How I Deal with Holiday Emotions

As December unfolds, I find myself getting a little depressed. Maybe it’s because I miss my friends and family who are undoubtedly doing things like laughing extremely loudly while drinking hot chocolate in front of fireplaces and wearing sweaters or ice dancing to holiday music as snow gently falls on their faces. These are my default images in all of my darkest moments. Because I cannot imagine anyone back home doing what, in all actuality, they probably are doing: just sitting, or something, or like eating chips out of a bag on a couch, or maybe being on Facebook during a meeting. No. In my dreams, America, as well as all of the people I love, are maestros of life, excitement, and action.

But to alleviate my sadness, I’ve been finding ways to distract myself. For instance:

I built this Christmas tree for myself using a metal rod I found in a garbage heap, an empty can of powdered milk, various paint brushes, and construction paper. I expected my host family to be embarrassed for me when they saw it, as the Senegalese typically shun anything whose beauty doesn’t depend on glitter or shiny aspects, but they were just all-around impressed. I admit that every time I walk into my little apartment and see my tree, it does make me happy. Success!

I also recently celebrated the Islamic holiday of Tamharit, or the Muslim New Year. Everyone had told me that it would be a decently raucous time, complete with a special meal of millet, chicken, and milk (in phases, not all together.) They also told me that children cross-dress and then go from home to home, demanding candy and money. As a strange character in Senegal who somehow encompasses both genders and all ages when it comes to cultural standards, I was encouraged to dress up like a man. I accepted because, duh. That sounds awesome. I figured I might even get some candy out of the deal. So using my own mannish clothes and face paint sent by my father, I turned myself into Moussa Coulibaly, an average Senegalese man who needs a wife:

Unfortunately for me, everyone else, including my fun-loving four year old host sister Bigue, refused to dress up. “I’m wearing girl clothes!” she exclaimed with disgust when I implored her to dress up like a man with me. Even the baby was weirded out. My family insisted that after dinner, we’d all go on a walk around the neighborhood and see all of the kids in their costumes. We went on a walk and saw no one, NOT ONE PERSON, cross dressing. Except for me. The magical cross dressing toubab of Thies. I somewhat resembled a gay pirate.

I also recently attended the US Marine Ball in Senegal, just like Mila Kunis and Justin Timberlake!

My site mate Clare and I went on a double date with two Marines stationed in the capital. It was like a Cinderella story: two poor, dirty Peace Corps volunteers lavished with things like prom dresses and hair curlers then thrown into a fancy social situation with the elite ex-pats of Dakar. Actually, it was a lot like Cinderella, since around midnight, I totally crashed and turned into an exhausted metaphorical pumpkin. Too much excitement! But when the excitement includes things like watching Marines slice birthday cake with swords, you live with no regrets.

But ultimately, as an American, I can’t help but default to work as my number one to distract myself from FEELINGS. And in that respect, I have been successful. I’ve been working on making the Life Skills manual more user-friendly, which means new fonts! New pictures! And magical colors! But, cheesily, I admit that it does make me happy to see the changes I’ve made with it. Here's a small example of the original manual Bethany and I started working off of, and where it is now:

I have meetings during the next few weeks with our teachers about revisions, so hopefully those are productive. I’ve also started helping with local English classes again. For my first class, I’ve gone to a few different schools and taught listening comprehension using a lesson about schools in America. One class was especially chatty, and we had a fun conversation about the differences between Senegal and America. They were shocked at the idea that kids are basically locked inside schools all day, and I really enjoyed delving into the details of middle school dress codes in America. Your skirt must extend longer than your hand reaches, your tank top straps must be thicker than three finger widths, and you can’t wear shirts that advertise cigarettes or alcohol. It all came back to me so quickly!

So yes, this is how I distract myself. I also hope to indulge myself a little as the holidays draw nearer and take at least some sort of vacation to celebrate with friends. But until then, please, keep doing things like sledding at all hours of the day, riding horses, running through open fields of corn, climbing mountains, and going to McDonalds. It’s the American way.

Carnivorous Times and My Week as a Nurse

After Tabaski, life continued on the upswing. To start with, we continued eating sheep meat for the next three weeks. I’ve since found out that this makes many people, mostly old men that I come across in office situations, very angry. They sit during lunch and shovel the meat into their mouths, muttering about how ridiculous it is that we’re being served meat AGAIN and all they really want is a big vat of fried fish, or as they call it, real food. They complain and complain and make a lot of grumbling noises. I have issues with this. First of all, if they want the fish so bad, I think they should just figure out how to cook it themselves. That’s what I do when I have cravings for things like popcorn, guacamole, or brownies: I find a way to make it work, even if that means I mix cocoa powder with butter and sugar and just make some kind of weird batter that somehow satisfies me. But second of all, their pain is my happiness. I try not to talk to myself about how, at the end of the day, I’m just not a big fish person. But the more I admit that to myself, the harder the next 18 months will be, so mostly, I just eat the fish every day. Except for the three weeks after Tabaski, when all of my dreams come true and I just stuff my face without thinking.

