Dear Senegalese People

This letter does not reflect the opinions of Peace Corps Senegal, the US Peace Corps or the US Government

I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while. The past few months have been very busy. But as the year is coming to a close, I thought I should get this to you right away. Next year will be even busier, and I doubt I will write at all.

Thank you for a great 2015. Thank you for the tiny cups of café touba, the 346 kilos of rice, the peanut sauce, the fresh vegetables and soft baguettes. Thank you for getting us where I need to be. Even though you did this painfully, and made us cry in your garages over the course of the year, you still got us where we wanted alive. Thank you for the greetings and the kind words. Thank you for the songs and dances; for explaining and sharing your culture; for inviting us to your weddings and naming ceremonies. Thank you for the hospitality; whether or not you wanted to show it, we could not tell. Thank you for working with us, answering our many survey questions, making an effort to understand our local language. And to those of you who have stopped laughing at us, thank you. Thank you for always answering your phone when we call you. We know that it is economically advantageous to you when we call you and we do notice that you keep us on the phone longer because it’s on our dime, but thank you. Because when we need answers quick, you give them. Thank you for being a walking Rolodex, a breathing calculator, and for being able to recall conversations from months ago on demand. Thank you for welcoming us into your families. While not all situations are amicable, you have not kicked us out, beat us or hazed us. Thank you. Thank you for letting us call your children our brothers and sisters, for standing up for us, for listening to us.

We are grateful we made it through the year with you but let’s revisit some things for 2016.

To the people who work in public transportation, sometimes you’re very mean to us for reasons we don’t understand. We literally don’t understand; because we’ve probably travelled to an area of the country where the local language we speak is not spoken. Or our language skills are just subpar. Please don’t yell at us, gesture angrily at us, grab us and pull us with force. This isn’t kind. We had a meeting last night and decided we weren’t going to take this next year.

To our host families, please still give us food during Ramadan. Some of us are very shy and won’t ask for food but please remember that not everyone is a Muslim or cares to fast for a whole month. When you feed the children in the morning and afternoons, just remember to feed us too. This is one of the few times we like to be treated like children.

Speaking of which, please control your children next year. We are at a loss of what to do when we see them eating sand, walking through animal poop without their shoes on, or intensely wrestling each other. Usually when these things happen you or any other adult is nowhere in the vicinity, leaving us with the awkward choices of walking away or scolding someone’s child. Many of chose the former, not because we’re evil, but because we just don’t know what to do.

Your children need to stop walking into our rooms with announcing themselves first. It is frustrating, annoying and honestly, just scary. You do it too sometimes, which is why many of us have taken to locking ourselves in our rooms in the middle of the day. Please knock or say “Konk konk”, wait for us to positively identify you (this may take a while because even though we’ve been here for a while, we probably still don’t know your name), then wait for us to grant you access or not. We are adults; many of us are closer to 30 than 20. Please respect this (see Ramadan exception above).

In 2016, when we say we’re full, we really mean it. When we say we’re tired (literally and figuratively), we really mean it. When we demand you lower the price, we really mean it (don’t just laugh at us). When we say we’re going to the regional house/office to work, we really mean it (well, most of us do). When we say we don’t have money, we really mean it.

To the people who cheat us out of what is rightfully ours, give us an attitude in restaurants, mess up our orders, destroy our fabric, steal our money or belongings; to those children who throw rocks at us, the women who raise their voices at us and the men who grab us; to the people who show up to our meetings late, pledge your support in front of our bosses but forget about us as soon as the PC car turns the corner; to the people who laugh at us, treat us differently because we look different or not as you expect us to look, treat us unjustly because we are women, or expect too much from us because we are men; to the people who make us cry or use choice words; to those of you who lie to us, mock us and tell us we don’t know anything; to those of you who have made work and life so difficult for us when you had everything in your power to make it bearable; we had a meeting last night, and decided we’re done.

In 2016, we are going to do the work you asked us to do in peace. Any attempt to belittle or disrespect us will be met with just as much ferocity.

I know I may sound angry but trust me, I am not. We are humbled that you have invited us into your communities and into your families. We made it through this year and we look forward to an even better one.

So, I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while. The past few months have been very busy. But as the year is coming to a close, I thought I should get this to you right away. Next year will be even busier, and I doubt I will write at all.

Taiwo

7 months

7 is significant. In 7 days, God created the world and rested. 7 are the number of days in a week. In the Biblical book of Mark, 7 loaves of bread became 7 baskets of leftovers. It is the jersey number of the San Francisco 49er’s quarterback, Colin Kaepernick. It’s the number of passenger places in a Senegalese 7- seater. It’s the number of Harry Potter books written, the number of continents, the number of colors in the rainbow and the number of rows in the periodic table.

It’s also the number of months my cohort has till we complete our Peace Corps service in Senegal. We know this because we frequent websites like DevNet, LinkedIn, and Devex a few times a week to update our profiles, polish our resumes, look for the latest opportunities. I know this because conversations with my colleagues do not end without someone mentioning phrases like “third year extension”, “going back for more school”, “can’t wait” or “NCE is going to help us. Right?”

It’s almost over.

What was feared, hated, loved. What we looked forward to, what we suffered through, what we endured, what we grew to love and enjoy is now almost over.

Almost. But not yet.

In a frenzy to make the ultimate deadline (sometime in April 2016), my cohort has been working tirelessly to start, complete and/ or evaluate their projects. Everyone who is not on vacation is busy and those on vacation are thinking about how busy they’ll be when they get back. It’s not about us. It never is. It’s about leaving our communities with host country nationals capable enough to continue our work, it’s about paving the way for our replacements, it’s about getting numbers to our bosses, it’s about supporting other volunteers. These are things we’ve done before except now we’re doing twice as much and we must at twice the speed. We’ve learned the language; we know the lay of the land. They’re no more excuses. Time is of the essence.

If there’s anyone who knows this best, it’s me. Having spent the last two and a half months in a state of perpetual limbo, I found out recently that I was rewarded a highly coveted grant from One Acre Fund to support a nutrition project I have called The Sustenance Project. I am not one to deceive myself: this project will ‘monopolize’ the rest of my service. I will have no time for anything else and this is why: The Sustenance Project is designed to address malnutrition in at least 5 villages in my district through the provision of a fortified flour (formula provided by World Vision, ingredients grown locally). A local economic group will be producing the flour, educating people of its benefits primarily for children under 5, and selling it in markets they have researched themselves. It’s called The Sustenance Project for 2 reasons. If it is successful, it will provide sustenance in the form of food to those who consume the flour and sustenance in the form of income to those who make it. The plan is to fight malnutrition and combat poverty. The goal is to get the economic group to a point where they can operate without outside aid- to a point where they can sustain themselves. The economic group, World Vision and One Acre Fund have been excellent partners and we’re all biting our nails, anxious to see how much we can do in 7 months. Our successes will be modeled in World Vision’s larger project later next year and our failures will be noted, evaluated and obviously, avoided.

This is just one example of the many projects my colleagues around the country and I are trying to implement and monitor as we approach the end of our tour. Latrines and clean water systems are being erected in several corners of the country, and projects that have a unique focus on men as partners in health are being planned. Large-scale nutrition, malaria and WASH trainings are being conducted to ensure that health workers, teachers and parents have the capacity to address the critical health issues in their communities.

But we have just 7 months.

7 months to open and close grants, write master’s thesis and reports, collect and share data. To complete action plans, to hold camps and entrepreneurship training courses.

7 months to travel the country. To laugh with the ones who have hosted us for 2 years and labor with those we admire. To dance and feast with one another, to fill out applications for the next adventure, to plan last minute vacations to Europe and East Africa.

