tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87509933898059427312024-03-04T21:26:59.993-08:00Fofo, Bush Taxi(What I hope are) Scintillating Reports from a West African AdventurePhoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-1441541112227947382012-07-02T12:04:00.002-07:002012-07-02T12:04:51.885-07:00New Blog!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hey everybody! In case you were following this and hadn't heard, I have moved my blogging to WordPress. It is http://phoebeintamba.wordpress.com. Check it out if you like! Au Revoir <i>Fofo</i>!<br />
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-Phoebe </div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-84648247267231345442012-02-20T06:56:00.000-08:002012-02-20T07:27:46.873-08:00Quotes from the Week<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i><b>From my journal, February 20th, 2011. Training in Thies.</b> </i><br />
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"I can only take one of my two cats to Tamba. I'm going to leave the fat, nice one, and take the stringy, mean one. I love him."<br />
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Yesterday aforementioned stringy mean cat launched herself out of a tree onto my head like an attack bomber. She is also female...something that took me <i>way </i>too long to realize.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Awa, 7 years old, yesterday</b>: "I wish I could go to Africa too."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Me</b>: "I wish you could go to school and <i>pay attention once in a while</i>." She didn't get it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>My farmer and me, last week </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">"Do you live with the people who hate electricity?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">"What?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">"In the US, do you live near those people? The people who hate power?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">"I don't know what you're talking about."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">"You know...in Pennsylvania."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">"Are you talking about THE AMISH?" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Astonishing. He's never been to Dakar but he knows about the Pennsylvania Dutch. </span><br />
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If you are watching the news concerning Senegal, don't be alarmed - things in Tambacounda are stable and I am safe as can be. We're all crossing our fingers that the elections pass without further incident. I don't think I'd fare well in a second evacuation...<br />
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Until next time and with love,<br />
<3 Phoebe<br />
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<br /></div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-28420755553705529622012-01-24T07:55:00.002-08:002012-01-26T05:12:13.801-08:00Cleansing Fires<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Albert Camus wrote, "At any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face." </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I've chosen to kick start my first 2012 blog post with this statement because of the poignant feeling that overwhelmed me yesterday in a taxi. I sat in traffic, watching life in Tambacounda revolve around me. It was an ordinary day, but I felt something. I felt kind of absurd. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'd just arrived back in Tamba after a month long vacation. Three weeks were spent in the States where the streets are paved with gold (or so I've heard) and one week was spent in Dakar with fellow volunteers attending a motivation conference. All four caused me to remember vividly why I'm in the Peace Corps and what I came to Senegal to do. Or try to do. Or not do at all, as fortunes would have it. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'm straddling two imbalanced and imperfect worlds, with one foot firmly in my American heritage and another teetering on the African landscape. I have two names, I have two personalities, I sometimes have two opinions. By returning home in the middle of my service, even for a fleeting three weeks, I was hit in the face by the <i>absurdity </i>of our world at large and of my situation. This feeling magnified as I returned to find my Master Farmer project entirely burnt to the ground. Goodbye, months of labor. As the Senegalese say, God is Great. Alhalmdoulilaye. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As a result a feeling of hopelessness descended on me this past week, towards my projects and certain behavioral changes I'd like to initiate. I'd been back to the other side and remembered how far behind Senegal is. I'd seen months of hard work obliterated in a day. I'd been discouraged by how effortlessly I fell back into my lavish American lifestyle. I thought, is this really how it's going to be? I'm going to try, and try, and fail, and go home. As if it never happened. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And then (I bet you're relieved) I promptly kicked that mindset to the curb. The Senegalese are big fans of living in the moment and not worrying about the future. In terms of work, that can be ridiculously frustrating. In terms of stress, it's a fantastic credo. Day by day, my friends. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The important thing to remember is, my projects are not <i>all </i>burnt to the ground. One out of three, still coming out on top - right? Now that I've said that, the school garden will be descended upon by locusts, or something. I'll keep you posted. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Check out my new post below on the December Eye Clinic, if you're interested. Pretty eye-opening experience! (Ha ha...ha) </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Until next time, </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><3 Phoebe </span></div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-34925295706411235792012-01-24T07:55:00.001-08:002012-01-26T06:34:27.211-08:00Bakel Eye Clinic<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<u>Right to Sight Eye Clinic, December 5<sup>th</sup>-16<sup>th</sup></u><br />
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On December 5<sup>th</sup>, I packed my bags and joined a group of volunteers heading north to the dusty region Bakel. After a significant bus breakdown and a fight with a group of testy Senegalese who didn’t take kindly to our accidental “looks” in their direction, we arrived after dark, down a sweeping paved road strung high with street lights, into the glittering regional capital. I’m not sure if it was the fatigue of the long travel day or the impressive array of electricity before us, but one volunteer exclaimed “Woah – it’s like the Los Angeles of Senegal!”</div>