I also had the chance to participate in a really cool project during November. Global Smile Foundation, an organization that travels around the world doing cleft lip surgeries, came to my city and called upon some Peace Corps volunteers to give them some extra support. No one really knows what causes cleft lips and palates – some say it’s merely genetic, others say it’s often linked to a deficiency during birth – but the fact remains that in America, they’re almost always corrected immediately in small children. In Senegal, on the other hand, there is only one team of doctors who do the surgery (which apparently gives them rock-star status... I told my host family I was helping with cleft lip surgeries and they knew the names of the doctors, despite none of them ever having a cleft.) Kids with clefts grow up with difficulties eating and speaking, not to mention social ostracization. One family we spoke to brought their 25 year old daughter. They had not sent her to school, thinking her cleft evidenced a lack of intelligence, and she hardly left the house. All of this due to lack of an extremely simple surgery – a surgery that organizations like Global Smile Foundation come in and perform for free.

I had no idea what to expect when I showed up the first day, but soon found myself exercising one of the few skills I’ve picked up in life: holding babies. Or more specifically, weighing babies during their pre-surgery consultations. The second baby I touched threw up all over me.

But when I returned to the hospital for my next shift with the project, I found all of the other Peace Corps volunteers rushing around wearing OR scrubs and juggling medical equipment. I was flabbergasted; I’d assumed we’d be helping with mostly administrative tasks, but here we were, being allowed to participate in the thick of it. I was even invited to observe some operations directly, but since I knew that I would undoubtedly pass out and maybe even fall into some sort of coma at the sight of blood because I am such a strong, fearless person, I declined and stayed in the PACU. The PACU is where they brought patients after the operations, to let them sleep off the anesthesia and monitor the vitals for a short bit. To be fair, I did get squirted with blood once, due to an unruly child who became aggressive with his IV. Luckily, Coke and cookies saved me from passing out. I also had the essential jobs of downloading Rihanna and Willow Smith music videos to distract the disoriented or frightened kids, as well as making age and sex appropriate outfits from suitcases of donated clothes for each patient. I took it very seriously. Personal shopper to the passed out.

The week was just really great though. The team did about 10 surgeries a day, but each day would stretch out to about 12 hours – which meant they were long, but we also had a lot of opportunities to get to know the kids and families that we were treating, not to mention share a lot of stories about Senegal with the visiting GSF team. And all of the Americans were just so wonderful to work with. Peace Corps work is, by nature, pretty slow: taking the time to integrate takes a lot of time, and the projects we end up enacting usually don’t show results until after we’ve left. In that respect, it was a lovely change of pace to work with a project that produced visible results so quickly. And watching nearly every single mother well up when she saw her child’s corrected lip or palate after the surgery really sealed the deal: the difference being made, not only physically but in the lives of these kids and families, was obvious.

Well, maybe not as obvious in this photo as it was in real life. But trust me! You can read more about Global Smile Foundation's work here! http://www.gsmile.org/

A Tale of Two Holidays: Tabaski and Halloween

Recently, I participated in my favorite American holiday, Halloween, (well, tied with April Fools' Day) and my new favorite Senegalese holiday, Tabaski. Despite seemingly glaring differences – one celebrates pagan rituals with the wearing of costumes and gorging oneself on sweets, one celebrates a man loving God so much that he was willing to sacrifice his only son. Then again, I found that Tabaski and Halloween ended up having a lot in common. Namely:

1. Beautiful outfits

Everyone I hung out with on Halloween really delivered, which is good, because if they didn’t, I probably would have stopped being friends with them, because I take Halloween really seriously. One night I was a unicorn. The best part of being a unicorn isn’t the horn, as one might expect, because it’s hard to judge doorways and the horn constantly gets knocked out of place while dancing. No. The best part of being a unicorn is the magical tail that you can’t detach and are forced to wear out to post-party clubbing. Despite the fact that I was a unicorn, one of my friends was a skateboarding dinosaur, one was a sexy carrot, and WE EVEN HAD A YOSHI, none of us won the costume contest. A travesty. Later, at another Halloween party, I used my Senegalese Rapunzel for a last-second, extremely tasteful, respectful, and loving Amy Winehouse tribute. Halloween is da bomb!