7 months of unbearable sun and unforgiving rain.

7 months to attempt to make a difference.

7 more months till we return to the lives we have always know, yet lives we can we can barely remember.

 

.let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.

galatians 6:9

 

 

 

 

things forgotten.

A witty first person account of a 2 week trip to Morocco. A short story of the people who inspired us, the rich food and culture, the heartaches of international travel and the memories that will last forever.

Day 14: As soon as I felt the Senegalese man’s aggressive tap on my shoulder and saw him angrily gesturing’ indicating that I should turn off my cell phone before departure, I knew it was time to write about my experiences in Morocco. Writing this down will allow me to remember the experiences more vividly and will serve as a great source of encouragement and an oasis when I return to the reality that is my Peace Corps service in Senegal.

I’ve flown countless times. I know the rules. So I know that recent policies only require that the phone be in airplane mode and not necessarily completely switched off. I know this because I fly a lot and I also know this because the flight attendant had just made this point. So the Senegalese man was wrong, and I was right. As I looked at his angry face and his hand gestures I was reminded of some things I do not particularly enjoy about some Senegalese: the man’s need to always tell women what to do or always assume that they’re right and the inexplicable need to violate personal space.  Why did he touch me? And why did he deem it necessary to tell a complete stranger what to do? If I were a man would he have done the same thing? Or even better, if I was a Caucasian or non-black individual would he have dared? Yes, I know not everything is a race issue but when you’ve been a black American in Senegal for over a year, you begin to notice that many things are. I gave him a stare and said “Excuse me?” in English. He responded in French again-I needed to turn off my phone. I looked away from him, turned up my music and began to take mental notes. This is how I spent 2 weeks in Morocco:

May 11^th : Red eye flight from Dakar to Madrid where a 7 hour layover awaited us before a 2 hour flight into Marrakech on the 12^th.

May 12^th : After claiming luggage and changing dollars to dirahms, I engaged in a Bus vs. Taxi debate with my friend. I wanted to take the taxi to our hostel. After a 2 hour incident in Dakar a few months prior, I had decided that I only get along with Western bus systems in countries where English is widely spoken.

I lost the debate.

We hauled our things onto the bus, which dropped us off at Jemma El Fnaa Square. After a frustrating process we located our hostel in the Medina. We met up with a colleague who happened to be in country at the same time then we all went to KFC. That night I went to the square where I had my first Moroccan orange juice, bought a Moroccan outfit, and was painted with henna which I was completely ripped off for. Sleep never felt so good.

Day 1: During the complementary breakfast provided by our hostel, we met Lucy from Germany and Baris from Turkey. After everyone exchanged “What Are You Doing Here?” stories, Baris and I went on to plan the day’s activities on his TV-sized Samsung phone. We decided that visits to Jardin Majorelle and Ben Youssef Madrasa were in order. Everyone nodded in agreement. Until that point, we were all winging it. Both locations were both educational and visually stimulating. One can only imagine the amount of detail, the hours and the dedication that goes into erecting a single wall at the madrasa. We walked past a small restaurant where we decided to have lunch. As the waiter showed us our seats, I stepped on the tail of a sleeping cat, which scratched me in return. Both involved parties screamed so loudly that the Asian pair a few seats away gasped. I began to apologize. Why am I apologizing for getting scratched? Why does no one else find it odd that a cat is sleeping in a restaurant?? After lunch we got lost in the souks (literally lost in the souks) then we made our way to the hostel. Back at the hostel, Lucy smoked and I swam (ok, I clung to the sides of the pool because I can’t swim). We exchanged stories of ex boyfriends. (ok, she did and I listened. I have none). Her ex boyfriend was Nigerian- this was something she thought I should know.

That night we all met up for dinner. I wore my new Moroccan outfit but I guess I could have worn jeans and a t-shirt and still been fine. The restaurant was beautiful. It was all candlelit. Unfortunately I was with a very indecisive group. They decided they wanted to sit on the bottom floor, then the middle floor then the rooftop. We had sat at a table on the rooftop when they decided it was too hot. We worked our way down to the bottom floor again. I mumbled. This was not fun. As other patrons stared we picked a table in the roofless courtyard right beneath an orange tree. It was perfect. I ordered an overpriced delicious lasagna and while my colleague explained Peace Corps to Lucy (who was smoking again), I pulled out my normal sized IPhone and began to plan the trip to Tanger the following day.

Day 2: I decided I was a travel beast. The night before, I had stayed up a bit later to map out the entire trip. While the encounters with Lucy and Baris were very pleasant, I refused to spend the rest of the trip winging things at breakfast. If we are to do this and do it well, we must have a plan. A plan I kept in a very small Moleskin that had been dedicated solely to this trip. As we checked out of the hostel, we made reservations for our return to Marrakech. At the train station we bought one way first class tickets for a 10 hour bus ride to Tanger. Before I boarded the train, I bought 2 croissants to address my pastry addiction. My friend bought milk to address her lactose addiction. Off we go. Morocco is beautiful. After a 1 hour layover in Casablanca, where I looked for an outlet to charge my phone (this behavior will become frequent during this trip), we boarded again and arrived in Tanger at about 7pm. We picked the most generous looking, least desperate taxi driver and made our way to the Medina. Once again, the hostel was a bit difficult to find but once we did, we were welcomed by a Very French Woman who warned us sternly not to bring men into the hostel. (Uhmm ok?). After her long “I Will Make Your Breakfast But Not Your Coffee Speech”, we showered and made our way into the city in search for street food. Tanger is not a tourist’s city. This was a relief after the first 2 nights of touristy Marrakech. As we walked, we saw a group of 3 black men. (Great…). My colleague thought it would be fun to engage them. I did not share this perspective. She proceeded to do so, and immediately we discovered that they were Senegalese (surprise surprise). [I realize that this post must sound very anti-Senegalese but you must understand: I have been eating, breathing and living Senegal for 15 months! This is why you take vacation!! So you can meet Lucys who will blow cigarette smoke in your face or Baris’ who will let you take selfies on their giant phones! Not so you can re-immerse yourself into the life you just came from.] By the end of the 10-minute walk-talk, they had insulted us both. As anticipated, they had told me I don’t understand Wolof well and they had made some un-thoughtful comment about my friend’s physical appearance. They told us to call them so we could all hang out before we left Tanger. I pretended I was saving their numbers in my phone. As they walked away, I noticed an ice cream truck and we bought a couple scoops each. We walked back to the hostel. I was mistaken about day one… sleep had never felt this good.

Day 3: Early Devotions on the rooftop where I could see Spain. The sunrise was beautiful. Soon enough, my colleague found me and demanded I take pictures of her (this behavior will continue throughout the trip). I did. I anticipated acting in the same manner later on and supposed a positive a response to this request will ensure I get my picture taken later too. I finished up with my devotions and waited for Very French Woman to set out breakfast. According to my Moleskin, today was the day we go to Chefchaouen. Located 3 hours away from Tanger, the Blue City promises a nice escape from the fast paced life of the city. Unfortunately, we were only able to spend about 2 and half hours there before we had to work our way back to Tanger. By sunset we had returned to Tanger. We explored the city a bit, including a pitiful mall then went to McDonalds for dinner. (I am yet to have a Moroccan lunch or dinner at this point. At lunch this day, I ordered an amazing sausage pizza and at the cat-assaulting restaurant, I had ordered a Tuna sandwich). Over dinner, I decided that it may be best to part ways for our last scheduled day in Tanger. We can regroup for dinner and exchange stories.

