Sunday, July 28, 2013

Homecoming and going

So here I am, writing again, but this time, I’m typing in an air-conditioned, brick walk-up after enjoying a lovely homemade panini with kale chips and buying two boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch (on sale!) today at Jewel.  Yes.  I am back in Chicago!  The Senegalese adventure has come to a close, but lucky for me, adventure on the whole has continued.

Ever since leaving Senegal, I’ve had a lingering sense of guilt about not writing a closing entry to sum up my experience.  I know that many of you kept up with me through this blog, and I did want to put some parting words or thoughts here at some point.  But frankly, the time just never seemed right.  When I left Senegal, I had just been hustled out of money at the airport, told I may or may not have had a debilitating disease, and experienced a transient, semi-homeless three weeks after a financial misunderstanding with my host family.  Consequently, the end wasn’t exactly the highlight of my service, and I  knew that anything I had to say at that moment probably wouldn’t be a lasting sentiment.  So in lieu of documentation, I just jumped on the airplane, bought a whole bunch of donuts in the airport, and proceeded to dive into patriotism when I got home in May, hoping that eventually, I’d end up with good feelings about my break-up with Senegal.

So now where am I?  It’s over two months later, and I truly do wake up almost every day extremely happy about where I am, where I’ve been, and all that I’ve been able to do.  The process of coming home and catching up with all of the friends and family I’ve missed, maintaining contact with all of the new friends I’ve made, and meeting so many new people has continuously reaffirmed how lucky I am to have such a multitude of wonderful people in my life, from all corners.  I’ve experienced far more understanding, support, patience, and love here than I dared hope to receive.  I expected people to be bored, removed, or dissociated from the stories I’d be bringing. But I’ve come back to a place where people listen, ask me great questions, and ultimately have fantastic conversations with me.  America, or at least my version of it, is pretty damn wonderful.

I called Senegal for the first time the other day.  It’s Ramadan there right now, so I purposely called around 5pm - that’s when the throes of fasting get roughest and grumpiest, when afternoon naps are ending but 2-3 hours remain until dates, coffee, and bread.  My host mom didn’t recognize my voice at first, and I could hear Ramadan in her voice.  Then, once I finally exclaimed, “It’s Mame Diouma!” and the house all but burned down.  Suddenly everyone was yelling, passing on blessings, fighting to get on the phone.  I found my French-Wolof exactly where I left it, and all sorts of stories started spilling out: my dad’s wedding, my new apartment, my family, my adventures and misadventures.  At the end, Bigue got on the phone and chatted with me.  It was pretty fabulous.

Who knows if I’ll be able to keep up this trans-Atlantic communication trail.  Staying in touch is hard, and there’s no blueprint for how, or even if, to keep certain people in your life. When I came home, people weren't exactly where I left them... but they are still here.  They're firmly in my life, planted, and that fact has made me overwhelmingly grateful.  Grateful and also resolved to continue retaining the parts of my life that have been most important – whether they’re people or places or practices, I don't have to lose them, not completely.

And to answer the inevitable question: yes, I am glad I went to Senegal.  I always wondered how I would eventually respond to that one – especially on those really terrible, humid days that ended with children throwing rocks or me crying in my maggot-filled room.  It’s strange.  I’m home, and I feel like the same person I was when I left.  But every once in awhile,  I find myself responding to a weird situation with a strength or conviction I didn’t know I had, or I didn't have before.  It's like my American self is slowly melding with my Senegal self, and I get to test it out almost every day.  Weird.  But awesome.

So, yes. That’s really all I wanted to say right now.  I’m having a lovely time, back home in Chicago, blissfully enjoying summer and not really accomplishing any of the goals I set out for myself.  That’s okay.  I’m pretty content riding my bike around the city, making dinner with my friends, watching ‘The Bachelorette’, seeing babies grow up, wandering, writing, dancing, and living.  Ultimately, I just wanted to thank everyone.  For everything, really.

All my love.  Mame Diouma OUT.

And I promise my next entry will be funnier, because my life has been really ridiculous in Chicago.  You didn’t think this was the end, did you?  This is not the end.

Friday, April 26, 2013

What's in a Net?

In Senegal, I’m an anomaly.  For a country that lists malaria as one of its greatest threats, I’ve been largely unaffected.  My host family, my friends, my co-workers – I’m thankful to say that none of them succumbed to malaria during my time here, but even more strangely, none of them ever even contracted malaria.  My local health post, situated in a bustling urban neighborhood, documented only two treated cases of the disease during my first rainy season.  It seems that I live in a pocket where prevention - through both treated mosquito nets and insecticide sprays - has truly taken hold.