Similarly, everyone put a lot of thought and effort into their Tabaski outfits. I hadn’t even bothered visiting my tailor during the past 6 weeks, knowing she was probably swamped with sequins, chiffon, and endless stitching. I wore my new outfit given to my the local middle school, which was great. It kind of made me look pregnant though. But that’s okay! I couldn't measure up to the unstoppable style of my family:

2. Good times with good friends

The holidays really brought everyone together! Between a short stop in Dakar and Tambacounda, I got to see almost all of my long-lost training group friends. And on Tabaski, the stream of visiting family members was endless.

3. Exciting food

At the Marine party, we were treated to delicious cheese dips, Halloween cookies, and some sort of brownie in a bag that said “Reach in if you dare, flaming bag of poo!” I reached in and didn’t regret it. At another Halloween party, we had cookies and brownies and plates of really delicious food that I couldn’t discern in the dark, but I enjoyed eating it.

On Tabaski, we ate SHEEP. I felt like I was on the Atkins diet. I was given the honor of eating the first piece of liver of the sheep that headbutted me back in June, a gesture I appreciated. Even though eating liver normally grosses me out – because it’s like eating a filtration or sewage system, right? – I have to say, I enjoyed winning the final battle between me and the ram of evil. Our feast continued all day, and included a lot of eating meat straight off the bone, potatoes (which I had peeled, sliced, and diced!), delicious onion sauce, and frozen beverages.

4. Swords

Swords had different uses on the two holidays. On Halloween, I used my magic light up sword that I bought at the Senegalese equivalent of a dollar store to threaten our cabbie until we were given the right price. It was also useful for frightening other drivers until we were allowed to break through traffic jams.

On Tabaski, my host father used his machete to mercilessly butcher numerous sheep. At one point, my host mom said, “Hey, Mame Diowma, don’t you want a photo of the sheep before we kill them?”

“Oh yeah!” I replied. “Great idea, host mom!”

Then I ran into the backyard with my camera, where the sheep were already tied to down. I said to my host dad, hey, I want a picture before you kill the sheep! He looked at me and then slit the sheep’s throat. Hence this photo.

I didn’t see that one coming. I almost threw up. But yeah! Swords!

5. Dancing

Everybody loves dancing! I especially love dancing with my 4 year old host sister while we all eat beignets and drink Fanta and watch Rihanna music videos on TV. No. Seriously. That is a scenario that is really hard to improve upon, and that was the scenario of Tabaski eve. Dancing on Halloween obviously involved the incident with my unicorn tail, as well as dancing to songs like Monster Mash and Lebanese hits.

6. Sheep

Obviously, Tabaski involved sheep. As in... the sheep we raised, guarded, sold, bought, and the four we eventually ate. I had never seen a sheep be killed and dismembered before, but let me tell you, it was fascinating. Fascinating in that kind of crazy person way, where I couldn’t stop watching. And identifying organs as they pulled them out. And putting my high school biology in practice, like, ohhhh that stuff is bone marrow! It was sick. But I didn’t faint, and for that, I am proud. Respect the culture.

Sheep were part of my Halloween because my friend Mary dressed up as a pregnant sheep. Because she was being “Mary had a little lamb.”

7. Doing Satanic-esque things for fun

So obviously, Halloween is Satan’s holiday, so I did a lot of creepy stuff like dress as a witch and harass young children in a British accent for a local haunted house. It was fun, as doing the Devil’s work always is.

At one point during Tabaski however, my host mom ran over to me and smeared sheep blood on my forehead a la Ash Wednesday. Normally, I wouldn’t call this a Satanic thing – at the time, I embraced the chance to participation in some sort of religious practice, which is what I thought was happening. I left the blood on my forehead like all day. Later, I talked to some other people and found out that wiping blood on people’s faces is in no way part of a normal Senegalese Tabaski. It was just my host mom having a good time. In which case, hedonism, in which case, Satan.

A few days later, someone cleared this all up for me though, saying that blood on the forehead is a Bambara thing. My family is ethnically Bambara, from Mali. So in the end, maybe this aspect of Tabaski wasn't as Lord of the Flies as originally thought. A positive and a negative, in its own way.

8. Strangely, drinking

Tabaski marked a strange chapter in my Senegalese life: for the first time in country, I saw a Muslim drink. And it was my host brother. I don’t know why this was so weird for me – I mean, I do. Most Muslims here are of the conservative persuasion, at least in the sense that they don’t drink. It seems like the younger generation, much like a lot of Muslims in America, don’t follow all the rules and are somewhat liberal. But I had just never seen anyone openly break the rule. Ahh! It was like drinking with your family for the first time. Except I didn’t drink with my host brother because that would have been even weirder.

Halloween involved drinking, but that was to be expected.

9. Demanding children

On Tabaski, children traditionally run around the neighborhood, collecting money, not unlike trick or treaters in America. Sometimes people give them sweets, but often, they just give them some coins. However, for me, children already ask me for money, my clothing, and my bike on a daily basis. So they really upped the ante on Tabaski. Good times. Good times with demanding children in fancy clothes, chasing me around the neighborhood.