Back at the hostel we discovered Christina (can’t remember her real name) in our room. She is originally from Korea but lives in London. I told her I liked her British accent and she told me she could do an “Aussie-one”, as well. I laughed but I was secretly appalled. I admire the originality that comes with an accent and was immediately shocked to learn that she was forcing it. Force it to get out of an awkward situation, to be better understood or to tell a joke, don’t force it through life!!! I decided that it must be rough speaking a certain way all the time and decided to feel sympathy for Christina. We exchanged, “What Are You Doing Here?”, stories then I checked my email and What’s App messages then went to bed. At about 3am, individuals in the next building over began to argue very loudly in Arabic. Very loudly. Glass broke. I concluded that it would not be wise to piss off a local.

Day 4: After breakfast with Christina on the roof, we parted ways as scheduled. I walked through the downtown and medina areas and did a little bit of shopping. I bought some street food for lunch (an English muffin stuffed with seasoned chicken. Really good) and returned to the hostel where I discovered Bryan. He asked me a lot of questions about the hostel and the Very French Woman who had apparently called him “stupid”, I responded tiredly then took a nap. I woke up later to discover another one! Her name was Olivia. Why is Very French Woman putting us all in one room?! Luckily, Christina had left that morning so it was less as crowded as it could have been. I soon found out that Bryan was from New York and Morocco was his second stop on a very long vacation. He had come from Spain and was going to Turkey and Israel after. Olivia was also an American. An exchange student from a university in the States (can’t remember where), she had just completed a 4 month program in Morocco. She spoke Arabic pretty well and I was very impressed. She told me that Very French Woman had said, “she didn’t know anything”. I decided to invite them to our scheduled dinner. They agreed. Up until that point, they were winging it. That morning I had looked up a restaurant called “Restaurant Kasbah” on Trip Advisor. Critics were saying the owner had the best pastillas in the country. And he was here! Right in Tanger! I decided it would be a mistake not to go. That afternoon, before my encounter with Bryan, I had asked a kid to show me exactly where the restaurant was so we wouldn’t get lost later.

We still got lost.

As I navigated us through the medina, I became increasingly embarrassed. “I know it’s here!”, I would shout over my shoulder to the following group, “I was here earlier!”, I would reassure them. And finally, “I’m sorry!”, again with the very American, very unnecessary apologizing. Bryan insisted several times that it was ok and he hadn’t got a chance to walk around anyways. He said he wasn’t super hungry but earlier, I had overheard him tell Olivia that he could eat so his attempts reassure me, only embarrassed me the more. Embarrassment grew to impatience when we discovered that many eating-places were called “Kasbah” or had some element of “kasbah” in their names. I continually rechecked Trip Advisor (thank God for 3G) to make sure I was right. The sun was setting and the streets were getting packed. The 3 followed me blindly. Blind leading the blind. I refused to consider eating elsewhere. I did not want to entertain the thought and luckily no one else suggested it. I had a plan, it was written in the Moleskin and it had to be followed. How could we possibly miss out on the best pastillas in the country??!!! I swallowed my pride and asked a friendly looking man for directions. He happened to be black. He said he would take us there. I know from my experience in Senegal that this is not a good idea. More than always, they take you to the wrong place and both parties are frustrated by the end of it. I assumed correctly. As we walked there I continually asked him if he knew where we were going. He said yes. He walked very slowly and seemed more interested in collecting our background information. I told him we were all American. My colleague immediately asked him if he spoke Pular (a Senegalese language) and he said he was not from Senegal. She continued to engage him while I engaged Trip Advisor. Bryan and Olivia were very patient. He took us through several neighborhoods and the entire time I was thinking and saying, “No, no, no, no. This is not it”. I became frustrated with my own memory. I was literally at this place a few hours earlier! He finally stopped at a restaurant with “Kasbah” in the name. As expected, it was not the place. He gave a half hearted ‘good bye’ and ‘good luck’ and continued in the opposite direction. He will probably never help a group of tourists again. Feeling bad was secondary. The primary goal was to find this place before someone suggested we eat elsewhere. When I decide I’m doing something, I am a force to be reckoned with. I finally recognized a few landmarks and guided our group to the restaurant successfully. The owner met us at the door and took us to a table on the rooftop. We all ordered a full Moroccan meal (finally!)which consisted of a pre course of soup, bread and olives, a serving of pastilla (yes!), and a main course of chicken tangine. Afterwards, we were given tea and sweets. He was graceful enough to explain each dish and the culture behind it. It was grand. The personal attention we each received and the atmosphere all contributed to the successful eating experience. On the way out, he gave us each a bear hug. I didn’t realize how much I needed a hug until then.

Day 5: Moleskin told us we were going to Fes. We woke up at about 7am. Olivia had already left. She was catching a 5am ferry to Spain. I didn’t even hear her leave. My colleague, Bryan and I decided we would all go to the train station together. We said goodbye to Very French woman and paid her our balances. Bryan was headed to Marrakech. We learned the previous night that this was his first time leaving the country (America). He is the assistant of some scriptwriter in New York and needed to “get away”. This was why he had so many questions. He had many concerns about travel, food and safety. At the train station, we all bought our tickets. Our train was leaving first. I exchanged What’s App and email information with him. As I wrote in my Moleskin, I assured him we would contact him once we were back in Marrakech in a few days. I gave him the TIME and People Magazine I no longer had use for and bid him good luck. I spent the first hour of the 5 hour ride to Fez, securing a hostel on my IPhone. It was easy. I gave the information to my colleague and told her to the same. I ate my pastries, read a book and napped. I woke up in Fes. Moleskin had us here for one full day only and I knew what I wanted to do: buy leather. Several taxis were posted in front of the train station. We began to negotiate prices to the Blue Gate with a driver. He seemed very reluctant to accept our price. Another walked up and said he would talk us at the lowered price. They immediately began to argue with one another in Arabic. We began to walk away. I don’t think either of them noticed. This clearly was not about the customer. We found another driver who took us to the Blue Gate. Upon our arrival, we located our hostel with little effort. Here, tea (at all hours) and breakfast were complementary. Winning. When we checked in, we found out we wouldn’t be given keys. No keys for the front door and none for our rooms. (What?). When I said we would need a key just in case we were out late, the staff member then suggested that we not be out past 11pm. (Curfew? ) Interesting. When my colleague asked for a receipt for the 2 nights stay he said, “I am your receipt”. I reminded myself that though many things have seemed sketchy in this country, they have turned out not to be, and continued to our assigned room. We dropped off our things then went to a restaurant in the heart of the medina. Still on our Pastilla-high, we ordered pastillas and Sprite for lunch. While we waited for our meal, I charged my phone in the kitchen. When we returned to our hostel, we discovered Abdul (can’t remember his real name), an Iranian Mathematics Ph.D candidate at Oxford University. His British accent was original. Abdul was very talkative. I didn’t really appreciate this. I was tired. He told us all he had done in Fes so far then when we told him we were planning on seeing the largest leather tannery in Africa, he advised us not too. He said he was “there today and they’re shut down for maintenance”. My colleague and I exchanged disappointed looks. Abdul then took the time (too much time) to show me pictures from the 70 countries he had travelled to in the past. Once again, I was impressed but very tired. After Abdul removed his laptop from my pillow, I went to bed.