But outside of my immediate surroundings, malaria is brutal. Worldwide, experts estimate that the disease kills a little less than a million people each year.  230 million contract malaria every year, and even if they don’t succumb to its clutches, the experience is far from pleasant.  Among Peace Corps volunteers, we consider the possibility of malaria with questions such as: can you do anything more than lie on the floor and groan?  Do you feel like you’re dying?  Is this the worst pain you’ve ever experienced in your life? This disease keeps kids out of school for weeks, costs struggling countries billions of dollars, and makes the flu a walk in the park.

One area with a surprisingly high incidence of malaria is the district immediately next to mine, Pout.  Another Peace Corps volunteer, my friend Andrew, lives in Pout and was approached by his local health post to collaborate on a malaria education project. Pout is labeled a red zone – the highest and most dangerous classification – by the Senegalese Ministry of Health due to its high malaria infection rates.  The health post wanted to organize a tour of local middle and high schools, where we would present short presentations to reinforce knowledge about preventing malaria.  Middle and high school students, they explained, are ideal targets for behavior change activities, having the capacity to absorb information, practice it, and pass on the information to their families and neighbors.

And so that’s what we did.  Seldom do Peace Corps projects unfold so easily, but with the enthusiasm of the Pout Health Post in organizing logistics, the enthusiasm of each school in welcoming us, the assistance of a USAID Small Projects Assistance grant, and that dependable Peace Corps volunteer knack for creating educational content, we pulled off a successful project over the course of a week.  

A local ICP (head nurse) reinforces our points for students in Wolof.  I stand next to him, being extremely supportive.

At each school, we teamed up with local nurses, health volunteers, and teachers to lead a presentation about using bed nets to combat malaria.  We chose to focus on bed nets because not only are they the most cost-effective measure for reducing transmission, but a recent campaign by PNLP (National Program to Fight Malaria) had just distributed free impregnated mosquito nets to every household in the district.  In the end, we spoke to over 1900 students, teachers, and health workers at nine different schools.  Success!

But because we had a lot of time driving in cars between schools, I started thinking about behavior change.  Behavior change is a Peace Corps catch phrase and the end goal of most education projects: the idea of giving people knowledge that they translate into action.  It’s more than simply explaining the benefits of washing your hands, keeping business records, or rotating field crops; successful behavior change makes those actions the reflexive norm. For malaria, everyone (NGOs, international organizations, Senegal, Peace Corps, and every actor in between) wants to make sleeping under a mosquito net that undisputed, reflexive norm, with the obvious benefit being a reduction in malaria.

In many of the schools we visited, the students demonstrated impeccable knowledge about malaria transmission and prevention.  Public-service announcements and propaganda about bed net usage permeate Senegal, through billboards, radio, television, and school lessons, so this was no surprise.  What caught my attention was an impromptu survey we took at the beginning of each program: only 52% of the students said they had a mosquito net in their room, despite the recent universal coverage campaign.  Their behavior didn't measure up.

More strikingly, only 22% of the 1900 students had slept under their mosquito net the previous night.  Millions of dollars have been poured into campaigns about using impregnated bed nets.  Senegalese celebrities have joined the cause, grand events are hosted, and free nets are distributed by health workers with the intention of covering every single bed.  And yet – only 22% of the students, undoubtedly one of the most educated groups, were using the nets.

Wait, seriously?  None of you slept under your bed nets last night?  Did I stutter with my question?

Behavior change is hard.  And I don’t completely blame the students for avoiding  their mosquito nets.  In many ways, malaria is a fact of life here, and many people are willing to take their chances with it.  Plus, nets are hot.  Nights in Senegal leave people sweating on mattresses, desperately waiting for the smallest twinges of a breeze to give them a few seconds of relief.  Who wants to compound that heat by wrapping themselves in a gauzy net every night?  Personally, I use my net religiously, but mostly because I’m terrified of cockroaches, mice, lizards, and rats the size of terriers, not because I know malaria might kill me.

Truthfully, our malaria tour reminded me of all the knowledge Americans push aside with regularity – smoking, drunk driving, using condoms.  Simply knowing something is dangerous isn’t really enough to move people to action, or moreover, prevention.  So what does guarantee compliance, 100% of the time?  What changes behaviors?

Obviously, I don’t have the answer.  During our program, we inadvertently employed a host of different approaches.  We tried to imbibe the students with a sense of responsibility and ownership, telling them that they were responsible for being agents and passing on the information to other people.  We outlined the costs of having malaria – financially, lost school time, health-wise – and cut them against the cost of prevention – using a free, impregnated net.  We tried to inspire them with attainable goals of eradicating malaria.  We tried to make them see their nets not only as a protection for themselves, but a weapon to actively kill mosquitos that could harm other people in their homes.  The Senegalese health workers even tried to shame students who admitted to not sleeping under nets, making them stand up and address the class.