But Tabaski had nothing on Halloween in this department. At the Dakar Halloween carnival, my friend Mary came running up to me and one point, frantic and in tears over her experience in the moonwalk. She said children were trying to kill her. Naturally, I thought she was probably being a little overdramatic. UNTIL I WENT IN THE MOONWALK. AND THE CHILDREN TRIED TO KILL ME.

I can’t remember the last time I had a gang of terrifying children throwing me on the floor, dogpiling on top of me, trying to rip off my shirt, and yelling, “Die DIE DIE!” When I left the moonwalk, I couldn’t stop shaking. For a few hours. It was horrendous. It was just an awful experience. Kids, man. Kids.

So there you have it. I'm pretty sure I just proved that Halloween and Tabaski are basically the same holiday. QED. No, but now that the holidays are winding down, I'm happily ready to return to some work: my vacation hadn't been entirely by choice, as the entire country had been shut down for upwards of a few weeks. Even the school told me that they wouldn't really get going until after Tabaski. I'm excited to see what happens with the small walking club I'm starting in my neighborhood and the running club I just started with my sister, not to mention my new stint as a part-time English test proctor at the school.

Love!

Life as of Late

So things have been kind of a whirlwind lately! Well, they haven't been too crazy actually, but my internet has been incredibly spotty. I have a few different places around town that I default to in internet emergencies... my office, this randomly fancy hotel by my house (which strangely smells like cinnamon rolls and I need to go back there to discover why), the training center, and the restaurants downtown. It shouldn't be hard for me to find internet. But so often in the past month, it's like the perfect storm has conspired to remove wifi from all of those places whenever I want it. Or maybe the perfect storm is just Senegalese telecommunication company politics happening right under my nose.

In any case, I have internet right now! Yeah!

So the last few weeks have included the aforementioned girls camp and killing a grasshopper in my room, but I've also done exciting things like train 30 Senegalese teachers for my Life Skills curriculum! Boom! I mean, I didn't do it, but I organized it, which is really all an American girl in a faraway country using her third language can hope to do. The trainings went really well. I got to see a whole bunch of Senegalese people become confident teachers in condom demonstrations, not to mention be treated to numerous pieces of theatre starring disorderly, drunk characters in an effort to curb teen drinking. Really, I live for this shit.

I also started branching out of my little corner of Thies. It is my home, and I love my family, and I love that the baby has literally become so obsessed with me that he screams until he is allowed to crawl across the floor and jump into my arms like a puppy. I love my little sister and her penchant for slurring the words "I Whip My Hair Back and Forth" into something that sounds like 'Iupma AIRRR bata forth i upma AIRRRR bata forth,' and I love my family's new inexplicable love for serving spaghetti with shrimp for dinner. But sometimes it is nice to get out and explore the rest of the country, or at least the region, a little bit. So over the past few weeks, I've visited other volunteers near me to observe and occasionally join in on some work projects.

I had the chance to see an open field day with our Master Farmer project, which trains local farmers in more sustainable agriculture methods and then encourages them to teach other farmers in their area. All of the local farmers seemed super into the project, and when I looked around at all of them, I couldn't help but feel the pride that I know John Mellencamp and Willie Nelson felt when they started Farm Aid. I'm serious. Feed the world.

I also went to Mbour to help with a gardening project at an orphanage. I didn't realize this at the time, but this place isn't just your average orphanage: it's also a place where French families send their delinquent kids. Like Outward Bound, except they send their kids out of the country, to orphanages in Senegal and are all like KIDS GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER. It was pretty interesting to see the French delinquents frolicking among the orphans, and I mean that in the best way, like it was beautiful. My job was to supervise children painting tires. I did an okay job, but I think I'm too domineering to be a proper art teacher. The project as a whole was great though, and as a group, we finished some composting and planting for the garden. Then we went to the ocean, where I had a transcendental experience using a floatie in the ocean. It was seriously fantastic. In the words of one of my friends when she was using the floatie, "I will never go back to normal swimming." Nor will I.

I've been trying to reach out to some places around Thies, specifically keep up my relationship with the local middle school and start one with the local cultural center. My love for the school only grew when the other day I stopped by to say hi, and THEY GAVE ME A SENEGALESE OUTFIT. And it is beautiful... pink tie-dye! Our time together has been brief but I feel like they already understand me as a person. I'm stoked to continue helping with English classes there, and wear my new outfit on the biggest Senegalese holiday of all, Tabaski, in a few weeks. I went to the Cultural Center the other day for a film screening. I was pretty impressed to walk into a packed room, not to mention impressed with the discussion that followed the movie. The movie was about the Joola, a ferry that sunk off the coast of Senegal a few years ago between Ziguinchor and Dakar. I couldn't understand a lot of it, but what I did understand is that the Senegalese are pissed at the government.