Day 6: As I dressed that morning I realized that I had left my sandals in Tanger. Damn it! This will be the first of several things I will forget on this trip. Very French woman was probably discovering them at this moment and calling me , “stupid”. Breakfast was epic: breads, olives, jams, orange juice and tea and chocolate pudding, which my colleague devoured like a child. We went to look for new sandals for me. Then she suggested that we shouldn’t listen to Abdul and just go to the tannery. She was right! It was open! Very open. I immediately felt superior to Abdul and his 70 countries. The tannery was amazing. I will forever appreciate the way Moroccans take the time to execute little steps to arrive at a larger, beautiful result. This work ethic is absent in many communities in Senegal. We were given an unofficial tour guide who we burdened with cameras and questions. Afterwards, my colleague went shopping and I went to Western Union. She returned to the hostel while I remained in the medina area for the next 30 minutes, insanely lost. This was the kind of lost that could bring an adult to tears. She later e-mailed me about lunch and I told her to go ahead, I was still trying to get out of the medina. I must have walked past every stall twice. It was getting very hot and I felt like I was looking more and more and more like a tourist: hands clutching purse tightly, eyebrows raised, eyes widened. I asked in English and I asked in French. Every set of directions I was given failed me. Memories of getting lost in Disneyland as a child began to surface. Hunger kicked in. When I finally found my way out of the medina, I bought a croissant and orange juice at the first restaurant I saw and ate it on the cab ride home. At the hostel I charged my phone and met Andy and Sarah (can’t remember their names, and in hindsight, I don’t think we ever exchanged names). Andy was “in business” and Sarah was an occupational therapist. Both were from New Zealand but were on work visas in London. They had both quit their jobs and were traveling for 4 months. Morocco was their first stop; they were going to Spain after. Sarah explained to me that she had done this in the past- quit her job and travelled for 6 months. I’m sure I had my mouth open. She then asked me to explain Peace Corps. I shrugged and gave her a summary. She was fascinated. I didn’t understand why. Sarah quits her jobs and travels for months at a time, nothing should amaze her. Later that evening, I went out to the medina and bought a leather duffle. I returned to the hostel, exchanged stories with my colleague who now had henna all over her right hand, drank some tea, consulted with the Moleskin then went to bed. Tomorrow we leave for Rabat.

Day 7: I checked then double-checked my sleeping space before we headed to the train station for Rabat. I had bought a new wallet in Fes so there was no need to take the old one. I switched out all the contents and left the old one for the cleaning crew. The train ride to Rabat would take about 3 hours. Because we left Fez at 8:30am, we would have the rest of the day in Rabat. Moleskin shows me that we have only one day in Rabat. The previous day, I had written out the Rabat options in the Moleskin. I shared them with my colleague on the train while I ate my croissants and she drank her milk. There is a beach we can visit and a mall; there are also several lounges for later. She suggested we do both the beach and the mall. I was nervous about time and distance between these two locations. But she was right about the tannery so I decided to trust her. Arriving in Rabat, we had nowhere to stay. This was not my fault. I had checked while we were in Fes, and all the hostels were completely booked up. I was prepared to sleep in the train station, which looked more comfortable than where I actually sleep in Senegal. We asked the taxi driver to take us to a hostel I had found online the previous night. Maybe their website will be inconsistent with the reality of their situation. It was consistent. No beds. But the staff referred us to a hotel nearby. We arrived at the hotel and found it to be cheaper than any other overnight option we had used in country thus far. It was also way sketchier. We had to pay extra to shower. We went to the mall first then the beach. Both experiences were amazing. I made my colleague take several pictures of me. This was when I decided to swipe my EcoBank card hoping that my June paycheck had kicked in. It had. This will begin the series of events that will lead to me spending 80% of my June paycheck in 5 days (in May…). We were making great time so we decided to go to a grocery store to buy some items I had been asked by friends to bring back to Senegal. This was a mistake. I spent way too much money buying things like shaving cream, facial masks and specialized oils, which were difficult or impossible to find in Senegal. I then bought a 4 pack of croissants to eat on the next day’s train ride and a lot of peaches. We went to Pizza Hut (an actual restaurant!) and had dinner. Over dinner, my colleague, who is quick to experience buyer’s remorse, began to justify all her purchases. Once we arrived at our hotel we paid for our showers then got ready to go out. I began charging my phone again. I wore a very nice black jumpsuit my sister had sent me in the mail a week prior to the trip. I also carried an ALDO bag, which I had bought in Dakar a few months back and had become my “going out bag”. I had bought it on sale at still a very high price and was very pleased with its aesthetics and usability. In the bag were 5 items: my passport, my iPhone, the Moleskin, a pen, and a new pack of gum. I had looked up 2 lounges on the train ride: 555 and Amnésia. The websites and reviewers told me that Americans frequented these spots and the music was very diverse. At 11pm, we headed out for Amnésia. As soon as we arrived, we were informed by the bouncers that the lounge would not open till midnight. What a waste of time. These are the kinds of things I try to avoid in my life. The website said 11pm! I silently cursed the anonymous reviewer. My colleague got into an altercation with one of the bouncers in Spanish. She said she wanted to leave. Right now. She did not want to wait. I said ok. We left. At the corner we jumped into another cab and headed for 555. At least we had options and dressing up wouldn’t be in vain. At 555, we were greeted with an empty lounge. We were told to wait in the adjoining restaurant. The lounge would pick up later. Later?? It’s almost midnight!!! In all fairness, I should mention that this was a Tuesday night. Live music was playing from the restaurant. And it was actually pretty nice. The band was very talented. We both had some Heinekens and enjoyed the band. I was lost in my thoughts and the music when Marty (can’t remember his real name) joined us at our booth. Marty had heard us speaking English and was excited to finally meet Americans. Too excited. He told us he grew up in Rabat but he was a nurse who had studied in Boston. He asked us if we had been there. I told him yes but for some reason, he didn’t believe me. I don’t know why I cared but I did. I told him I was there for a conference 2 years ago. His eyes glazed over. Then I told him my uncle lectured at Harvard; he believed me more after this. He went on to show us pictures of the city and his cat on his phone. This, I did not care about. He then collected our Facebook names and said he would add us. We moved on to the lounge-which was still empty! But the DJ had arrived. So we danced. I gave him 2.5 stars. The clock was inching towards 2:30am, we decided it would be wise to leave. Our train leaves at 8:00am. The hotel was locked when we got back. Weird. We knocked and the owner angrily opened up. Upstairs, I took out my phone to charge it and put my passport in my suitcase. I set my alarm and collapsed on top of the sketchy blanket. 

Day 8: Four hours later, I woke up, brushed my teeth and packed my bags. Sleepy eyed, we hauled our bags downstairs and headed for the train station. As the train began to pull out of the station for Marrakech we reflected on how “crazy” the last 24 hours were and how tired we were. We giggled sleepily. A mother and her poorly disciplined child shared our first class compartment. He was about 5 and was refusing to eat his breakfast. He preferred to stand on the nice seats (in his shoes!) and ignore his mother. When the food cart came around she ordered a hot coffee, which he successfully spilled all over me 5 minutes later. “I saw that coming”, mumbled my sleepy colleague. I hadn’t. This made me even more upset. I fell asleep and when I woke up again, they were gone. Thank goodness. We had an hour left on the train. I reached into my bag to pull out Moleskin. I didn’t see it immediately so I lowered the bag into the light. This happens sometimes. The bag is large and lack and the Moleskin is black as well. It can be easy to miss. The initial search proved negative. The Moleskin was not there. I immediately lowered my duffle bag and began to search inside. It was not there. Neither was the ALDO bag. I lowered myself into my seat and stared out the window. Unbelievable. I quickly switched to damage control mode. I returned all my belongings and began to think about the Moleskin. What was written inside? Was there any personal information in it? What else was in the ALDO bag? Did I have my passport? (I did. Thank God). Did I remember what other plans I had made for the trip? Whose contact information had I lost? I learned a lot about my memory on this trip. I learned that I write because if I don’t, I won’t remember and once it’s written, it’s engrained in my memory. So I was able to recall everything I wrote in the Moleskin starting months ago, with websites to buy airline tickets and the packing lists I had created using guidelines from Pinterest. Names of hotels, hostels, hot spots to visit, and some contact information were written in the Moleskin. It contained detailed lists and a long introduction for this blog post, which I decided not to use the moment the Senegalese man tapped me on the plane. My SSN and PC ID number, and bank account/ debit card numbers were the most important numbers that came to mind and I would NEVER write those down- anywhere. I remembered vividly the plans for the last few days of the trip but as I went to write them down again, I realized that I didn’t even have a pen. The one pen I had on me, the one I had used this entire trip, was in the ALDO bag. The ALDO bag! I immediately remembered the day I bought it in Dakar, and all the places it had accompanied me to. I shook my head in disbelief. Now it lay forgotten in that dingy hotel where people had to pay to shower, at the mercy of the cleaning staff or the angry owner. I asked my colleague for a pen. She said she didn’t have one. I asked for pencil. She said she didn’t have one.