Behavior change technique: throw some children under a net, pretend to attack them with a life-size homemade mosquito, and do some sassy finger wagging.  Success rate for this method TBD.

In the end, I think our program succeeded in giving students information beyond the catchphrases and slogans they’ve memorized from public health campaigns.  I think the students appreciated the novelty of discussing malaria with some crazy strangers and charismatic health workers, and a few of them were able to get free nets that day. 

I have no idea if 22% or 0% or 100% of our students slept under their mosquito nets the night after our visit.  Ultimately, I hope that whatever they did, they did it with a better understanding of whatever consequences they were choosing.  I hope they realize just what's in a net: the capacity to cut down malaria, to ensure school and work attendance, the chance to wipe out malaria-infected mosquitos, the chance to save lives.  A net has a pretty high net worth.  Hopefully, knowing what's in a net can start translating into who should be in a net -  and less needless malaria by this time next year.  

Part of our Pout Malaria Tournee team with a lot of random people who happened to be passing by when the photo was taken.  Teamwork!

You can read a case study about our project here:

Monday, April 15, 2013

Communication 101

My host mom has an intense, and, by Senegalese standards, acceptable habit of verbally thrashing people.  Normally, she's an astoundingly intelligent, good-natured, and reasonable woman, but whenever she’s angry about anything, she directs it at a person.  She can be frustrated about the price of fish, and suddenly, my lazy host sister becomes the topic of conversation.  She hears about a marriage she doesn’t support, and suddenly, our dinner has been cooked the wrong way not only tonight, but for the past year.  I think it’s a pretty human reflex to lash out at the nearest person when life doesn’t go your way.  But there are certain points about how my host mom does this that make me incredibly uncomfortable.  First of all, she usually directs them at someone in the room and manages to turn everyone against that person.  It’s a privilege to join her in emotionally abusing the member of the family bearing her wrath that night – everyone seems to forget the nights when they bore the brunt of it and merrily joins in.  It’s also incredibly mean-spirited to the point where she’s making completely ridiculous claims about people, such as them being evil witches who can never change their terrible characters.

I think my host mom expects me to react like a normal Senegalese person: nod vigorously, agree with everything she says, and maybe add some beat-downs of my own.  I know that Americans, and all people, do and say some pretty terrible things to each other, but leading unfounded family charges against defenseless children is hard for me to stomach.  Usually, I just maintain a stony expression and leave as soon as I can.  But occasionally, she just goes too far, and I feel the need to defend my host sisters.

The first time I confronted her about it was when she started yelling at my host sister, Dabo.  Dabo, like Fatamata whom I wrote about a few months ago, lives with us while she finishes up secondary school.  Dabo has a work ethic unlike anyone I’ve ever seen.  She’s patient and never utters a word of complaint or malice against anyone.  Perhaps most tellingly, I’ve never seen her talk back to my host mom, unlike every other member of the family.  As my strongest sister, she’s tasked with the heaviest labors: carrying sacks of rice, moving furniture, killing the goats.  But she does all of her work with a serene expression, never complaining, always jumping to help.  Sometimes I help her with her English homework.  She’s incredibly smart.  Her teachers tell me her only problem is that she falls asleep in class – unsurprising given the amount of work she has in our house.

Dabo and I on Tabaski

So, when my host mom started yelling about how Dabo has a terrible character, that she’s an evil, lazy little witch, all with Dabo sitting next to her, staring at the ground, I simply voiced my disagreement.  I wanted Dabo to know that my mom’s words weren’t coloring my opinion.   “No,” I said evenly.  “I don’t believe you.  I think Dabo works really hard.  I think she’s a good person too.”  My host mother just about imploded.  Her rants are meant to be uninterrupted, it seems. Plus, even Dabo acted like I overstepped a boundary.  After that night, she pulled away from me, almost embarrassed and ashamed that I spoke up for her.  I chalked all of this up to some cultural things I would never understand and decided not to interrupt my host mom again.  Until tonight.

Tonight, she turned her rage on Mame.  Mame has a complicated situation.  She moved in with us a few years ago, seemingly because her real mother wanted my host mom to “straighten her out.”  It seems Mame had gotten pregnant at 14, and while she ended up losing the baby, it was still a pretty shameful experience for everyone.  So Mame lived her for a few years – until she “fell in love” with my host dad’s crazy half brother.  A wedding, a baby, and a divorce all ensued in the next two years.  So now Mame and her daughter, Astou, live with us and are supported by my family, as a mixture of blood relations and free labor.

