Reflections

I’m back!  Sorry that I’ve neglected this blog for almost a year now and that the last post was a filler that didn’t say anything.  As I mentioned in that post, I didn’t know if I could put into words the impact that my Peace Corps service had on me.  For the longest time I couldn’t and only talked about it with fellow volunteers who could understand the impact that it had on our lives.  Now a year has gone by and a return trip back to Senegal and to my village later, I’m ready to take a stab at it and to give you a conclusion to the story that started in March 2010.

Where to begin?  One of the Peace Corps slogans is “The toughest job that you’ll ever love”.  My time in Senegal was definitely the toughest job I’ve had, but something that I wouldn’t change for the world.   Throughout my three years, I had my share of ups and downs, of successes and failures, times of pure joy and times of sadness.  A year ago, as I was making my last trip to village and getting ready to say goodbye to a country and a place that I called home, I was overwhelmed by the love and support that everyone showed me. 

My trip to village was a chance for me to show my love and appreciation for a family and a community that took me in and showed me love and kindness.  In return, my host father organized a special prayer event for me, where he invited a religious leader from another village to come and lead it.  He told me that he wanted to do this for me because I was a blessing and he wanted to send me back to my father and to my country with all the blessings for a good and fortunate life.  I was so touched by his words and his actions and the only thing I could say was “Thank you”.  Those last days in village were so precious to me.  I spent time with the children and my family and the people that I became close to in my village.  I handed out my phone number and collected others in return so that we could try and keep in touch with one another (which I haven’t been to good about other than my family).  The last night, I stayed up late to savor those last moments under the stars with my family, even though I was planning on leaving at first light to avoid goodbyes.  As I kissed the kids goodnight, I was so sad, not knowing when I would see them again.  The next morning, while attempting to sneak out of village, my oldest brother caught me and walked me out to the road in silence. 

The ride back to Velingara was a jumble of emotions and my goodbyes weren’t over yet.  I had a small goodbye party with volunteers, playing a game of bingo all around the city.  Then I had to say goodbye to my coworkers.  I had gotten close to several of them during the year that I worked with them and while it was difficult to say goodbye, I knew that I would be able to keep in touch with them via Skype and the internet.  My last night in Velingara was filled with packing and several surprises.  One of my friends came to see me off and spent the last night with me.  My sitemates dropped in to say goodbye and one of my friends came by to surprise me with a going away gift.  Although I only spent a year in Velingara, I had several close friends.  I already had the language skills and was comfortable in the environment, so I just jumped right in and formed friendships much quicker than I had in village. 

As I was preparing to COS (close of service), I had to write several documents for Peace Corps.  This helped me to organize me last three years and to reflect on the projects that I had done.  Overall, I am proud of the work I did and although there were some projects that I regretted, I learned a lot from the experience.  I learned how to fail gracefully and how to persevere through those trials.  I came out of my Peace Corps experience with a broadened perspective of the world and a second family, but also with a stronger sense of self.

I am currently pursuing my MPH in Global Health with a concentration in public nutrition at Emory University.  This program had brought me to Sierra Leone for the summer and provided me with an opportunity to return to Senegal, less than a year after leaving it.   

I returned to Senegal a couple weeks ago and going back to village felt like going home.  My host father knew that I was coming back and told everyone in village and the new Peace Corps volunteer who had just arrived less that a week before my arrival.  Going back was a whirlwind, but it felt so natural.  I knew that there was a new volunteer in village and I wanted to tell her that I would be visiting, but I wasn’t able to.  I was conscious of the fact that she was just starting her journey, while I was coming back and coming full circle.  I sincerely hope that my visit was a positive for her, but my reasons for going back were selfish, I just wanted to see my family.

Walking up the road to my village, I saw that there was a new bridge that traversed the rice fields.  Remember the time that I had to cross a flooded road in order to enter village?  Well, hopefully that won’t be a problem for anyone anymore.  Upon entering the village, I was greeted by my babies (who aren’t babies anymore).  Amadou and Aissatou came running out to meet me!  I was so happy to see them again and excited that they hadn’t forgotten me.  I met the volunteer and sat with my host mom and my sister.  I learned that my other two sisters- in- laws were in Dakar and wouldn’t be back in village before I left.  I spent 5 wonderful days catching up with all my friends and my family and eating a ton of mangoes.  Its crazy how fast time flies.  Amadou is now a rambunctious 4 year old who acts like a little man and who would bring me back a mango every time he left the compound.  Baby Wilma is now over a year old and is walking and running around. 

One great thing that I discovered was that some of my projects were still going.  The women’s garden, one of the most frustrating parts of my service was being used by the village!  Walking into the garden and seeing the sea of green was one of the most gratifying parts of my visit.

As with last time, leaving wasn’t easy.  The children, my host mom, and the new volunteer walked me out to the road.  As I arrived in Dakar, my sister-in-law Binta met me at the stop!  She was one of my best friends and I was so sad that I didn’t see her in village.  I was so happy to be able to spend a little bit of time with her.  It seems like I’m always saying “Till next time”; never knowing when next time will be.  Hopefully, as with this last visit, something will bring me back to West Africa and I will have the opportunity to see everyone again. 

For now, I have pictures and memories to hold me over till the next time. 

Books, books, books!

It's been two months, I know.  I've been neglecting this blog while I went on vacation, played with babies, and oh yeah- finished my Peace Corps service.  There is so much to catch up on and most of it is very overwhelming, so I will procrastinate a little bit more.  Actually, I make no promises.  I don't know if I can put into words what the past three years have meant to me and how difficult it was to say goodbye.