I've also joined a softball team in Dakar! There was a time in my life where I would play softball in the summer, and I have memories of myself hitting the occasional double. But that is not my reality. I don't know if I have repressed my actual softball skills, or maybe time has simply wasted away my body. Whatever the case, I am not a strong addition to the team, but I've really been enjoying the chance to go eat hot dogs and heckle 13 year old children (our ex-pat competition) every couple weeks.

In slightly sadder news, I recently found out that my Ugandan host mother, Hajati Sarah, passed away last weekend. Obviously, since I'm in Africa, she'd already been on my mind a lot... she and the rest of the people I met in Uganda were just so fantastic, and certainly a huge factor in making me want to do the Peace Corps. It sounds like a cliche, but she really was an amazing woman: she took in orphans and paid their school fees, she took in older homeless Ugandans and gave them a place to live, and she took in crazy American study abroad students like me. She ran a circus yo. We didn't really speak the same language, but we danced a lot, and we understood each other. So here's to Hajati!

But on the upside, one of my host sisters is pregnant! My amoebas are dead! This is the circle of life!

I will leave you all with a story:

In Senegal, people always assume I'm French. I get it. Most Westerners, and especially white people, that roll through here are French. What I don't get is the second guesses I'm given: I'll tell people I'm not French, and they will immediately launch into a barraging list of nationalities to deduce exactly WHAT I am.

This is how it usually goes:

Spanish? Greek? Chinese? English? Portuguese? Brazillian? Israeli? One time someone asked if I was from Mali. MALI.

But my favorite moment happened the other day when I told someone, straight up, that I was American. "American! Etats-Unis! Ahhh!" he cried. "Hola? Como estas? Gracias!"

Yes. Some people in Senegal think that the national language of the United States is Spanish. Somewhere, the mayor of a small town in Pennsylvania and a Tea Party member are sitting together and crying.

That's all. Hope all is well! Thinking of all of you, and much love! Beware of the wild animals loose in Ohio!

P.S. Big shout out to my dad for the glorious package I received yesterday! The face paint is just in time for me to do something weird on Halloween, and I've already started making beaded bracelets for my sisters. Also the cookies are already half gone. <3 !

Wet Hot Senegalese Summer

Work! So a while back, I wrote about my building anticipation for our region’s girls camp. Ladies and gentlemen, girls camp has come and gone. And as predicted, I slayed the children in various competitive sporting capacities. Also as predicted, I had a really good time.

The girls we invited to the camp were all top students in their middle school classes, nominated by their teachers and schools based on academic achievement, leadership, and financial need. Consequently, they were a smart, sassy bunch of ladies. After spending so many months seeing girls only in their home modes – aka cooking, sweeping, running out on errands, trying to study in the small window of time between cleaning up from dinner and falling asleep from exhaustion, and usually just sitting quietly, it was incredibly refreshing to see girls just being girls, laughing, dancing, and getting riled up. Our camp had a different theme each day, covering topics like health, environment, money, creativity, and the future. We, the Peace Corps volunteers, organized sessions and activities, but for the most part, Senegalese counterparts and campers from last year took control in leading and executing most of the plans. It was pretty cool to see: a project made possible by Peace Corps volunteers organizing logistics and funding carried out in a huge way by the local population.

Personally, I had many favorite moments from camp. As a health volunteer, I was ecstatic to see how the girls responded to a question and answer session with the local nurse. True, some questions were kind of weird, like “Why do some girls smell like garbage?”, but many of their questions were just heartbreakeningly simple, at least by American standards. Watching a group of girls finally hear their burning questions answered, such as “What if I DON’T GET MY PERIOD BY THE TIME I AM 12 WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME????” is just really great. Knowledge is power! Many girls said this was their favorite session.

I also really loved one of the gender activities we did. We read blanket statements, like “Men are better at managing money than women” or “A man should be allowed to hit his wife,” and told the girls to stand on either side of the room, depending on whether they agreed or disagreed with the statement. For many questions, the girls were evenly split, but I was more impressed by the spirited debates that followed. They’d argue points and counterpoints and girls would be running back and forth, changing their minds and reevaluating how they understood gender roles. It was like seeing a visual representation of a confused 13 year old girl’s brain. I LOVED IT.