Me and Mame

But here’s the thing about Mame: I can’t really ascertain her intelligence level.  Should it even matter?  I don’t know.  But she only completed 3rd grade, and her “stupidity” is a constant issue with my host mother – Mame can’t follow directions, Mame always messes up dinner, Mame is lazy.  I can see how Mame wouldn’t measure up to Senegalese requirements for being a ‘good woman’ in that respect – she takes extra moments to process things and recipes don’t stick in her head as quickly as everyone else.  But on the whole, I find Mame delightful.  She’s always laughing and smiling, and I think she tries the best she can.  She’s never been anything than nice to me.

So tonight, my host mom informed me that Mame wanted to get back with her crazy ex-husband.  I was disgusted, because that guy: a) told everyone he funded his daughter’s entire baptism party when in actuality he contributed nothing, b) beat his previous wives, c) he is sexually abusive, and d) he pretty much abandoned his baby daughter.  I am not a fan.  But I can see why Mame would want him back.  She’s 18, living in with distant relatives, and never leaves our house.  She’s obviously lonely, and I’m sure she sees her crazy ex-husband as the only chance to possibly escape the house and her current state.  On that point, she’s probably, sadly, not too far off the mark.  But I obviously would never support her returning to him, and my host mom was not pleased either.

But, instead of talking about any of this, my host mom decided to destroy Mame.  “She’s so lazy!  She’s dirty!” she screamed. “Did you know she was practically a prostitute when she came here?  She’s disgusting!” She said all of these things in front of our whole extended family.  To me, being pregnant at 14 is a lot of things, but not prostitution. 

“I don’t agree,” I said when my host mom paused to take a breath.  “I think you’re wrong.  I think Mame is confused, I think she didn’t have the same education as other people in your family, I think she’s lonely, and I don’t think any of those things you just said have anything to do with why Mame wants her husband back.”

Obviously, my host mom refused to listen.  “You just don’t understand Wolof, Mame Diouma,” she said, as though my lack of language fluency means I haven’t lived with this family for two years, seen the work they do, the interactions they exchange, the characters they have.  “Mame is a disgusting human being,” she continued. “She’s always sleeping.  She has a terrible character.  She was a slut on the streets when she came here and she hasn’t changed.  She’s terrible.  She will never be able to be a real wife, because she’s so stupid.” 

I can’t really describe how awful it is to hear someone you really care about be so unilaterally slandered.  Every time I spoke up in Mame’s defense, someone else in the family would fight me.  “No!  She’s a slut!  You don’t understand!” Even my sisters Fatamata and Dabo, who have borne the brunt of my host mom’s wrath before, were joining in.  But the worst was when my host mom found the argument she’d been looking for.  “She is worse than her ex-husband!  He is not nearly as bad as her!” 

Her ex-husband.  A domestic abuser, borderline rapist, lying thief - she called the woman who has unflinchingly prepared her meals, cleaned her house, and taken care of her grandchildren worse than a man like that.  I could not handle it, and I left for my room.

Maybe I'm overreacting.  Gossip, especially rage-filled, screaming, slandering oratory, is pretty much a national sport in Senegal, especially in my Wolof-heavy area.  The Senegalese love a good debate.  Then again, these family "discussions" about my host sisters usually seem more like open hunting seasons than extemporaneous exchanges.  I read an article once about the vitality of gossip in African communities, how it protects people and binds them together when so many things are taboo to discuss.  I love a piece of good gossip myself.  

I also know that the ways in which a society judges people usually have their underlying reasons.  Maybe there are some key facts about my host sisters that I don't see, maybe my host mom's words are the only way to straighten them out or discipline them.  Plus, I've never had to manage a gigantic Senegalese household.  I'm sure my host mom has chosen her methods for keeping it all together with some thought.  But even when I try look at these incidents through a lens of cultural understanding, I still have trouble seeing it all as anything less than vicious.

I think what bothers me the most about this situation is simply this: if Mame doesn’t have the support of my host mom, what else does she have? Her own mother sent her away long ago, and she’s been scraping by working for my family.  Qualities that we see as mistakes in America – such as considering going back to a terrible man – aren’t momentary missteps here, but innate character flaws.  In so many ways, personal value is measured in terms I find incredibly limiting: the ability to work without needing a rest, the ability to do every job flawlessly and quickly, the ability to never make a mistake.  My host sisters aren’t allowed to have bad days.  