Until then (or maybe never), enjoy seeing what books I've read =)

81)              The Hunger Games By Suzanne Collins

82)              Catching Fire By Suzanne Collins

83)              Mockingjay By Suzanne Collins

84)              Bossypants By Tina Fey

85)              Barrel Fever By David Sedaris

86)              Bone in the Throat By Anthony Bourdain

87)              Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the …. By Anthony Bourdain

88)              The Lovely Bones By Alice Sebold

89)              Gunn’s Golden Rules By Tim Gunn

90)              Little Earthquakes By Jennifer Weiner

91)              Anna Karenina By Leo Tolstoy

92)              Indian Fairy Tales

93)              The Hobbit: Or There and Back Again By J.R.R Tolkien

94)              A Million Little Pieces By James Frey

95)              A Cook’s Tour: In Search of the Perfect Meal By Anthony Bourdain

96)              Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland By Lewis Carrol

97)              Runemarks By Joanne Harris

98)              I am America (and so can you) By Stephen Colbert

99)              Pygmy By Chuck Palahniuk

100)          The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand

101)          Jane Eyre By Charlotte Bronte

102)          World without End By Ken Follett

Thanks for all your support over the last three years!  See you stateside!

Peace

BAMM!

It’s Blog About Malaria Month (BAMM)!  April 25^th is World Malaria day and to celebrate it, my friends over at the Stomping out Malaria initiative are sponsoring BAMM in order to show the world what volunteers all over Africa are doing to eradicate malaria! 

So, I’m here to do my part and tell you my story.  Malaria prevention was my first project in Senegal.  If you’re a loyal follower of my blog (or a new reader who has clicked back to 2010), you might remember the story of my first Senegalese meeting where we discussed Universal Coverage, or the time I fell in mud to deliver Malaria Education materials to health workers, or when I touched so many mosquito nets that I got nauseous.  In 2010, before the Stomp out Malaria initiative was created, I participated in the Universal distribution of insecticide treated nets in my area.  At that point, health volunteers were given basic training about malaria and projects that we could do in our villages.  We told villagers to sleep under their nets (even though at that point, a majority of people didn’t own nets), we taught them how to make neem lotion (which could ward off mosquitoes), and told them to go to the hospital for medicine.

Malaria education has come a long way since the beginning of my service.  In April 2011, the STOMP initiative was launched.  June 2011 was the very first boot camp, an intensive two week training where volunteers would learn all about malaria and become a part of the “Malaria Team”.  I was invited to share my experience with Universal Coverage at that first boot camp (which, looking at the presenters now, I feel extremely under qualified and wish I had the opportunity to learn from them).  Since that point, volunteers have been doing magnificent work in the realm of malaria prevention.  I wish I could say that I had a more active role in Malaria projects, but in the second year of my service, my focus shifted to nutrition.  I participated in Malaria trainings involving traveling theater troupes and taught children the importance of sleeping under a net, but in retrospect, I could have done a lot more.   

In my third year, I moved from my wonderful village to Velingara in order to work with a NGO on nutrition interventions.  I cherish the opportunity I’ve had to work within a NGO, but I missed the daily interactions with villagers (although I do love the air conditioning).  In September 2012, Sarah, a fellow volunteer, asked if I wanted to partner with her on a region wide mosquito net repair and care tour.  I jumped at the opportunity to be working in villages and to be interacting with people again.  Sarah was a rock star, taking the lead on village visits, seeing as I could only go out on weekends.  It turned out to be a beautiful partnership.  I would go to weekend events and during the week, when I had time, I would input data from the events and crunch the numbers.  At the end of our project, we visited a total of 20 villages, repaired/washed over 700 nets, and impacted over 1,850 people.  You can read the case study for more details. 

 Last week, I went on vacation to Sierra Leone and was able to see what their volunteers were doing to fight malaria.  Over 20 volunteers participated in a Malaria Bike Ride, where they went to villages and presented skits, asked questions, and sang songs in order to promote malaria awareness.  It was so fun to see volunteers in other countries working on similar projects, but utilizing their local languages and integrating aspects of their culture.  It is truly a continent wide fight!

This is only the second year of the Stomp initiative and there has been so much collaboration between volunteers within the same country and internationally.  So much has changed in my three years in Peace Corps with malaria prevention and I can’t wait to see what new innovations volunteers come up with to combat malaria.  Here’s hoping that we eradicate malaria within this generation.

Introducing: Wilma Seydi

This is Wilma Seydi...

It's real, her birth certificate says so!

These photos were taken at her baptism last week. I'm so honored and excited to have a baby named after me.  I hope that I can come back in 10 years and see her all grown up!

Peace

Another Wilma in Senegal!?

I love my name.  Actually, I love all three of them: Wilma, 竹宜, and Rouby.  The great thing about all of these is that they are all pretty unique; I don't often run into someone with the same name as me.  As a matter of fact, I have never met another Wilma or 竹宜.  So what's this about another Wilma in Senegal!?  I have successfully avoided meeting another Wilma for 25 years, but has the time come that this streak is broken?  Yes and No.  The newest addition to my Senegalese family has been named after me!  Wilma Rouby Seydi or maybe it's Rouby Wilma Seydi (I'm not sure, I will clarify when I go to village for the baptism) was born close to midnight on March 5, 2013.  Since she's named after me, I don't count it as meeting another Wilma necessarily.

In Pulaar tradition, a baby is given a name a week after he/she is born and it typically coincides with a baptism party.  However, my brother, the baby's father is in Dakar right now and won't be back til this Saturday, which means that the party will be next week.  The choosing of the baby's name is a complicated process, where families spend hours discussing (aka arguing) over who to name the baby after.  There are some guidelines such as the first male of the family will be named after so and so or if the child is born on a holy day, he/she will be named accordingly.  It's complicated and my head hurts just thinking about it.  In addition, it is an honor to have a child named after you and there are certain responsibilities.  I wasn't in village when all the discussion was going on, but the night Wilma Rouby was born, my brother mentioned that he wanted to name her after me.  And when I talked to my father the next day, he reiterated that point.