Anger.

The only word that could completely describe what I felt at that point. I quickly checked my passport again, my iPhone, my larger Moleskin journal and all my bankcards. I told myself that with the exception of all the lists, ideas and thoughts written in the Moleskin, everything else, including the new pack of gum, could be replaced. Once we arrived in Marrakech we went to the original hostel where we had stayed the first night of this trip. Once in our rooms, I charged my phone and decided we should both head out and complete any shopping we had left before the final part of the trip: the 3-day desert tour. We went to the downtown area where we booked full spa days upon our return from the desert. We had lunch then returned to the hostel. I had never felt this exhausted.

Day 9: I woke up at 6 am to pack for the desert tour. We were told to be ready at 7:15am. By 7:15am, I had stored my bags that were not coming on the trip and checked out of the hostel. The tour agency was not there to pick us up. Impatience and anger were rising slowly. I called the number we were given at 7:30am. I immediately began to feel played. This 3-day tour would be the most expensive thing we had bought on this trip and now it was not going to happen. I let the man on the other side of the phone have it. It wasn’t ladylike. I told him that we had been waiting since 7:15 and now it was almost 30 minutes later. I told him if we didn’t see anyone by 8 that we were going to demand our money back. Someone showed up 10 minutes later to take us to the bus. In retrospect, I don’t know why I was so angry. I don’t think it was because of the Moleskin. I had let that go already. I believe it was the burden of the responsibility of making sure the trip went as planned. In 30 minutes, we were in the van with our group, headed to the desert.

Day 10-Day 12: Our group:

• Chinese couple from London- sensational accents
• Australian couple married for 2 years
• Canadian couple- outgoing husband, shy wife
• Hollander couple- Very loud and very intelligent
• Londoner Couple- She was originally from Iraq but grew up in Dubai, his background was unclear.
• Single Chinese chick- Very quiet except when she was Skyping in Mandarin on the van.
• Sammy- Originally from Morocco (Marrakech) but currently lives in Germany
• Me- Exhausted American originally from Nigeria, currently lives in Senegal
• My colleague- Sick American originally from Mexico, currently lives in Senegal
• Abdu would be our driver, guide, and babysitter for the next 1200Km (745 miles) and 3 days. He will answer our questions half-heartedly and with in complete sentences but we still grow to love him and understand him. At the stops, I will have many “Could You Not Drive So Fast?” conversations with him that would end with him laughing at me and maintaining his previous speeds.

The 3 day excursion would take us from Marrakech to Merzouga where we would ride camels in the Sahara Desert. We stopped at several places along the way and as the miles increased, we all became more and more fond of each other, each breaking out of his shell, to share travel, work and education experiences from all over the world. About 2 hours into the drive at the first stop, I left my pretty pricey sunglasses in the little shop adjoining the café. Surprise surprise. I immediately told myself that I should prepare to come back from the excursion with half as many things as I took with me. I told the driver and he said we would pick them up on the way back. He made calls and said not to worry. Sammy immediately began to warn me that the desert would be extremely unbearable without glasses. He said he could loan me an extra pair he had bought along. “Thank you”, I responded tiredly. On the first night, still 6 hours away from the desert, we lodged at a nice hotel not too far from Ouarzazate. Over dinner, I discussed recent seasons of Homeland and House of Cards with Chinese couple from London. They also told me that they had recently watched Desperate Housewives and wanted to know if they needed to have guns on them if they visited America. I said no. We then discussed the NBA playoffs and their strong desire to see a Finals game live. After dinner I noticed that I had been bit by mosquitos in at least 50 locations on my arms, hands, neck and back. The rest of my time in morocco would be spent getting seriously bit, itching and lathering myself with repellent lotions and sprays. (These methods would not work. On the flight out of Marrakech, a few days later, I counted 15 bites on my left wrist alone. Later that night in Dakar, I discovered massive bites all over my thighs and back. My elbows were the worst. In a few cases, I had scratched so hard, the skin had come off. My host mom in Dakar said I was experiencing an allergic reaction to the bites and immediately gave me expired Benadryl. I took it. It helped). My colleague grew very very sick. Headaches, fever, cough, congestion, diarrhea, vomiting, fatigue. She had it all. Including the mosquito bites. That night, while she was doubled over on a hotel couch, the hotel owner and I discussed how he managed to begin and maintain a successful establishment several hours away from the city. He told me about how he had owned a furniture shop in New Jersey after living in New York for several years. Everyone tells the story of going back “home” to start a business; this guy actually did it and did it well. He recommended milk and honey for my friend and I went to bed. The next morning, I charged up my phone and went and found Sammy. I asked for the glasses he had promised the previous day. He said he would give it to me later. I did not like this. I was at the mercy of someone else. He talked so much about the glasses yesterday. I wished he would just give them to me. I hated this game. He gave them to me about 2 hours later. Riding in the Sahara was amazing. When we approached our camp, which was about a 90 minute camel ride away, it began to rain. (the first rain in 4 months). Then it began to hail (the first hail in 10 years). I took a moment to enjoy the omnipresent and omnipotent attributes of God. We had a chicken tangine dinner then our desert guides sang and drummed for us. At 6am the next morning we were back on the camels and headed out of the Sahara. It was a painful ride but the sunrise was beautiful. By the time we reached our van, my back, thighs and neck were killing me. As we dismounted the camels, one of the desert guides asked me to stay in the desert with him. What do I look like? I smiled and said no. He said ok, but to at least give him my ring (he was referring to a bronze ring I was wearing. I had bought it in Dakar last year and it had become an everyday wear for me). I told him no but I would leave a tip. He hugged me good-bye. In the bathroom, I took off the ring to wash my face and my hands. I would later realize back in Marrakech that night that I left it on the sink. I would pray that he found it.

Day 13: I woke up tired. But there were things to do. I got up and showered and had breakfast. Our spa session was scheduled for noon so I had about 2 hours to finish any last minute errands. I went to the Carre Eden mall where I bought the last of my gifts. On my way out of the mall area, a Cameroonian man accosted me. I was not in the mood. He immediately asked for my number (not even my name) and when I asked why, he said he wanted to get to know me. I gave him a very tired look and walked into the nearest shop. The storeowner went outside and yelled at him in Arabic. He shot me a glance then walked away. I quickly left the store before the owner could ask me to buy anything. The spa session consisted of a hammam bath, a facial, a manicure, a pedicure and a massage. It was much needed. After the camel ride it was difficult to look over my right shoulder without experiencing significant pain. They fixed my neck but my back still ached. Afterwards, we picked up Dominos for dinner and went home. That night, I went to So a very high end lounge in Gueliz. The band was phenomenal. They sang covers of everything from Pharrell’s Happy to P- Square’s Shekini. When the waiter approached me with the most fascinating drinks menu I have ever seen and I told him I was waiting for a friend. A few moments later, 2 black women walked in and he asked if those were my friends. I gave him a stare. I ordered an over priced Mojito which tasted like water then headed back to hostel at about 2am.