I also realize that I come from a place where these words sound harsher on my ears than they perhaps do on the ears of my host sisters.  But then again, a part of me aches when my host mother says, “She will never amount to anything!” – because she may be right, if only because she has more say in the matter than the girls themselves.

Mame with her daughter, Astou

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Life Project: Discovering Senegalese Culture

Recently, I embarked on a new life project.  At any given moment, I am probably involved in 1-2 life projects.  Previous ones have included trying to learn how to do the splits, baking, understanding the anthropological history of the African continent, memorizing rap lyrics, and Oprah magazines.  I think it’s important to have hobbies.

Anyway, one of my current life projects is “DISCOVERING SENEGALESE CULTURE.”  I hit a point in my service when I realized I’d lost sight of one of my biggest reasons for joining the Peace Corps.  Little known fact, most Peace Corps volunteers are hardly martyrs, myself included.  I had all sorts of reasons for coming to Senegal.  For instance: I wanted to challenge myself.  I wanted work experience.  I wanted the chance to work on something important and interesting.  I wanted the time to figure out what I would find important and interesting.  And probably most of all, I wanted to fully live in a different place.

I know realize that ‘fully live’ means more than just adapting myself to Senegal; it includes living my life, here, and doing things that I’ve always done.  Music.  Theater.  Dancing.  Art.  Guacamole.  When I leave, I want to feel like I, Lisa the person, lived here, and that means finding ways to do things that I’ve always loved.  Some crazy stuff can be found here; other things need to be improvised.  But I know that eventually I’ll go home and find a job and probably work until I’m old and decrepit, but never again will I be in this place with its music, dancing, and art... so I better go and find it.

We stumbled across this magical flute playing man recently.  CULTURE!

That was my commitment.  Then, I stumbled into a few lucky breaks right away.  The result was a strangely fruitful and cultural few days, and what I hope will only be the beginning of DISCOVERING SENEGALESE CULTURE.  Let’s review...

Youssou N’Dour’s Guitarist, Palais des Arts

(So, full disclosure: I failed to catch this guy’s name, which is embarrassing, especially because they sang Happy Birthday to him and his name was written on a cake.  Fail.  But in my defense, I was offered no cake.) 

Palais des Arts is a venue built in Thies specifically because someone realized, “Hey, Thies is a huge, educated city right outside Dakar, but artists have nowhere to play when they go there.  Let’s build something worthy!”  It’s decorated in a mild circus motif, but every time I’ve gone, the music and atmosphere have been spectacular.  Sadly, I’d only gone twice, despite LIVING IN THIS CITY, mostly because shows tend to start at 2am and I have the habits of an 85-year-old woman.  But when I finally showed up for attempt #3 with some friends the other night, we were disheartened to find a pricey cover charge (in hindsight, $6 is nothing for a show).  However, we soon we discovered why the Palais was making us pay: Youssou N’Dour’s guitarist was in the house.

Youssou N’Dour is Senegal’s most famous musician and the current Minister of Culture and Tourism, so hosting his guitarist was truly an elite event.  I ended up throwing down some money to check it out, which turned out to be an excellent decision.  Mbalax, traditional Senegalese music, has a tendency to grate on me since I’ve heard it every hour of the day for the past two years, but this guy’s version of it was pretty nice.  He diffused it in chill rock n’roll, giving it heavier guitars and bass than typical mbalax, plus his drummer acted like Ginger Baker with dreads.  At on point, the house band’s singer, whom I adore, made a cameo appearance and brought it all down.  Mostly though, I enjoyed just mixing in with the other Senegalese spectators on the dance floor until the 5am call to prayer.  

Moliere, Centre Culturel Entre Deux Baobabs

My friend Joyce discovered a new cultural center right in our neighborhood, a joint affair run by a French woman and a Senegalese man.  This pairing seems to have made something wonderful: Senegalese-style events in Western-style classes and programming... I love it!  Every 1-2 weeks, the center presents a different show, usually theater, dance, or music, and the first one I heard about was a Moliere show (I think it was The Invisible Invalid, but I'm not sure...).  All I remembered about Moliere from college was that his plays are usually dirty, which comforted me when I considered my ability to follow a play in French: farts and sex jokes, at least, wouldn’t go over my head.  While I did have difficulty dissecting all of the dialogue (I can understand words, but wordplay is still a little rough...), I loved just seeing how a Senegalese dramatic production worked.  Senegalese people all have a flair for drama, which lends itself easily to angry scenes.  Their brand of comedy, on the other hand, is crazy physical and over the top.  I had also worried that the show would follow Senegal’s tendency to use 50 words when two could suffice, but the quick pace of the show pleasantly surprised me.