Many volunteers have had babies named after their Senegalese names, but a far smaller group has a child given their American names (I think it's because some names are really difficult to say).  It was my luck that the first round of children born in my family were all born just before I arrived in village and the next baby was a boy.  When I returned to village in November and discovered that there were three pregnant women in my family, I was ecstatic, not because of the fact that I might get a namesake (ok...maybe a little), but because I love babies! So now, three years after I arrived in Senegal, I have a tokora, a namesake!

My village and my family will always hold a special place in my heart and now a part of me (even if it's just my name) will remain in village.

--Peace

My village is better than yours!

For all of my PC/Senegal friends, this is something that you've heard me say numerous times and I know you’re rolling your eyes right now.  But it’s true!  I have one of the best villages and host families ever!  What makes me bring up this point again?  Well, it all started last Tuesday…

While I was up in Thies for my third and last All Volunteer Conference and stressing over my two presentations, I received a call from my host brother telling me that my sister had just given birth to a baby girl and the baptism was the following Tuesday- two short days after WAIST.  It is the season of babies in my family.  My sister and two sister-in-laws were all pregnant at the same time (this actually happened last time too…they all have three year olds that were born within a month of each other).  Last time I was in village, I promised them that when each of them gave birth, I would make it back for the baptism, so I couldn't disappoint with the first one.  After the last party ended at 5am (as a third year, I stayed to help clean up), I slept for two hours and it was off to the garage to catch a car back to Velingara; I was on a mission.  Thanks to car troubles, it took me 12 hours to get back to my apartment only to know that I had another 2-3 hour ride ahead of me in the morning. 

I get to my road town, to my dad’s boutique around 10:30am and am greeted by his smiling face.  I stay there for a bit, until the kindergarten lets out, where I am then ushered into village by seven of my favorite children.  I dress in my complete (matching outfit) and go see the baby, gifts in hand.  I walk into the compound and am greeted by waves of women who told me how great it was to see me and how they’re happy that I haven’t forgotten about them.  I spend the day eating, catching up with my friends, and lounging under the mango tree. 

When I usually go to village, I sleep in my old hut that my replacement graciously shares with me. However, due to lack of communication, I hadn't coordinated this visit with her.  As a result, I told my family that I could sleep anywhere, with my host sisters or mom- I wasn't picky.  My oldest brother was out of town, so they put me in his room for the night.  I left all my stuff in the room without a second thought; I always felt safe and protected in my village and never had anything stolen from me…until that baptism.  As the evening approached, I went to look for my phone for the first time since arriving in village.  I looked and looked, but it wasn't in my bag or in a hidden pocket.  For a second, I thought that I may have lost it en route, but I had received a call from a fellow volunteer, just as I was walking into village- I knew I had had it.  So where had it gone!? I told my sister-in-law about it, who told my brother.  We discussed, we had suspects, and we continued the baptism celebration.  I was resigned to the fact that it had finally happened.  After almost three years, my phone had been stolen- not bad. 

That night, when my dad got back from the boutique, he was furious.  He was upset that this had happened to me within his compound.  Our primary suspect was from a village 10K away, so my dad told my brother to bike out there the next day and ask him about it.  Not accuse, just mention that my phone was stolen and if he had seen it etc., etc. And if he didn't return my phone, “invite” him to a reading of the Quran in my village; in fact, we were going to “invite” the entire village.  In the meantime, my dad gave me his phone to use.  He said that it was more important for me to be able to communicate than it was for him.  He’s the best. 

The next morning, we receive a call informing my dad that someone from his old village has passed away.  He explained to me that it was his duty to go and that we would not be able to hold the reading of the Quran that day.  Totally understandable.  So my dad went off to the other village and I went to the road to catch a car back to Velingara.  While waiting for a car, so many people asked me if I had found my phone- word travels fast in village.  My mom said, no, it was still missing and proceeded to curse the person who stole it, for coming into our house and taking from us.  My family was definitely more upset than I was; if anything I was more annoyed.  I took a car to a larger town, where it happened to be market day, and engaged in some retail therapy (two kilos of avocados for just over a dollar!).  When I returned to the land of the internet, I sent emails off to our Safety and Security coordinator and our property manager to start the process of retrieving my old number (mainly to stay in the free calling loop). 

I get a call four days later from my replacement asking what numbers I had on my phone.  The culprit had returned to the scene of the crime.  He had brought the phone to my brother to have it charged on his solar panel.  I guess it was a good thing that I had procrastinated in getting a new phone!  After I confirmed that it was my phone, with worn buttons and a small scratch, my brother said that he was going to talk to the culprit about it.  I get an update a few hours later and apparently the culprit claimed that someone had sold him that phone in Kolda- convenient.  I asked about my SIM card, but my brother was hesitant to call the guy out-he was a friend of my older brother.  I told him that this “friend” had entered my brother’s room and stole something from it- it didn't matter if it belonged to me or to my brother, but the fact that he violated that space and friendship was disrespectful.

That night my dad and I orchestrated what would turn out to be a complicated hand off.  One of my favorite women in village was going to Dakar on Monday night on a bus that would pass through Velingara, where I would then be able to get it from her.  Simple right?  WRONG!  Buses passing through Velingara are subject to assertive women and children attempting to sell things to the passengers.  I employed the help of the bus assistants and other guys to help me, which meant that everyone knew the tale of my stolen phone.  After an hour of chaos and a broken shoe, I had my phone in hand.  Victory!  Then came the saga of returning my dad’s phone to him...  One of the assistants said that my dad had told him the story and that they had arranged for him to return the phone.  I tried to call my brother in order to confirm this story, but his phone was off.  What to do?   Trust this guy and run the risk of him stealing the phone or having to deliver the phone myself.  I decided to trust the guy because he gave details of my dad and where he was located, but there was an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.  I worried about it all night, calling the phone to no avail, and thinking that I just gave my dad’s phone away.  The next day, I call again and my dad answers.  Phew! 