Day 14: Our flight to Madrid was scheduled for 1:30pm. I estimated that we needed to be walking out of our hostel at 10am. We left at 10:30am. I stopped at an orange stand to buy an orange for a friend who had sarcastically written stating I should bring him Moroccan oranges. I decided one was enough. My colleague wanted to take the bus. The original passes we had bought on our first day allowed for a round trip. I had left this pass in Fes when I switched wallets and was gladly going to take a taxi. She began walking to the bus station. I called after her and told her to get in the cab. I would pay for it. If she somehow became late because of an unforeseen complicated bus schedule, I did not want to be faced with the awkward decision of getting on the flight and leaving her in Morocco or staying in Morocco and catching a later flight. At the airport, I charged my phone then bought a bottle of Rosé at the duty free store. A friend had invited me to dinner in Dakar upon my arrival. I wanted to be prepared. This adventure was over; it was time to start planning for the next…

40 things I learned in 360 days

40 things I learned (or were reinforced) in the last 360 days- a note to new peace corps volunteers and a reminder to myself

1. There’s always a reason not to do something. All you need is one reason to do it.

2. Perseverance is key.

3. Fear is useless.

4. The masters degree is worth it.

5. How to mime to successfully get a message across.

6. Not everyone really cares that you’re American.

7. You can read 5 books in one month.

8. Two years is not enough time.

9. You can learn new languages as an adult.

10. People will live and die in the most drastic conditions not because they don’t have a choice but because the people they serve do not have the luxury of choice.

11. Treat yourself. Always.

12. A dramatic exist after an argument is effective as long as you don’t leave anything behind.

13. Global health is a very competitive field.

14. You will never be able to give yourself a satisfactory answer to the question “What am I doing with my life?”, so just don’t ask.

15. Just because you’re old doesn’t give you the right.

16. Always come bearing gifts for the people who take care of you.

17. It never hurts to be creative.

18. Not everyone lives with purpose and not everyone cares to.

19. When development work works, it works.

20. People will stare at you. Stare back. You will almost always win.

21. Mice eat everything- hair products, batteries, gum, books etc.

22. Never trust an overeager hair dresser.

23. Never trust an overeager tailor.

24. Never trust an overeager taxi driver (especially in Dakar).

25. You can watch an entire series of a show in 2 months (this, however, should not be your prerogative).

26. Crying is not an acceptable response.

27. It is possible to eat the same thing over and over again and be ok.

28. Serving people is easy, loving them is the real challenge.

29. Always travel with Ciprofloxacin.

30. If you don’t want it discovered burn it or throw it down the toilet.

31. Some children deserve to be severely punished for their actions.

32. Some adults deserve to be severely punished for their actions.

33. Community health workers may just be the solution to all our pressing health issues.

34. Ramadan is not fun.

35. Plan plan plan.

36. Podcasts are our friends.

37. Lower all expectations and bask in the small wins.

38. Start with what they know.

39. Number your days.

40. All things work for the good of those who love God (romans 8:28).

The Ebola Advantage

Second chances are invaluable. They allow us to replay the same scenarios, using different tools for the hopes of a different outcome. This is is what the Ebola crises has given us in Africa. The strong possibility of death has taken us back to the drawing board, to revisit the behaviors, the attitudes we should have had to begin with. It has allowed us a second chance at health.

Sanitation
One of the most notable behaviors Ebola has drawn our attention to is hand washing. Everyone knows they should be doing it…and doing it well, but we don’t. Because it’s inconvenient, it takes time, or the resources just aren’t available. But, with death by hemorrhagic fever looming in the distance, people are picking up their soap, buying their hand sanitizers and trying to get it right. For years, we’ve been trying to get people to wash their hands at the 6 critical times (5 depending on who you talk to), maybe now, they’ll do it.

Other sanitation and hygiene practices that have been highlighted are the appropriate use of latrines and public spaces. Clean latrines means a reduced chance of spreading diseases such as Ebola. Properly utilizing latrines also means less human waste (yes, urine and feces) in public spaces. So when little 3 year old Mustafa goes out to play in the sand with his friends, at least we know know they’re building sand castles…out of sand.

Know your disease
Ebola looks like several illnesses. As I was developing an extensive Ebola training for community health workers at my site, I began to see how some of the other diseases prominent in the community could resemble Ebola. For instance:

X- the symptom is present; red box- the symptom is not present.

 

These are just some of the illnesses common in my community. Others whose symptoms could resemble those of Ebola are HIV/AIDS, intestinal parasites, the common cold, measles, polio and yellow fever. At the community level, it’s not unusual to hear people call a simple headache, malaria, ignore the repercussions of eye infection in their children or vomit endlessly all night and say, “it’s nothing”. People generally don’t know or understand what is going on in their bodies and will refuse to seek help at the earlier stages of a disease that they’ve most likely misinterpreted or misnamed. Ebola draws us back to the symptoms of the diseases we battle with on a daily basis.

We don’t want people mistaking other diseases for Ebola and vice versa. Go to the clinic/ hospital and get tested. If it is severe enough, any disease can kill. Malaria should always be confirmed with a rapid diagnostic test, TB should be diagnosed with a skin or blood test and a claim of diarrheal disease should be followed with the appropriate case management. This effort to rule out Ebola should provide an opportunity to help people to understand diseases and encourage them to seek the appropriate diagnosis and treatment. The layman does not make these connections. If he spends most of the hours of the day at a job or on a field, trying to provide for his family, he won’t. Illness and disease are not a priority until they’re a priority. And when it happens, there’s no guarantee that he will take the right steps to mitigate the problem without prior knowledge.

So this is where we come in. For public health/ development workers, Ebola has presented a second chance to call attention to behavior change. We can educate people about Ebola, and jog their memories on simple health behaviors and practices.

We can kill two birds with one stone, and avoid death altogether.

an ebola prevention mural I put up at my site.

 

my 30 cents on freedom

I never carry my wallet with me when I’m in my town. I always have water on me, fresh from my filter and I’m not much of a snacker so I’ve never felt the need to take my wallet with me when I go to work. I tried it for the first few weeks at site and then decided it was just an extra thing to have to worry about. It was better off at home where I knew my cash, work permit and debit card were safe. This strategy has paid off for the last 3 months until today.

On the way home from the local high school, I ran a lady over on my bike. It’s not that I don’t know how to ride a bike and it wasn’t that I didn’t see her. I saw her- seconds before it happened; but for some reason my tongue froze and my fingers refused to find the bell on my bike. So I ran her over. Well, ‘ran her over’ is extreme. She didn’t fall. As soon as my front wheel grazed her skirt I yelled (what I yelled, I don’t remember now) and she jumped to the right to avoid me. I fell; to the left; on top of my bike. Having fallen before, I wasn’t too shaken up but she was.

Of course, I started apologizing…in English, wishing fully that I could become invisible as small children in the houses nearby began to gather around. It was hot. My face was pouring in sweat. Pouring. I had to wipe my face several times with the back of my hands to make sure I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t. But the stream of water spilling down my chin led me to believe I was.