But most of all, I really enjoyed seeing the director’s dramatic liberties.  In the schools, I see a serious lack of creativity: essay formats are literally memorized and words substituted based on thematic assignments, skits are always the same story about getting malaria or AIDS, and art tends to repeatedly show the same women fetching water.  But in this play, the director used film interludes to show scenes in other rooms and characters’ inner thoughts and memories, which was cool.  Even moreso, he switched the setting to present day Senegal and substituted a corrupt, unholy marabout (religious leader) for the original version’s quack doctor.  This made the play a refreshing critique of Senegal’s occasional blind trust in their religious leaders at the mercy of common sense.  In the play, a father decides to marry his daughter off to a marabout, probably as like his fourth wife and probably hoping that it will give the family good fortune or holiness (my French couldn’t catch the details, bear with me).  The daughter is in love with someone else, but she can’t fight her dad.  The only person with any sense at all is the maid, which was also a refreshing twist, since the girls who do the housework are one of the lowest and most forgotten classes in Senegal.  Anyway, eventually the women in the house execute a plan that exposes the ridiculous marabout as a womanizing crackpot, and everyone ends up happy.  Yay!  Art!

Daara J Family, Phenix Nightclub

View from the VIP area.  Where the bouncer is standing against the speaker is where I ended up.
Normally, I pay no attention to the banners in Thies advertising huge concerts. These mega concerts are usually held in our outdoor plaza, the site of riots, strikes, and, in the words of my middle schoolers, “where people buy hard drugs,” which I’m pretty sure means one person was once seen smoking pot there.  But when I saw a banner announcing a Daara J show, I did a double take because 1) Daara J is a rap supergroup here, and 2) the show was being held at a nightclub behind my house.  Up to this point, I have avoided The Phenix Nightclub because I think it’d be weird for me to party in my own neighborhood and also, it’s spelled wrong.  But my family has been very supportive of my new cultural hobbies, and besides, it was Christmastime!  So I rounded up a motley crew of fellow volunteers and ex-pats, and together, we bought ourselves a VIP table.

None of us were sure what to expect at the show, except for maybe the couchsurfing French cyclist, who had seen them once in France.  Sure, Daara J is probably the biggest group in Senegal, but then again, I didn’t know how often they passed through Thies, or how many people would be discouraged by the random location in my neighborhood and the $6 ticket price.  But by the time the show started, we had all learned a lot.  For example, even if nine people tell you the show starts at 10:30pm, everything in Senegal always starts at 2am. Or later.  Always.  And also, the concert was not packed.  In fact, I managed to go dance in the front row, pounding my hands rhythmically in the air to the rap rhythms, and high five Daara J.  I also got elbowed by a lot of entirely rily fans who were having Pentecostal-type religious experiences through the music, but that’ll happen.  Daara J themselves are a duo – one dreaded and Rasta-y, the other more dapper in a full suit, and they’re backed by what my insider friend told me was a “group of adolescent Cote d’Ivorians who somehow complete their sound perfectly.”  It was fun to be at a show where everyone knew the words to every song, and every once in a while, a French, Wolof, or English word would repeat over and over in the refrain and I could catch on and sing along too. 

Alibeta and the Nomads, all over Dakar and on my TV

I must give credit where credit is due.  One of the biggest sparks for my recent treks into artistic adventures was definitely Alibeta and the Nomads, a Dakar group that includes one of my good friends and an old PCV here, David Lothamer (he’s not old, he just used to be a Peace Corps volunteer, but then decided to become a nomad and stay and play beautiful music forever in Senegal).  I went to a few of their shows in Dakar, one of which included a theatre/dance performance, and I love them every time I see them.  Recently, another film-savvy PCV, Andrew Oberstadt, collaborated with them on their first music video... and the other night, as I sat watching TV with my family, it appeared on-screen!  According to David, I was the first PCV to see it on TV, or at least the first one who saw it and felt compelled to call him, exclaiming with pride and joy.  So they’re blowing up!  A primetime showing on one of the biggest networks in Senegal, WalfTV means that certainly the video will be in heavy rotation for at least the next month.  You can check it out here: 

I’m excited to see them more in the coming months, if at that point I can still manage to get into their shows.

So there you have it, the beginning of my cultural revolution. We’ll see if it lasts.  I’m not sure I can keep hacking these 2am shows, despite my enthusiasm.  But hopefully, I can find a way to at least see some dancing in the near future.  At the very least, I want to try and go to Akon’s club before I come home, which is actually not cultural at all but would somehow be the ultimate life experience.