And of course, we did fun things like throw water balloons at them and send them on scavenger hunts. The wildnerness scavenger hunt included a direction to “find something living!”. We imagined the girls would bring back things like, I don’t know, leaves. Maybe a cricket. Our girls were so dang creative that they captured things like one-eyed toads and baby birds. Yes for thinking outside the box, children! Yes! Another awesome part of my week happened when I rode a donkey charrette for the first time. Pretty much everywhere in Senegal, except for big cities, people move around on rickety wooden carts pulled by donkeys and horses. Until camp, this opportunity had been denied me,. But camp finally gave me that common Peace Corps experience of holding 30lbs of leaky fish on my lap as I slowly felt like I was sliding off a wooden cart to be trampled by domesticated animals on African bush paths. Now, I have lived!

So even though girls camp was only a week long, and even though it required a ton of stress and organization and logistics, I have no doubt in my mind that the camp was well worth it. It’s strange to me: sometimes I really have to stop and remember where I am, because sure, I’m surrounded by health tragedies and economic injustice and poverty, but at the end of the day, the lack of creativity and fun and learning is what I continually notice. It sounds cheesy, but to me, I guess that’s what the life of life has always been about. And consequently, having a week full of those things made girls camp one of my favorite weeks in Senegal so far. So much thanks to everyone who supported our girls camp this year… it was a good thing.

Strangers in the Night

I think it is time for me to give everyone an accurate portrayal of my evenings. Sure, I spend the early twilight hours sitting outside with my family, watching the baby roll around on a mat, repeatedly failing to catch a rolling tin cup. But inevitably, there comes a time when I retire for the night into the darkness of my apartment. The good nights happen when we have electricity. The bad nights happen when we do not.

I never expected myself to be so terrified of the darkness here. Scratch that: I fully expected to be terrified of the darkness here, but I expected that time and experience would wear me down, eventually revealing a courage built up over surviving things like snake attacks to my face or cockroach parties in my pillow. My plan has not worked because my apartment has remained largely insect, animal, and creepy sound free. This is great, except that it means my imagination continues to live in fear every night.

So every night, I walk into my room, just to see the lizard sprinting across the wall and back behind my bookcase, just like you always imagine the monsters under your bed. Hiding, at the most convenient time, before you can prove their presence. I take my vitamins or the malaria drugs that give me nightmares, then I go brush off the beetles, or what I imagine as baby cockroaches dancing around cockroach eggs, from my toothbrush and use it. An important part of my bathroom routine includes turning on my non-working faucet so that I can fill a tub with water at 4am when the water turns on for one hour.

When it comes time to get into my bed, I do a spot check for crickets or dead bugs that have accumulated on my mattress during the day and brush them off. Then I pull down my mosquito net from the contraption made of dental floss on my ceiling. If we have electricity, I turn my fan on: this is essential to combat the heat, the baby termites that sometimes break into my net in the morning, and the creepy noises I hear at night. Since the incident where I awoke to three crickets taking revenge on me, I tuck my net in extra carefully, but inevitably, there is always a fly hiding somewhere in my net and I spend a good 15 minutes trying to destroy its life. Flies are really the worst here. When they’re in my net, they just act like drunken fools. Flies might be the new crickets in my life: I just want them all dead. What are they contributing to this world? If there is answer to that question, I encourage you to pass it along to me before I do something catastrophic.

I always wake up at 4am, sometimes because the water has turned on, sometimes because I’m just having a nightmare that the water turned on. My body has gotten so used to turn off the water at 4:30am that now I have to pee at that same time every night. At that point in the night, all of Senegal is finally sleeping, and that is when the noises really keep me awake. I don’t know why I’m always so scared at this point of the night. Sometimes I hear noises in the room, sometimes I hear creepy religious chanting that eventually turns out to be frogs in the road. Even if animals live in my room, I doubt they want to bother with me, and plus, I have trapped myself in a chemical net fortress far from the ground. But I just always imagine mice in mutiny and stuff.

One noise in particular nearly drove me to the edge. I would hear a rustling every night. I was convinced I had a mouse, or a mole, or a cockroach army – but in the morning, I would look for evidence and find none. No plastic bags rustled through, all garbage untouched. But night after night, I would lie in my bed and just listen, terrified. I eventually deduced that rats were living in my wall, then I deduced that they were slowly breaking through my wall, Shawshank style, and rustling my Beatles poster, because Ringo always looked like he was moving. One morning, I finally worked up the courage to peel back the poster and reveal whatever was there: a muskrat hanging out of a hole, a cockroach nest, a sheep, an alien baby. I slowly peeled back the poster and… A GRASSHOPPER-CRICKET was trapped in the duct tape behind my poster, WHERE IT HAD BEEN LIVING AND RUSTLING FOR TWO WEEKS. And that is literally how the story ends. I spent two weeks crying under my mosquito net because I thought a grasshopper was trying to kill me.

So that is what happens at night in my life in Senegal. The end.

*Note: I wrote this before the intense, life-altering insect experience of our Girls Camp during the past week. EVERYTHING HAS NOW CHANGED. I have been to the edge of bug hell and survived! But I’ll write about camp and the living conditions that challenged me as a functional human being later. Camp was fun though!