Bear with me, I know this is a long winded story, but it’s almost over…

So back to my SIM card… Peace Corps had received my replacement SIM card and is sending it down to me as I type this.  Little did I know, my dad had threatened the culprit with Peace Corps and policemen if he didn't return the SIM card within five days.  So of course, he returned the SIM card to my dad.  JUSTICE!  I’m pretty sure that the SIM card has been canceled by Peace Corps, but it’s the principle of the matter.  My dad asked me if I wanted to do anything else, but I told him that all is forgiven and that the culprit has to live with the fact that everyone knows what he did. 

That’s the end!  Whew!  If you made it through that story, I’m impressed.  That entire adventure was a week- and what a whirlwind week it was.  So that is why my village and family are the best.  They easily could have left it at “we’re sorry that your phone was stolen”, but they went a million steps beyond to get my phone and my SIM card back to me.  I miss them already and I’m only 100 kilometers away.  I don’t even want to think about when I leave to go back to the States.  Oy.  I’m one lucky gal to have two loving and caring families who will always have my back. 

Thanks for reading!

--Peace

Friends!

This is a guest post from my friend Steph who came to visit me in December!

More than anything, I want to thank Wi, her village, and all the PCVs that have welcomed me into their homes and shared with me an experience that I will truly never forget. 

That being said, I can succinctly sum up my trip in Senegal as being a week and a half of beautiful color juxtaposed against gritty filth and nothing short of amazing in every way. Many people call me an adventurer, floating from whim to whim. Senegal was the 4th country I had visited in 2012, but the trip was so much more than just checking another country off my list. Wi has 3 sisters, but I have none. In the decade that I have known Wi, she has become my sister. Whether she likes it or not, she's stuck with me for good. So this trip was for Wi, for family. In the 2.5 years, she's been gone, Senegal and the Peace Corps have just been vague ideas in my head. Finally being able to get a glimpse of her life and the work she's done, watching her aggressively haggle down prices in tongues too quick for my brain to comprehend, has made me even more proud to know and love her. 

Senegal itself was really something else. From the minute I looked out the plane window and saw the bright orange dirt, I knew I was in for adventure. Traveling really does something to my soul, opens it up. As I slept under the stars in village, my soul began to dance. For the first time in a long time, it could breathe. Sounds corny, but I live Irvine, which definitely tops the charts for sterile, cultureless cities. From one end of the country to the other and back, traveling hours in every type of vehicle available, I saw more than I can describe. Words could never capture the awe I felt wandering through the markets draped in cloths of the most  vibrant colors and patterns or the joy I felt cradling the ever bouncy and giggly Sajo on my lap. I was alive in every sense of the word, in every sense of my being. 

That will stay with me forever. Senegal has made me a bit more completely human, and I thank Wi for showing it to me. Despite seeing all the great work she's done and the lives she's forever impacted in Senegal, I can't wait for my girlie to return to the states. I know she won't stay for too long; Wi is a wanderer, an adventurer. You should consider yourself truly lucky if she ever crosses your path. 

Sticks and Stones

Toubab. Toubako. Chinois. Toubahaako.

I can't leave my house without hearing these phrases being yelled at me from every direction. Usually, I let it roll off my back and ignore the immature teenagers, but sometimes it just gets to me. I've been here for over 2 ½ years and being called a foreigner hasn't gotten any easier. Sometimes children yell it because they want to say hi and when you tell them your name, they immediately change to yelling that. Other times, it's said in a derogatory manner and usually the best course of action is to ignore it as to not fuel the fire. There are days where I miss the safety bubble that was village, where anyone who dared to call me Toubab was reprimanded.

Friday was one of those days.

I was walking home for my lunch break when a child kept yelling Toubab at me. I ignored him. After I was a few yards past him, he started to throw things at me. It wasn't until a rock rolled passed me that I realized what was happening. I immediately turn around and he takes off in a sprint. Furious, I turn my attention to another kid, and demand answers. Who was that other kid? What is his name? Where does he live? He wasn't any help. There were three other women around and one of them had the audacity to tell me to forgive the kid. Seriously? So I said “You wouldn't stand for a child disrespecting you, let alone throwing stuff at you, and you want me to forgive him!?” And her response was “yes, he's just a child and he doesn't know any better.” But children turn into adults and if they don't realize that this is unacceptable behavior, then it gets perpetuated from generation to generation.

This is the second time that I've had rocks thrown at me. The first time was after a really long day at a clinic and I called my friend in tears- it was exactly what I didn't need that night. This time around, I had a wonderful morning and was in high spirits, but this immediately changed it. More than anything, my feelings were hurt. No matter what, I will still be a foreigner.

Yesterday, while my friends and I were at a dinner stand, a man comes up to us and asks us for money. He doesn't address any of the 20 men standing around, but hones in on the three white girls. I'm still upset from Friday, so I'm immediately on the defense. I call him out for not asking anyone else and focusing on us because of our skin color. He admitted to it and proceeded to stay around. I appeal to the other people at the stand for assistance in getting rid of the guy, but all I got was a few half hearted attempts. So frustrating.