I looked up at her, for the first time seeing my victim’s face and eternally grateful that she was physically unharmed. But she was yelling at me, in Wolof of course. And as soon as I shut the English switch off in my head, I heard her say “what is the meaning of this?!”, “You have to pay for this!”. I looked down to see that I had knocked over a small container of some white porridge she had been holding. Swimming in the porridge, which was now sinking into sand, were a couple of coins. I guessed she was coming from the market. She had probably bought the porridge and was holding the change in her hand. I removed my Herschel backpack, placed it on the floor next to the bike then picked up her change and the empty container and handed them to her. She was still yelling. “I’ll pay, I’ll pay”, I mumbled in Wolof knowing fully well that I couldn’t because my wallet was conveniently sitting on my table at home. My mind began to race. I couldn’t call my host dad to bring me money because he was out of town, as was my work partner. My host mom would give me a “i told you so” speech before she would send one my small siblings to help me, and I was 3 neighborhoods away- they would roast in the sun before they got to me. And this lady clearly would not trust me to go get the money and come back.

Because this happened not too far from the Prefet’s office, 3 young policemen (guards?) walked up. Their presence intensified the scene. Sweat was still pouring down my face. Why am I the only one sweating? She tattletaled. Quick. I don’t blame her. If some skateboarder had knocked my groceries over in the streets of LA and a cop happened to walk up, I probably would have done the same thing. The cops? looked at me sympathetically. I began to search my pockets and backpack for something I knew wasn’t there; hoping that I could come up with the CFA equivalent of 30 US cents. That was when I became aware of the piercing pain in my lower right leg. Great. I was bleeding.

After asking her how much the porridge was, one of the men immediately whipped out his wallet and paid her. She took the money and left. As my sweat began to blind me I thanked the solider? and began to gather my belongings, pretty sure that the children who had began to dissipate were recounting the story to their friends and siblings. I thanked him again, too embarrassed to make eye contact and began to walk my bike away. I passed the lady and apologized again then asked her what her name was- a sign of friendship here. I immediately forgot the name as soon as she said it, (I am not ashamed of this. Any Peace Corps Volunteer will tell you that learning and remembering names in stressful situations-such as a wedding, a naming ceremony or a bike collision-is extremely difficult and almost impossible), then mounted my bike and pedaled away as fast as I could.

30 cents is nothing to me. Even with my meager pay, I could buy that lady her 30 cent porridge everyday for the rest of my 2 year service and not impair my finances. But at that moment, it meant the world to me. At that moment, the 30 cents was all that mattered. As I biked back to my house, promising never to step foot in that street for the next month, I was reminded of my weak position as a human. I was reminded of the debt my sins had acquired and how, only through Christ, this debt is forgiven. I was reminded of how He gave what He had so we could go free. And how no matter what we know, no matter how much knowledge or wealth or power we achieve here, we are like I was- searching through several pockets and several things for a desire, a need to be free.

Tomorrow I will buy some mangoes for this patrolman?, find him and thank him. Because not only did he pay my debt, he reminded me of what it means and what it feels like to be free.

6:45pm.

Birkelane, Kaffrine, Senegal
The month, July
The temperature, just barely north of 70 degrees
The occasion, Ramadan.
The time, 6:45pm.

Sand covered streets that were uninhabited just minutes before begin to scurry with life. Things must be done. Tasks must be completed. Everyone has a duty and it must be performed before the fast breaks at 7:30pm. If you’re not home yet, you’re not getting there. Taxis are full and once they unload, they’re not coming back. Shop owners and markets ladies have packed up for the day. This time of the year, there’s no such thing as working late. Small trucks marked “Boulangerie” speed through town, dropping off baguettes to boutiques and individual vendors. Women, men and children begin to populate these locations. The sooner they can get their bread, the sooner they can continue with other preparatory activities at home. But in these clusters (lining up for a service is something I’m yet to notice here in Senegal), no one appears anxious or impatient. As greetings and tales of the day are exchanged, the atmosphere is almost though they did not spend the entire day refraining from food and drink; almost as though they weren’t forced to work in their farms in the unforgiving heat without breakfast; almost as though they did not fall asleep in their offices instead of having lunch; almost as if they did not close their boutiques and businesses early so they could take a late afternoon nap, because sleeping is, really, the only way to escape the hunger. At 6:45, these memories are gone.

The elderly women wake up from their naps. The men have already set up chairs in front of their compounds, watching their neighbors silently. Small children are heard crying as their mothers and older sisters hurriedly bathe them before the break.This is not a time for visiting or phone calls. At 6:45pm everyone is focused on two things: preparing the break meal and eating  it.

The break meal across compounds is almost identical. And from what I’ve heard from other volunteers, it’s almost identical across the nation. The fast is broken with breakfast. Usually, bread with a chocolate spread, beans, tuna or an onion sauce. Bisaap juice, made from soaking bisaap leaves in hot water and adding sugar, is also a fast breaker along with coffee and ice cold water. Milk and dates are also a part of the feast as is Fonde, a millet based porridge. This is why 6:45 is significant. Women scramble to get everything together so they can have a satisfying break with their families.

Between the time the fast is broken and dinner is served, there is a lapse of about 3-4 hours. The visits begin. Those who aren’t fortunate enough to have electricity, meet at their neighbor’s to watch the evening news, a soap opera or a World Cup game. At these gatherings attaya (tea) is made and shared and fruit is served. It is compelling to see how fasting turns the human stomach into a bottomless pit; how people easily and effortlessly take in the nourishment they’ve been denied all day… and then some; how a 30 minute breakfast can redeem an entire day of physical and mental pain. By midnight, everyone’s eaten at least twice but the hardcore women are still preparing the third meal their families will consume before sunrise.

And when it’s all done, they we go to bed full and fully convinced that because we’ve eaten so much, hunger will be stalled the next day. But we’re wrong. Just a few hours after sunrise, by the time we greet our families, do our chores, and head out to work, by the time we turn on our laptops or our tractors, we’re already longing for 6:45 again.

Duma Senegalese

The stare. It’s piercing, questioning and in a sense unforgiving. The stare challenges my identity and my presence. Behind the stare lies uncertainty, disbelief and ignorance. How is it possible that someone who looks like me is American? No it can not be. But if I’m Senegalese, why am I always with the white Americans and why do I sound exactly like them? Why is my Wolof (local language) vocabulary so limited and why do I speak it with a heavy accent? These are the questions that accompany the stare. 

I have been living in Senegal for over two months now, working as a Peace Corps volunteer and a few times a week (sometimes in a day), without fail, I’ve had to address my skin color. To those who ask questions I’ve had to respond verbally and to those who stare, well I’m beginning to master the art of staring back. 

This is the problem: Many people, especially those in the more rural communities of the country believe that all Americans are white. The Americans they’ve seen on television are white and those they’ve seen in their country are also white. But what about Obama?” you ask. No, they don’t believe he’s American. His African roots are responsible for his skin color and while this is generally true for African Americans, not all can personally identify with this.

This is why the problem is intensified: I am actually West African (but born and raised in the States) and my Nigerian features make me look more Senegalese than the average African American. But Senegalese do not generally take the time to ask if I am African or of African descent. They immediately assume I am Senegalese. To those I have explained my diversity to, some have nodded in understanding, some have argued against my Americanism and some have responded with, “so you are Senegalese…”. This may sound very minor and trivial but when you are asked multiple times a week about the color of your skin or your “look” it can become quite overwhelming. I’ve been in situations where even fellow Peace Corps Volunteers I hadn’t met, easily took me for a local. I’ve been in places where the Senegalese would enthusiastically greet my white counterparts and refuse to acknowledge my presence until I explained that I too, am American.

This is the solution: One of the goals of the Peace Corps is to promote an understanding of American people to the people served. I have been told by Peace Corps leadership not tell people that my roots are Nigerian because it will not help them understand that there are other types of Americans. This approach is more difficult. The conversation which starts with “Duma Senegalese” (I am not Senegalese) usually extends for about 5 minutes which is an eternity when you are not too fluent in the local language. It is easier to tell people that I am Nigerian and while there is still resistance, it is not as heavy. While I have my reservations, the approach does make sense. America is not just for white people and if they looked hard enough they would find that there are several Senegalese who are also Americans. But in a nation where every citizen is one color, the concept of diversity can be hard to understand.