Monday, January 21, 2013

SeneGAD Newsletter

One of my projects in Peace Corps is working as Co-Communications Commissioner for our gender and development group, SeneGAD, with my good friend Nicky.  Here’s a link to our latest newsletter, which includes information about gender projects in Senegal and an article we wrote about the woman who inspired our successful, nationwide scholarship program for middle school girls.  Happy reading!

You can read the newsletter as a Google Doc or download it via our Peace Corps Senegal website:

Monday, January 14, 2013

Can You Help Me Choose a Penis?

Today, I had to go to the market to find an appropriate vegetable for a condom demonstration.  Last time I did a condom demonstration, we had some handy penis models that looked diseased and terrifying.  This time, the penis models are in Dakar (and when I say penis models, please know that I mean wooden penis figurines, not men paid to model their penises), so a little improvisation is required.  Hilarity ensued when I went to the market on this mission.  Here is a sampling of some conversations I had, translated from Wolof.

Me: Oh hey homegirl, Yacine!  My favorite vegetable lady!
Yacine: Mame Diouma!  I haven’t seen you in so long!  What’s up?
Me: Not much.  I need a penis.
Yacine: What?  You need tomatoes?
Me: No.  I need a penis.  (points to genital area).  Man.  I need a penis.
Yacine: You need... a penis?
Me: I’m teaching about condoms today and I need a vegetable to use as a penis.
Yacine: Ohhhh!
Me: What do you think?  Carrots?
Yacine: Yeah, definitely look at the carrots.
Me: But these turnips look like penises too.
Yacine:  Yes, the turnip can be a good penis.  200cfa.
Me: I only need one penis.  Which is a better penis?
Yacine: Hmmm... the turnip.
Me: You don’t think this turnip is too big?
Yacine: No.  This one is a sweeter penis. (winks at me)

The fun continued later, when I realized I could walk around the neighborhood telling people I had a penis in my backpack.  I think a lot of people assume that living in a predominantly Muslim country, sex is taboo.  I guess having sex is kind of taboo, but trust me, there is no better way to earn the love and respect of neighborhood women than to start explicitly joking about penises and vaginas.  And so this conversation happened:

Fatima: Mame Diouma!  Girl!  I miss you, I haven’t seen you in so long!
Me: Oh, I’ve been around.
Fatima: Are you going to the school to teach today?
Me: No, I have a community lesson to do.  I have a penis in my backpack.

(Fatima gives me a blank look)

Me: No, seriously.  I have a penis in my backpack.
Fatima: You have a penis in your backpack?
Me: I have a penis in my backpack.
Other random woman: HAHAHHAHAHAHAHAH
Me:  Sure. 

(I produce a black plastic bag.  Fatima holds in her hands but seems hesitant to open it.)

Me: It’s for condoms.  To show people how to use condoms.
Fatima: Whose... penis is it?
Me: Just open it and see.  Just look at it.
Random woman #3: WE WANT TO SEE THE PENIS!

(Fatima opens the bag and reveals the turnip)

Fatima: What?!  This turnip is way too big to be a penis!
Random woman: This penis is not realistic at all!
Me: Dude, the lady at the market told me it was the sweetest penis!  I wanted to choose the carrot!
Fatima: This is not a good penis.
Me: Well I can’t return it.  I’ll just eat it later, we can cook it with rice and fish.
Fatima: Next time you need a penis, come talk to me.

I’m glad I have such great friends like Fatima in the community.  Hopefully, next time I have to purchase vegetables in the market that resemble penises, she can help guide me through the process.  In the meantime, I’m still confident in my current choice, because I think it is aspirational and perhaps even a little intimidating.  Today should be the best condom demonstration ever!  Wish me luck as I embark on our weeklong Men As Partners tourney, where I’ll be working with other volunteers to host our Language and Cultural Facilitators in leading discussions for local men about health, sexuality, and being a man in Senegal!

Tuesday, January 8, 2013


Sometimes, tough choices do not need to be made, as I learned during this past holiday season in Senegal.  Should I have a party for my family again, or go see a rap super group?  Should I serve cookies or brownies?  Should I cook on Christmas, or be served by a lovely Vietnamese woman endorsed by the ambassadors of numerous countries?  Should I sit, or should I dance?  Should I watch a movie about meth, or a comedy?  The answer is yes, to everything.  Christmas 2012: A case study in having your cake and eating it too.