It's times like these where I wonder what I'm still doing here. Why do I continue to subject myself to verbal abuse? These situations are few and far between, but they cut me to the core. At the same time, all it takes for me to smile is one of my neighborhood children calling my name or a baby grinning toothlessly at me. Life here is stressful and a roller coaster, but in the end, it's worth it.  

Peace

Happy New Year!

HAPPY 2013!

After an exciting 2012: moving to a new place, starting a new job, and various adventures, I'm hoping that 2013 brings so much more!  And I know that my friends and family from home are hoping that 2013 brings me home =).

Here's to health, prosperity, love, and happiness in the new year!

it takes a minute

I usually don't do this, so know that it's important.  Today, a fellow volunteer stumbled upon a White House petition asking the Obama administration to provide better financial assistance for RPCVs (Returned Peace Corps Volunteers) with educational debt.  We know how the continually rising cost of higher education can be a burden on a lot of individuals.  Joining the Peace Corps is a huge commitment and an even larger one for those who graduate with debt.  We aren't called Peace Corps Volunteers for no reason and our living stipend, which allows us to live comfortably in our host countries, doesn't translate into savings that can be allocated towards paying off loans.

I am one of the lucky ones who graduated without debt thanks to the Gates Millennium Scholarship Program.  But for the sake of all my friends and fellow PCVs who do have loans to pay off, please sign the petition.  It is quick and painless and can lead to change.  We are at 1,300 signatures and we need to reach 25,000 by December 19!    So, click here and sign away!  It requires you to create a whitehouse.gov account, but all you have to do is tell them your email and name.  And then you have an account on whitehouse,gov- doesn't that sounds awesome?  It's like you're talking directly to President Obama! (Ok...not really, but it's still cool).

That's it!  Thanks!! Pass it on

Peace

P.S. Life update to come

On y Go!

Where do I begin with transportation.... Transportation is my arch nemesis in Senegal. I love to travel, but just thinking about traveling in Senegal makes me want to retreat to my apartment and never leave. Why you may ask? There are a variety of reasons, including, but not limited to: conditions of transport, poor roads, frustrating people who work in transport, distance and time. Every time I travel when it's not in a World Vision or Peace Corps car, I have to resign myself to the experience and prepare myself mentally for what's to come. Don't get me wrong, I have some spectacular travel experiences, but there are times where I really wish I could apparate.

Lets talk about the different forms of transportation available...

My legs: Walking is great, but it's not a practical means of transportation. There was a period where I didn't have my bike in Velingara and I had to walk everywhere. It was a great way to see the town, but walking around in the heat is not an enjoyable pass time.

My bike: My bike= my life. I would be lost without my bike and it would've been a long two years if I didn't have it. As a friend once described it, a bike is to a Peace Corps Volunteer as Samson's hair was to Samson. When I went home to America last year, I went through bike withdrawals and couldn't wait to be reunited with this amazing piece of machinery. It's great to have a bike here in Velingara, but I miss my bike rides in the bush. A bike ride to a neighboring village is the perfect cure for village restlessness. I can't count the number of times I put on a podcast, jumped on my bike, and went.

In my opinion, biking is one of the more reliable forms of transportation and safer. There were numerous times where I would arrive at my destination before any other form of transportation passed me on the road. It's a relaxing way to travel in the sense that you don't have to deal with annoying transport people. In addition, some of my favorite in country memories are associated with bike trips (including the time I was attacked by bamboo).     

 Charette: A charette is a cart drawn by a donkey or by a horse. I have never taken a donkey charette and I hope I never will. Here in Velingara, there are no conventional taxis, so I've taken a horse drawn cart. Imagine the horse drawn buggies in New York City and scale the fance level down...a lot. It's a slightly rocky form of transportation, but it gets you from point A to point B.

Moto: Riding on motorcycles is against Peace Corps Senegal policy. So why am I bothering to include it in this post?? I'm the one volunteer authorized to ride on motos! Why? I work with an NGO that works in villages throughout the region. The majority of site visits are on motorcycles, so I petitioned Peace Corps to allow me to ride on motos as a part of my job. I prefer the air conditioned cars and motos scare me (especially on bad roads), but it's all part of the job. I wouldn't be happy stuck in an office all the time, so I don my sweet motorcycle helmet, cross my fingers, and off we go.

Alham: This is what PCVs dub the mini buses due to ever present “Alhamdoulilah” painted on the vehicle. There is another name for it, but I have no idea how to spell it (that's why I'm omitting it). These are the vehicles who's routes are along highly trafficked roads and are one of the most terrifying forms of transportation. Packed to the brim and loaded with bikes, goats, sacks of rice, and even a monkey or two, these cars lean precariously to one side as they barrel through pot hole ridden roads. In addition to these conditions, there are the apprenti, young men who signal stops to the driver and who collect money. The apprenti are the most frustrating people I have to deal with. They always try to rip you off and often give us the “white person price”. I argue with them relentlessly in order to get the fair price and usually they give in. However, there was this one time my friend and I were kidnapped by an alham...  

