of motors and the air was hot and thick with exhaust. I held my head in one hand and handkerchief in the other up to my nose. I was down in one of those deep dark places where I I don’t want to talk or think – just sleep and forget and wake up where I had been three days ago. Read more…

Chuchos

I had a pretty exciting encounter with a chucho today. A chucho is a wild dog. So as I was panicking that I couldn’t find my phone, I walked down the street to Zuleika’s house (one of the other fellows who happens to be staying with my host mother’s sister, or something like that). I needed to find my phone because I was worried I had gotten pick pocketed on the Chicken bus. As you know from my last post, this would be very easy place to get pick pocketed on the chicken bus, because there’s obviously a lot of other things you’re thinking about, like not falling out the open door… or putting your butt in some stranger’s face by accident. You know, like the usual stuff people worry about on their daily commute.

So anyway, I’m in a kind of frantic state, to say the least, and I’m walking briskly down the street to Zuleika’s house consciously thinking about how cold it was and how its not supposed to be cold in Guatemala, and unconsciously thinking about how I could have possibly lost my phone.

As I got near her house, this dog about the size of a small lab came running at me growling fiercely as though it was protecting its house. Of course, Zuleika’s host family doesn’t have a dog, they only have about 30 chickens and 10 turkeys in their front yard. This dog was vicious too, all growling and baring its teeth and all. Read more…

Ay! Mi Zapato! Lo Siento!!!

Today was the first day I played soccer in Guatemala. It was an impromptu game after we visited our town’s public school this afternoon, and I was wearing tight jeans and ballet flats that flop off when I’m simply walking, so I felt quite disadvantaged…but excited none the less. It was Luis, Miguel (or Michael, if you want to be American about it), Ian, and I against four boys who I would guess aged from 14 to maybe 17. Read more…

some days, they last longer than others

Semi-lengthy update!

This is a picture of my host cousins playing the kora for me. They played a mixture of traditional and love songs. Haha. I got offered many things, from new Senegalese husbands to drags off communal cigarettes. (All of which I refused, politely, of course.)

Home life: My host family is great and HUGE – there are tons of people in the house. My host sister just got married, so there are currently about 10 extra ladies staying here for the remainder of their holidays. Combined with my host brother’s many male cousins and the occasional uncle, most of whom visit so often they might as well live here, it makes for a lively household.

They all definitely have the prized value of Senegal known as teranga, or hospitality. The food is tasty and I’m adjusting to being a carnivore faster than I thought I would. I have my own room, but several ladies keep their things in the armoire and are constantly coming in and out. Privacy is definitely an oddity here, but I don’t mind at all because the women are all so friendly. I’m definitely still having difficulty communicating with my host mother, grandmother and aunts. I hope I learn quickly because the language barrier is a little frustrating. Which brings me to.. Read more…

What the heck are you doing you crazy fool

Today we commuted entirely alone for the first time ever. Just the five fellows living in Santo Tomas Milpas Altas. The world didn’t seem to like that idea.

Today Zuleika and I left the house twenty minutes late, knocked on Ian’s door to make sure he had left, and got to the bus stop at exactly 7:50. We got lucky and got on the micro bus that was waiting near the stop. If you’ve ever been to the Air and Space museum in Washington DC and seen the miniature van that the McDonald’s stand out front uses to move food around (come on, I know you have), this is what a microbus is. Its like a mini-van version of a golf-cart, and today there were 9 people inside, with 4 on the back row and one standing up bent over near the sliding door. Read more…