Korite!

So yesterday was Korite, which marks the end of the month of Ramadan. “Wait!” you’re probably thinking to yourself. “I am a savvy and up-to-date person who has access to things like the news! I thought Korite was two days ago, on Tuesday? Why does Lisa lie about things on her blog?” If you are thinking this, you are probably correct! But so am I. Why? Because Senegal has their own Korite. This fact was explained to me the other day by a local teacher (who went on to ask me if Jesus was my best friend and personal savior, which, in Senegal, is quite difficult for me to answer). Most Muslims around the world follow Mecca and celebrate Korite when Mecca sees the sliver of the moon in the sky, signifying the end of the month of Ramadan. But Senegal? Senegal does it on her own terms. She has councils of people watching the sky every night, searching for the moon. If they see it, they call Dakar and everybody parties! If no one does, they ignore Mecca and wait. It was cloudy Monday night, I guess, so our Ramadan came a later than the rest of the world, at least from what I hear.

I’m glad Korite came when it did, because my world was starting to go crazy. Namely:

- my family’s fast had gotten to the point where they were spending the hour before breakfast meticulously laying out their food, buttering their bread, and preparing their tea. I literally witnessed my host mom holding a date in one hand, positioned two inches from her mouth, and coffee in the other for FIFTEEN MINUTES as she waited for the call to prayer. And boom! The first note she heard from the muezzin, and all of that food was gone. No one had qualms about complaining about the fast by the end, mostly good naturedly, but still desperately.

- Then again, they were also extra hungry because they kept sleeping through xedde, the meal they eat in the darkness of the early morning before the sun comes up. One morning, they got a real kick when they found out I had actually been awake at 4:30am – the only one awake, the only one who would spend all day eating anyway. I wasn’t having my xedde though. Just turning off my robinet, you know, like I have to do every morning at 4:30am, but that’s another story.

- The local teacher told me that the children would stop coming to school days before Korite “to get their hair braided,” according to the local teacher. And he was right. Class plummeted from 40 to like 7 students. And the salons were POPPIN. My host sister went through a six hour process to get her snazzy Korite hairstyle. It ended up being a ponytail, which made me feel vaguely guilty about the 30 seconds it takes to throw my own hair up into one. But I mean, hers looked great. I actually tried to replicate it. Her six hour hairstyle clearly won:

My little sister Bigue’s hairstyle was described as “three pom-poms.” Which is exactly what you would imagine:

- My laments about never having any ways or activities for making friends met its match: every passing acquaintaince in Senegal invited me over for Korite. It was like they finally had a reason! Unfortunately, I was already spoken for, with my family.

- People asking for money were out in full force. One evening, someone knocked on the door and my host mom ran and hid in her bedroom. After the person left, my host mom and sisters emerged to discuss the events with disgust and defiance. Apparently, around Korite, people wander through compounds, asking generic questions to kids like, “Where’s your mom?” Then, when the lady of the house comes out, people demand money, and in Senegal, at this point, you can’t just say no. My host mother indignantly told me that this is ridiculous because she already donates to charity. She tells the kids to ask the beggars what her name is… if they don’t know, they don’t get to come inside. I found this hilariously like hiding from door-to-door salespeople in America. A lot of African countries have this image of perfect communities! Everyone helps each other! People live in a utopia where money is given freely! No. My host mom hid in her room.

And of course, my most personally shocking pre-Korite moment:

- I WAS HIT BY A MOTORCYCLE. I mean, seriously Senegal? What was a motorcycle doing on the sidewalk? How did you miss the sight of me, the lone white lady dressed in a bright blue and pink tie-dyed dress?! I was walking down the street, minding out my own business, and then BOOM! A motorcycle was barreling at me. So I made what I’m sure was a really embarrassing yelping sound and kind of simultaneously pushed it away from me and jumped. It clipped my arm and then crashed into a telephone pole. I was fine. The guy was fine. The bike… was not. My host mom blamed this entire incident on Korite, so… so will I.

But the actual day of (SENEGALESE) Korite was quite lovely. Everyone was just in such a great mood. A few long-lost family members stopped by, everyone put on nice clothes, we ate my favorite meal of chicken, onions, and noodles. In the afternoon, we brought extra food to some neighbor’s houses, pot-luck style, and went on some friend visits. Strangely, I actually enjoyed all of this. I don’t know if it’s because my language is better so I was actually participating, or maybe it was just the belly full of chicken. But yeah, Korite was a great time.