  

It was a beautiful day in Kolda, days after Christmas and my friend and I had just spent a relaxing day in my village. We were returning to Kolda and were waiting patiently on the side of the road at my father's boutique. In the distance, we see an Alham approach and we flag it down, only to argue with the apprenti. A NGO car comes up behind and we flag them down, hoping to avoid further arguments with the stubborn apprentis. The NGO car is friendly and as we are talking to them, the apprenti interferes and starts to berate the driver, saying that we are his clients and they can't drive us. Understandably, the NGO car sends us an apologetic look and drives off (they had more important things to do than argue with people). My friend and I look on as our comfortable potential ride drives off and turn our attention back to the car idling on the side of the road. While all of this was happening, they had placed my bike on top of the alham. As PCVs who sometimes do things for the principle of the matter, we refused to pay the increased price and asked them to remove my bike. They refused and the car started to move. What were we to do? They had my bike... Fueled by adrenaline, anger, and righteousness, we jump on the car. The apprenti think they've won, but the smug smiles on their faces makes us livid and we start yelling at them in a myriad of languages: Wolof, Pulaar, French, and some English thrown in for ourselves. At this point, we have the attention of the entire car: eyes trained toward us, gazes unwavering, the anticipation of what will happen next tangible (ok... I may be exaggerating this part, but it sounds cool, doesn't it?). We demand that they let us off the car and that they kidnapped us (actually, we said that they stole us because we didn't know the word for kidnap in our local language). They ignore us, but we keep trying; we say things like, “we forgot something, we need to go back!” or “we're going to this village, this is our stop.” It doesn't work. Finally, 5 kilometers down the road, another passagener, with a bike disembarks. We snag this chance. “Take my bike off too. This is my stop.” Nope. It doesn't work. We go and appeal to the driver, maybe he's more reasonable than his apprenti and will take our side. Unfortunately, this isn't the case.

At the time, we thought the smartest way to get what we wanted was to stand in front of the alham. They wouldn't run us over, would they? And if we disrupt them enough, they'll give in to our wishes. Wrong again. The driver tries to physically remove us from in front of the car and we scream. The passengers look horrified. Then, he gets back into his seat and goes forward, just a bit, hoping to scare us. We were determined and not to be deterred. At this point, the passengers are outraged. “You can't do that!” “Just give them their bike and let's go!” “Are you crazy!?” In addition to the passengers, half the village next to the road has shown up. A kind passenger offers to pay for our ticket, but it's not about the money. It's the principle of the matter. After a few more minutes of arguing, the driver tells his guys to take my bike down. We won! The villagers (who knew me) sympathized with us and when they heard the entire story couldn't believe that the apprenti and driver sank to such lows.

In retrospect, this was dumb and it could have gone a lot differently. But, when you get PCVs and transportation issues together, we often do things for the principle of the matter.

Oh alhams. If I never have to take one again, I'll be a very happy girl.

Sept place: 7 places, in french, these cars are old station wagons modified to seat seven people in addition to the driver. Usually highly uncomfortable, this is the primary form of transportation when going further than 100 kilometers. The front seat is the most spacious and the most comfortable. The middle seats aren't bad, but there isn't a lot of leg room. The back, however, is cramped and is torture if you have to travel for more than three hours. But as with most travel vehicles, the quality of sept places vary. I've been in sept places where the back row is roomy and comfortable, and I've been in sept places where metal poles prevent you from getting into a comfortable position. It's luck of the draw and you never know what you'll get.    

Bus: There are buses that travel between Kolda and Dakar. It is a slow form of transportation, but it's cheap. These buses range from run down buses from the 80's, where they've installed additional seats in the aisle (definitely not a fire hazard...) to last generation greyhound quality buses. There are buses that travel overnight and arrive in Dakar around 6am, but Peace Corps highly discourages us from taking it. It is dangerous to travel at night due to the poor quality of the roads and the potential for a driver to fall asleep. However, it's nice not having to waste an additional day on travel.

NGO car: The crème de la crème. These nice quality, often air conditioned vehicles make travel almost enjoyable. There are still horrible roads to contend with, but it's a lot easier when you aren't overloaded with baggage and tilting to one side. There are CD players and MP3 attachments, where we can play fun music and just go. This is definitely my preferred way of travel, but it's rare and needs to be appreciated. I always feel like I win the lottery every time I get an NGO ride.   

That's the overview of travel here. It's the luck of the draw and always an adventure! And sometimes, you just have to ride a camel!

Peace

Rain Rain Go Away

It's the tail end of rainy season, but instead of tapering off, it still rains consistently. I'm so tired of the rains, especially when it hampers my commute to the office. I loved rainy season in village because the rains meant that I could hide in my hut with a book and a cup of tea- a glorious way to spend a few hours. I shouldn't complain too much about the rains because adequate rain fall is essential for the crops and due to lack of rain last growing season, the yield was less that sufficient. At the same time, I'm so over rainy days and trekking through streams and mud (thank goodness I brought my rain boots here: at least I won't get creeping eruption).

Now that I've moved north east, I can't predict the rains as accurately as I used to. In village, I was able to see a storm brewing and being swept in from the southeast. Here, we're at a weird point, where air currents aren't the same and storms seem to appear out of nowhere or telltale signs yield no rain. I get so confused and can't plan accordingly. Sigh.

As a result of the rain, streams and rivers appear all over Velingara. The rain erodes the roads to the point that I've been calf deep in water. I love being in Velingara, but rainy season makes it difficult to navigate and it makes me want to stay in the comfort of my apartment. However, on the plus side, rain packs down the sand, which makes biking a lot easier. There are fewer pockets of deep sand (remember my old enemy) to hinder my progress.

Rainy season is also the season of mildew, mosquitoes, and skin infections. The damp environment is ideal for things to grow (disgusting). When I came back to Velingara from home leave, I found a certain mildew-y smell permeating my entire apartment. It took me a week to wash all my clothes and to rid my apartment of the unpleasant scent. I also discovered that a mouse had made it's residence in my apartment as did a million mosquitoes. I'm not a super squeamish girl, but having to set up mouse traps and eventually getting rid of said traps was not a pleasant task. As for the mosquitoes, I arm myself with mosquito coils, bug spray, and my mosquito net. I think I'm fighting a losing battle, but I won't stop trying.

As much as I'm waiting for the rains to stop, I'm dreading the onset of the second hot season that squeezes itself in between the rainy season and the cold season. It's a short period, lasting three to five weeks, but it's miserably hot and humid. I can handle dry heat perfectly well, but the stickiness that accompanies humidity makes me highly uncomfortable. I can't wait for cold season to come, where I can lounge in my sweats and enjoy a cup of hot chocolate before bed. Only two months away....