The conundrum is almost ironic- the only time I’ve experienced such an identity crises is here, in Africa, where everyone looks like me. But irony is an invitation for humor. This will not keep me up at night and I won’t putter around my hut at odd hours trying to find a way to demand understanding. When they ask, when it is appropriate and when I am patient enough, I will explain my color and background and when I’m not in the mood, I too will stare back.

Black Americans serving in the Peace Corps in my cohort

Why we Greet

“Corps de la Paix” we said as the taxi stopped inches from our toes on the main road. The driver continued to look straight ahead. His face expressionless as if trying to think of the location of the address we gave him or probably trying to pick the address out of our thick American accents. Maybe both. My eyes quickly dart around the empty cab through the open window on the passenger side. Dust, grime and metal have all become one. The driver mumbles something in an almost inaudible tone and we exchange looks with each other- a classic move we have developed since moving to Senegal, usually knowing fully well that the others we have turned are just as hopeless as we are. No one heard a thing. So he signaled for us to come in. One of the Peace Corps volunteers jumps in the front while the rest of us struggle with the back seat handle. The driver then looks back and opens the door from the inside as if he didn’t know the handle was dysfunctional. Not a second after we slammed the back door shut, he merged left into oncoming traffic, barely missing another taxi headed the same direction. We greet him because it would be otherwise disrespectful. “Salaam Alaikum” we chant. But not in unison. It’s almost 7:30 and dinner is about to be served at the Peace Corps Training Center. And we’re hungry. You see the plan was to walk to the market after our final training session, buy sariche* for our home stay* families, purchase some essentials like flash cards to study Wolof*, then head home by foot in time for dinner. And we did all these things, but just much longer than we expected. We walked the longer way instead of taking the short cut, we got lost, we battled traffic (donkey carts, SUVs, taxis and motorcycles), we waited in line at the tubaab* store, we argued price with the associate at the stationary store. So by the time we squeezed into the misshapen taxi we were hungry and exhausted. 

“Alaikum Salam”, he responded in a tone slightly higher than before. So we began to ask him how he was and he began to ask about our Wolof at which point our vocabulary ceased and the conversation continued in French with one volunteer, leaving the rest of us staring out the window wondering how we were going to get through the next home stay and what the center was serving for dinner that night. He dropped us off at the center, his demeanor a complete 180 since 10 minutes earlier when he pulled to stop, almost running us over. 

But this is Senegal- simple greetings are a window to the hearts and lives of it’s people. They are a vessel through which children, culture, travel, health and politics are shared. For Peace Corps volunteers, greetings can mean investing in our safety at site, the success of a program or initiative or the key to a social life. Even though the greetings are almost robotic, they hold so much weight, it’s almost taboo to ignore them. 

Our conversations may never extend past the nod, the wave, the smile or the palms clasped together, but through these simple actions it is clear that a “relationship” is built. This expereince to and from our daily language classes. The vendors greet us with smiles like it’s their first time laying eyes on us. The children yell our names in the street and run to shake our hands, usually engaging in rapid monologues,less sensitive to the fact that 2 weeks of learning a new language doesn’t make one conversational. 

The greeting isn’t always pleasant. Sometimes you just want your Orange Card*, your bottle of cold water, your biscuits. Sometimes you just want to be left alone and not repeat a greeting to a village member you’ve never met but somehow already knows your name. So we’ve caught ourselves running to our rooms after class to avoid the extensive verbal ritual surrounding our reappearance. And we’ve caught ourselves waiting outside the compounds of other volunteers to avoid going inside to shake hands with 10 people. 

But when we’re not overwhelmed, we greet. Primarily because it’s the only thing we can say without major error at this point. Primarily because we are just as grateful to be here as they are to have us. 

The greetings paired with their smiles prove they have a genuine interest in who we are. And if we had the language skills we would tell them. We would tell them about our days. We would share about how we got lost and we would tell of how the availability of a taxi made it possible to get to dinner on time. But until then, until we have the language, we simply greet. 

 

 

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-Salaam Alaikum: Peace be with you

-Sariche: A gift you bring to a family or friend’s house when you visit or return from a trip

-Wolof: One of Senegal’s dominant tribes and languages. 

-Tubaab: Term used to describe a white person, foreigner, traveler or educated individual. The “tubaab store” is a french style grocery store where delicacies like ice-cream and chocolate and necessities like Dove Shampoo can be purchased. 

-Home stay: Community based training where Peace Corps TR

-Orange Card: Orange is a company that provides service for devices, primarily cell phones. 

 

 

it’s lunch time in senegal

We’re all familiar with lunch time, whether it’s a hamburger and fries served by the pimply teenager through a window, the sandwich, chips and piece of fruit in a brown bag packed by a diligent mother or the staff trip to the sushi place across the street- lunch takes various happens in various forms and positions. In Senegal, this position is on the floor. At the sound of the tam tam (drum), Peace Corps staff, volunteers and trainees gather together at the lunch team. At the entrance of the lunch hut we take off our shoes to mount the exquisite mats that have been placed on the floor. On the floor, are about 10 large bowls arranged in rows, each placed an equal distance from the other. Each bowl, about 24 inches wide holds the lunch for the day- sometimes rice cooked in a tomato soup and chicken with vegetables, and sometimes a white rice with yassa (an onion based sauce). About 4 people sit on the mat around each bowl, the women sitting with their legs to the side and the men stooping down with one leg in kneeling position and the other propped up. Then as quickly as we sit (sometimes not so quickly) we begin to eat from the bowl, some using spoons, others, their hands. Eating from the bowl is strategic. There is a process a system, a method. On the third day at the Peace Corps training center, the staff educated us on the process. These are the guidelines:

DON’T
1. Put bones back in the community bowl: The bones from your meats should be placed on the mat below you not back in the bowl.
2. Eat with your left hand: Senegal is not a left hand friendly country; most African nations are not. The left hand is seen as dirty and unclean because it’s the hand you wash with. Left handed people like myself must therefore remember not to hand people things with my left hand or eat with it.
3. Take food from in front of another person: You can’t reach across the bowl for a piece of carrot or meat. You have to ask the person closest to the food item to pass it to you. In turn, if you find yourself in front of a coveted piece of meat or pepper, you must be willing to split it up or give it up.
4. Mix large quantities of different ingredients: In American we appreciate a blend of tastes but here, if your spoonful has a piece of carrot, meat, rice and tomato on it, it will be frowned on.
5. Don’t take a large amount of food for yourself: This is self explanatory.
6. Sniff the food: We LOVE this in the States. We sniff our clothes, our tea, our muffin, our plants. But in Senegal it’s a no-no.
7. Watch other people eat: Our trainer literally told us that people don’t look cute when they eat and do not want to be watched. “Just eat your food, get up and leave” she said.
8. Try to start a conversation: Sometimes this is ok, sometimes its not. But you must wait to be spoken to before you speak.

It seems like a lot to remember and it is. We come from a word where lunch is eaten in the car on the way to the mechanic’s or the dry cleaner’s. A world where the lives and happenings of our coworkers, families and friends are discussed enthusiastically over Pad Thai or chicken salad. A world where we can sit in an empty park with shoes and headphones on to enjoy a cold turkey sandwich and an apple. This is the world we come from. So the rules are numerous. For many, the rules are overwhelming and difficult to remember. But slowly, after a few lunches, after our legs have cramped up a few times from sitting on them, after we have shared our pepper, carrots, and piece of fish, we begin to realize that their lunch, is now ours.

this is lunch. this is senegal.