So yes, things are going well. My work project is moving along, and one of the students I tutor recently confided that I "am her best friend and the best teacher in the world.” My heart melted faster than Velveeta (which actually isn’t fast at all and a bad comparison). The baby has successfully fallen asleep in my arms, which also made my heart melt. Early tomorrow morning, I’m headed to Dakar for a post-Ramadan vacation/celebration of friend’s birthdays/near-anniversary of 6 months in Senegal for me – quite the smorgasboard of occasions.

Hope all is well! Happy Labor Day to those in America, and happy life to everyone else.

Christmas came early

Yesterday... was a very exciting day! I went to the post office and had two packages! Not only did these two packages brighten my day, but they also brightened the days of the post office workers who had the opportunity to collect some small customs taxes from me! Which was actually good, because now we are better friends. Everybody's happy! So much thanks to International Admissions Counselor at VU, Laura Coleman, and the Mayer-Neff family of Chicago... you all are in the lottery to have my first-born child named after you, someday!

And now for some visuals, because I recently re-discovered the Photo Booth feature on my computer:

Among my new cherished treasures, a copy of the world renowned Lady Gaga documentary "One Sequin at a Time" and a photo of one of my favorite families in Chicago:

Also included among the tidings of love....

CHEETOS!!!!!!

I have had the Cheetos for less than 24 hours. I have been craving Cheetos for almost six months. You do the math.

Cheeto-hands. The mark of a good Cheetos binge. I don't want to tell you how many Cheetos remain as of now.

Okay I think that's all. Bye! Have a great day! Talk to y'all soon! I'll be eating Cheetos dipped in White Chocolate Peanut Butter and writing in my new Justin Bieber notebook, wearing this new outfit and headwrap that has brought much pride to my host family.

Verbal Altercations

Recently, I have had the opportunity to both observe and add my own two cents to a few spirited Senegalese debates. This is exciting for many reasons, not the least the fact that I was finally catching onto conversation enough to jump into a debate. Granted, a few of these angry chitchats were in French... but living in Thies, I've begrudgingly accepted the usefulness of my French, and I've started letting myself use it more. But hey -- communicating with people shouldn't be something that makes me feel guilty! Even if we weren't speaking in Wolof, cultural exchange was happening!

Anyway, one night I was sitting with my host mother, quietly in the backyard, as we do most nights between 8:30 and 9:30. My host father was sitting a little ways away on the porch doing his sudoku, as he does most nights between 8:30 and 9:30, not to mention every other hour of the day. They were just chatting... but then, as it often happens in Senegal, their voices started rising. My host mom eventually started yelling, using her hands a lot, and my host dad even stood up from his chair to make a point. For a family that usually has no qualms firing themselves up about political issues, I took note and tried to listen more closely. Maybe something was happening with President Wade! Maybe there was a big protest or a strike! So I stopped staring off into space (literally... so many stars!) and tried to focus my Wolof.

What I heard was... repeated use of the word for cheese.

I thought I must be wrong. They can't be arguing about cheese. There is no way. Cheese must be a metaphor! The word for cheese must have multiple meanings. I kept listening. Cheese! Body. Cheese! Health. Body! I finally just couldn't take it anymore and asked what they were arguing about.

My host mom's face lit up. "Ah-HAAA!" (this is her trademark exclamation) "Mame Diowma will prove me right! Is Vache Qui Rit (Laughing Cow Cream Cheese) good for the body?"

I didn't know whose side my answer was going to help so I treaded carefully. But I mean, the answer was obvious.

"No. It's not good for your body. I mean, it's good -- it tastes delicious! And it's good in moderation, I guess. But it's not healthy... um. Yeah. So, no. It's not good for the body."

My host mom let out a victorious shriek! My host dad pushed his glasses up on his nose and silently sat back down on his chair, returning to his sudoku! The judge had spoken and there was only one winner!

I've also fallen into numerous arguments about the health of fasting. As I mentioned before, this is something I feel strongly about... I just find the health detriments of fasting unobjectionable. I'm not against people doing it, and I think it can be a great spiritual practice. But no, at the end of the day, it is not good for your body. It is hard for your body. It is insanely hard on your body. Numerous people in Senegal have enjoyed picking fights with me over this point... including people who run HEALTH departments at national-level non-profits. They tell me that fasting cleanses the body. Another person told me,

"Think of your body like a machine! You use a machine every day, every hour. But then, for one month each year, you give the machine a break! The machine needs to rest. It will last longer if you rest it!"

To which I responded:

"Fasting is not giving the machine a rest... your body is still living during Ramadan! The machine never stops! All you are doing is turning off the electricity and still trying to make it work for most of the day!"

But you know, you can't win the fasting argument. You just really can't.

Luckily, you can win the Vache Qui Rit argument. So while I don't seem to be making much progress teaching people about how nutrition/the body works, I at least seem to be making a dent in the segment of Senegalese population that believes Vache Qui Rit is a health food. Here's to behavior change!