Sorry for the rambling post and disjointed thoughts, but it's been a long week and my mind is elsewhere. I'll try to sound like a more coherent person in my next post!

Peace Out  

Home, Home in the city...where the heels click as you walk

I'm sitting at JFK, waiting for my flight back to Senegal. Despite having constant internet access, I've failed to update my blog since being at home. About two weeks in, I began a blog entry, but I was distracted and didn't get a chance to add on to my four sentences. Now that I have some time between flights, I've decided to update you on my whirlwind of a trip.

Let's start at the beginning, leaving Velingara... I luckily was able to catch a ride with a World Vision car that was going up to Dakar. It saved me time, money, and prevented me from having to lug my baggage all around Senegal. I then spent two days in Dakar completing some work at the office, and before I knew it, it was time to head to the airport and catch my plane for home leave. I had a quick flight to Paris and then was in for the long haul when I boarded a direct flight between Paris and San Francisco. Despite being a gruelingly long flight, it wasn't as painful as I expected (although, I had difficult seat mate who at one point wanted to steal my coveted window seat). Then I was home. There's a funny story involved with my pick up from SFO. The itinerary that I had was slightly confusing. It was an overnight flight, but it didn't state the date that I was to arrive. As a result, my family had gone to the airport a day earlier, thinking that I was arriving that day. I love my family; they're the best and will brave the airport two days in a row in order to pick me up =). Alas I was home.

It was a fun filled five days at home, where I ate grandma's home cooking and had my sister play hooky from work to watch a Giants game among other things. Then I was whisked off to LA on another airplane, just in time to attend an amazing friend's bachelorette party. We went to Santa Barbara for wine tasting, where we surprised her with a limo (such a change from Senegal, where I'm ecstatic with a Peace Corps or World Vision ride). We visited four wineries before it was off the a beach house for more bachelorette party games (including a pirate ship pinata). On Sunday, we had a leisurely trip back to LA except for the part where we were hit by a firetruck... We were stuck in traffic in the left most lane and a firetruck, passing on the left hand side, clipped the driver side mirror. OOPS! So we exited and filed a report with a police officer, but we had to wait for CSI to show up in order to take pictures, which brought the ordeal to two hours. Two hours where five girls dressed in tie dyed shirts sat on the side of the road with a firetruck and a police cruiser. We drew a lot of interesting stares and who knows what other people thought we were doing. Back in the States for less than a week and I'm already hanging out with firefighters and policemen. The adventures don't stop.

After that began the week in LA. And what a week it was. The thing is, when I was there for school, all my friends were also in school, so seeing people was much easier (that and I had a car). This time around, there was a little thing called work that got in the way of hanging out. Fortunately, I'm a pro at entertaining myself and I had no trouble keeping myself busy. Evenings were completely the opposite. My evenings were filled with drinks and dinners and seeing old friends whom I used to see on a weekly basis. It was so much fun to chat and catch up. Even though there's email and facebook, it's not the same talking to friends over a delicious cup of coffee or a nice glass of Cabernet.

Before I knew it, it was the day before the wedding. Luckily, my friends had an awesome tailor who was able to alter my dress in time. We had mani-pedis and went down to the site of the wedding for the rehearsal. It was hot! I know what you're all thinking, the girl lives in Senegal where it reaches over 120 degrees Fahrenheit and she's complaining about California heat? Well, in Senegal, I wouldn't be wearing makeup or care if I'm dripping sweat, because everyone else is. America is different... sweating profusely in a pretty dress is not attractive ( no matter how pretty the dress- well, unless you count a tennis dress and are a professional tennis player). The rehearsal went off without a hitch and I finally met the groom's parents and was able to put faces to the email addresses. The groomsmen were great and even though we had just met, we were getting along as if we've been friends forever. The rehearsal dinner was at an adorable Mexican restaurant, where the tables were decorated with noisemakers including mini tambourines, maracas, and bells (which may have been a bad idea, because even though we are all in our mid twenties, we have a childlike streak that loves toys). It was so much fun and I got to catch up with great friends.

Wedding day. Bridesmaids up early to get hair and makeup done. The trusting bride left it up to us how we wanted to do our hair, which was great because we were able to have our own style. It was great being done up, if only I had hair and makeup teams follow me around, it would make my life easier. We had snacks and a lunch of finger sandwiches (you can't have the bride and her girls fainting from hunger) and champagne! Then, game time. Dresses on, shoes worn, final spritzes of hairspray, last swipes of lip gloss and GO! The ceremony was beautiful and the bride was stunning in her strapless gown and veil. I had to try so hard not to cry ( I mean, I couldn't ruin my makeup) during the ceremony. The bridesmaids had tissues conveniently stowed away in various places, just in case. So, I can gush for pages on all the details of the reception and party and guests and so on and so forth, but I will probably bore those of you who've made it this far (that and my flight is boarding soon and if I don't finish this before that point, I never will). So, if you want to hear more, I will write you a really long email.

After the wedding, I went down to San Clemente for two nights to see my friend who's wedding I'm missing in October (sad face). Then it was up to Santa Ana to see my friend from Peace Corps. It was so fun and slightly surreal to see her in the states. In Peace Corps, we are in such a insulated environment it was so fun to see people outside of it. After a nice brunch, I was off to Irvine. My awesome friend made time in her busy med school life to hang out with me. She's coming to visit me in Senegal!! I'm so excited to have my first visitor!! And then home. Whew. I'm tired just recounting it.