I decided to hold my second annual holiday party for my host family, though to be honest, they seemed pretty ambivalent.  Even Bigue, who delighted in last year’s festivities, proved that Christmas at five years old is different than four.  Last year she was all about hot chocolate and snowflakes.  This year, she just kept yelling, “PERE NOEL BETTER BRING ME SOMETHING GOOD!”  For the record, he did: she ended up with a geo-safari-esque computer learning game.  And for the record, I was not Pere Noel. 

The snowflakes are still hung on random trees around our compound, YES.

Luckily for my family, their lack of enthusiasm did not deter me.  I made sugar cookies in weird shapes traced with cardboard, whipped up colored frosting, sewed a tree made of scrap fabric, made new stockings for the new family members, popped two bags of popcorn, set up supplies for snowflake making, and invited all the girls from my health club to the party.  My underlying message was YOU WILL TAKE THIS HOLIDAY AND YOU WILL LOVE IT.  The party seemed moderately successful, buoyed by the fact that host mom happened to be out of town, which made it an unsupervised party.  I mean, Joyce and I were there, and I guess we’re adults.  But not real adults.  Not sassy, angry Senegalese adults.  So the kids all really cut loose and I think they had a good time.  Christmas Step 1: NICE.

Festive treats!


Later that night, I headed out to a Daara J concert.  Daara J is Senegal’s rap super group, and I had VIP tickets!  But first, someone had to try to mug me again.  Yes.  I appear vulnerable and easily defeated.  As Joyce and I rode our bikes down the street at 7:30pm, someone jumped out of the bushes and tried to rip my bag off my bike.  It was terrifying.  I imagine it’s very similar to hitting a deer with your car, only the deer jumps in your car tries to rip off your head.  Luckily, I just kept peddling, and the $1 purse I bought at the market refused to break.  A Christmas miracle!  I went to the concert and all was well.  Christmas Step 2: SUCCESS.

The next day, I headed up to St. Louis, one of my favorite cities, to spend Christmas with some of my favorite people.  I rented a house with a few other volunteers, and we decorated with tinsel, stockings, tiny trees, and presents wrapped in plastic bags.  One of my housemates was a Christmas Eve baby, so we all went out to celebrate her birthday in addition to that of our Lord and Savior.  At one point, we ended up at the fateful dance club which has thrown me to the curb one too many times for always dancing and never buying anything.  I just wanna dance!  This time, I came in and danced, and they let me, and they let all of us!  Christmas Step 3: Dancing.  Check.

A Sorority House Christmas

On Christmas Eve, a local restaurant was kind enough to host our big Peace Corps group and home-cooked dinner.  My house didn’t have a kitchen, but we did our best to cook mashed potatoes, mulled wine, and mix up a salad with one pot and one gas tank while jamming out to Christmas music. 
We also had no spoons, which meant we had to stir and taste-test our food with daggers.

As a whole group, we managed to deliver an amazing meal of meat, pasta, seafood, bean dips, charcuterie, cheese, tapas, and desserts along with our house’s contributions.  It was a thoroughly delicious Christmas meal, and definitely the best Christmas dinner that could be made in Senegal.  On Christmas Day itself, I watched Winter’s Bone (my friends thought the title made it sound holiday-esque... no, unless holidays are a time to appreciate not being addicted to meth) and Moonrise Kingdom.  We also went to a rooftop, ocean-view liquor tasting and then ate at one of my favorite restaurants in country, Restaurant Saigon.  Coconut Chicken Curry and Pho: the Christmas dinner of champions!  We also finally exchanged white elephant gifts, and I ended up with a sassy pair of culotte pants and a book about a girl raised by hippies in an Indian ashram.   Step 4: everything else, done.

And New Year’s?  My friend Nicky’s family was visiting, and a few of us joined them in a lovely beach house.  We cooked a lot of pasta, braved freezing water, danced on a makeshift sand stage, and ducked behind wooden boats as a nearby hotel accidentally shot fireworks at us while blasting an Ultimate ABBA disco remix.  I also got into a fight with a small child over a party hat.  At 11:50pm, we went on a photo binge to document every last drop out of 2012.  

Hats provided by Nicky's family.

It was my second holiday season away from home, and while it was hard, I feel like I figured out how to do things a lot better this time around.  Lots of phone calls, lots of baked goods, and making sure a few well-worn traditions happened – my keys to a good holiday.  But ultimately, I look forward to next year, when I’ll hopefully be back doing the usual – holiday parties, a ridiculously decorated and electrifying tree, driving to light festivals, Christkindlmarkt, Christmas Eve with the family, morning with mom and my sister, Christmas Day movie with the sisters, Maggie’s birthday, and watching strangers fall into trash cans as we all sing “The World’s Greatest” at a house party in Chicago.  2013 is going to be bomb.