I'm going to recount my last two weeks really really fast... Sorry, I'm tired. Lots of great food with the family, Sonoma wine tasting (I know, I already went wine tasting on this trip), Brunches, lunches, seeing old friends, fancy french dinner with the little sister, chinatown, dim sum, trip to Sacramento to see my cousin's baby and to see family, ice cream, shopping at target, movies, beach, playing hooky with the sister (again) to eat fresh oysters, in & out, and done. I know that a lot of those involve food and it's no where near comprehensive. But, it's a new post after a month and I gotta go. America was great, but I can't wait to go back to work. That's it for now!

Peace

Home

I went back to village this weekend for the first time since I left. I was so excited for this trip and on Friday, I was bouncing up and down in my office in anticipation. That morning started off different from all the others. It was raining. Rainy season started weeks ago, but it has only rained in the middle of the night and not right when I've had to go to work. I used to love rainy season because it meant that I could hide out in my hut, read a book and enjoy a cup of tea or hot chocolate. I still love it, but when I have to navigate around mud pits, seasonal ponds, and seasonal rivers to get to work, it loses it's charm (I'm exaggerating, but it is difficult). Velingara is disgusting when it rains. It has gotten to the point where I rinse off my feet immediately on arriving home in order to avoiding getting creeping eruption (Google it). So, as I was lying in bed, not motivated to trek through the rain, I remembered that I hadn't packed for village yet (oh, procrastination). I packed, made breakfast and resolved myself to the fact that I had to make my way to work. As I get to a main street, a World Vision car stops and picks me up- Awesome!

That morning was filled with data entry from my project that measures malnutrition using brachial arm measurements. I left work a little early to buy gifts for my family and to get a car. Luckily for me, timing was on my side and my car filled and left within 15 minutes of my arrival at the garage. I get a call from my replacement telling me that the bridge into my village is gone, flooded. Just my luck. I arrive at my dad's boutique and I get a chorus of greetings and everyone tells me that I've been gone for so long. My brother meets me at the boutique and we begin the trek home. We get to the rice fields where the bridge is and it's a river (this time I'm not exaggerating). There is a current and although the deepest point is just above my knees, it's terrifying to cross. I cling onto my brother's arm, unsure if I'm about to step in a hole or about to mount an unseen slippery incline. I tell my brother that if I had known that it was in this condition, I wouldn't have come home. We make it safely across and I'm home.

I miss village so much. I love my job, but it's lonely here. I do revel in the quiet and the ability to do whatever I want and not have to report to anyone, but I miss the community and just hanging out with the family. Thanks to my great timing, I returned to village the weekend that Ramadan started. This being my third Ramadan, I didn't find it too difficult to fast for a few days. At the same time, I will be on a flight home to America in 5 days, avoiding the majority of Ramadan. When I arrived at the office this morning (after trekking in the rain), my coworkers and supervisor noted that I was happier. It's a mix of having spent a great weekend away in village and my upcoming journey.

America, see you in less than a week!

--Peace Out!

Fashion Forward

Keeping up with the latest fashion trends is a lot more difficult when you're living in a village. I cared a lot less about what I wore which resulted in me wearing the same few outfits over and over again (probably for the best, since those items are absolutely ruined). I had village clothes, Kolda clothes, and Dakar clothes- my clothing becoming nicer and less destroyed with each tier. I like options (I know I just told you I wore the same thing over and over again...) and I had a ridiculous amount of clothing that I accumulated throughout the years. I didn't realize this until I was moving and there was so much to sort through. It was funny, the girls in Kolda loved that I extended, but their one comment was, “so, now we don't get your clothes”. I compromised and left a good amount of clothes, but kept my favorites for myself.

The great thing about living in Senegal are the bolts of beautiful fabrics...and the option of taking the fabric to a tailor. I have one of the best tailors in Senegal and he's made the most beautifully tailored to fit outfits for me. I think I spend a lot of my money on getting clothes made, but it's worth it, when else can I get tailor made items for less than $10 USD. I push my tailor's limits all the time and give them projects that they've never done before. For example, I've had them make rompers (trying to explain that was hilarious), a dress out of a scarf, and an evening gown (for prom). There are times when I've had to work with my tailor to fix glaring programs, but for the most part, they are amazing and most of my clothing only required minor adjustments. In addit ion, I was able to get custom made costumes for various themed parties. Costumes in America can be ridiculously expensive and you can't be as creative with them. I'm going to miss this a lot and I'll have to go back to shopping in stores.

In the states, I loved to go thrifting and to explore vintage shops. Here, there are Fukijayes, which are giant thrift piles filed with hidden treasures. I love it and everything is so cheap- once I got a French Connection dress for $3 USD. It definitely takes patience to go through the looming piles of clothing and to bargain with the vendors, but there are great finds. It's so much fun to see what you can find- these clothing items come by the bagful from the States and you'll see custom shirts from family reunion, birthdays, and organizations. As a result of this, you see men wearing shirts with sorority letters on them or shirts with a picture of grandma's face. I love this activity so much that one theme party we had was “Fukijaye”, where you were given a $3 USD limit and the goal was to find and acquire the most ridiculous outfit possible. It was fantastic!

Senegalese Fashion is slowly making a name for itself in the fashion world. This year marked the 10^th year of Dakar Fashion Week. It's no New York or Milan or Paris, but it's getting some notoriety. In addition, wax aka the beautiful printed fabric that I love is making it's way into well known collections, including Burberry. I wasn't able to attend DFW this year, but I hope that the timing works out that I can attend next year. Looking at photo's there were classic completes, completes with modern twists, and some truly innovative creations that boldly combined prints and colors.  

 I will not stop loving clothes and I'm so grateful that I've been able to design so many items and find so many treasures here!

Peace Out!