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Yes, if you know of anyone coming to Senegal, please pass on the word that Bakel is just like Los Angeles. That’s sure to piss of any tourist who makes the trek that far north. However, after having spent a week there, I’m pretty fond of the city and have only good things to say about it.</div>
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Even though Bakel is technically part of our Tambacounda demographic, few volunteers have been there. It’s not close, and it has a rough reputation for heat and desolation. Maybe it was these deplorable expectations that caused us all to be pleasantly surprised by the tree lined streets and the fully stocked boutiques. But we weren’t there to admire the views. It was time for the long awaited Eye Clinic!</div>
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One of the cooler projects I’ve been involved in, the Bake Eye Clinic involved two American ophthalmologists, both of whom traveled to Bakel to teach a Senegalese doctor how to perform cataract surgeries. Over the course of their two weeks in Senegal, the three doctors performed over a hundred cataract surgeries and diagnosed many eye conditions. Peace Corps volunteers descended on the clinic to help with language, logistics and provide extra hands.</div>
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I served as master of logistics, with another volunteer. We handled the crowds of people who swarmed the clinic, glimpsing the white doctors and demanding anything from an appointment to free x-rays on their heads. It became easy to sort out the truly afflicted and the freeloaders. The doctors had brought a hefty supply of cheap Club Med sunglasses, so our strategy for those just looking for a handout became “Hey - just <b>Club Med</b> that guy!” and tossing out a pair of free glasses. Nine times out of ten, satisfaction was achieved. A job well done!</div>
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At one point, I switched over to administering eye exams. Instead of rows of letters, our eye charts have pictures to accommodate the illiterate. One of the pictures is of a hand, and it gets smaller and smaller as you go down the chart. As I tested one old lady, she said “Yes, that’s an adult hand.” And then “that’s a child’s hand.” Finally, “that’s a baby’s hand.” Well played, Madame.</div>
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Between the jokes and successes, there was a fair amount of tragedy. Some patients waited all day for a consultation, only be told they had advanced glaucoma and there was no hope. Many of these cases refused to accept their situation and argued that we just “didn’t want to help” and “of course we could cure it” because we were white and American. One volunteer broke down and sobbed after one such confrontation. Other times, patients would lie and exclaim that they couldn’t see <i>anything</i>, not a single thing. Of course, if that were the case, the doctors most likely couldn’t operate or assist in any way. Once told this, the story quickly changed. “Yes – all of a sudden I can see the light!” Ok, buddy.</div>
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The 7am-9pm hours of the clinic were also extremely wearing on volunteers who haven’t adhered to such a schedule in months. After one day, I thought unnervingly “this is what it’s like to have a <i>real</i> job…”</div>
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At the end of the week, I was exhausted and fulfilled. The experience had all the positives and negatives of any project in Senegal, but I felt exhilarated by the quick results. Some people removed their post surgery bandages and walked away without further ado, which was a bit anticlimactic, but I also watched several patients give happy exclamations. (In actuality, it takes about a month to perceive the benefits of the operation, but we appreciated the theatrics.) A trip well worth it and one I hope to repeat this coming year. Thanks very much to the <b>Right to Sight</b> NGO and their incredible gift to Bakel!</div>
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Until next time, </div>
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<3 Phoebe</div>
</div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-16845054833027035392011-10-21T07:24:00.000-07:002011-10-27T07:37:13.462-07:00Sustaina-Blind<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">I read
my journal entry from one year ago, today. Always a source of entertainment. In
this particular entry, I lay in bed in my house in the US of A, spilling forth
my fears and excitements about Peace Corps and Niger and what challenges I
would face. I bulleted them like this:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Food</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">The heat </span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Food</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Culture</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Food</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Clean water </span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">The heat </span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Using a latrine</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Culture</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">The heat </span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Food</span></li>
</ul>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">I also
reminded myself to buy “a billion batteries.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">As I rolled
my eyes at my own stupid exaggerations it dawned on me that the <i>actual</i> battles I’ve fought as a
volunteer, with myself or others, have been entirely different from those I
speculated a year ago. One adapts to food and climate. I adapted. I must say, I
pride myself on being an expert adapter at this point. Throw me into the ocean
and I’ll build a raft from jagged seaweed and jellyfish tentacles and make
friends with the fish. Or something like that. (So glad I retained my ability to exaggerate). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">The real
difficulties I’ve faced so far have been the result of cultural walls, or,
surprisingly, of issues with my program itself. Most recently I’ve struggled
with the pressures associated with Peace Corps’ biggest watchword: <b>sustainability</b>.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Peace
Corps, as an organization, prides itself on what it is not. We are <i>not </i>an NGO that throws money at a
community without research or further follow-up. We don’t put our stamp onto
every project we’ve briefly brushed up against (ahem, cough, USAID) and we are
not, most importantly, unsustainable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">One
thing that Peace Corps <i>is</i> is self
selecting. The type of person who joins the organization is full of zeal and
good will; think uneven tan lines, calloused palms and lots of laughter. As a whole we’re
a concerned group. We’re concerned about our commitment, concerned about the
country, concerned about the cultural stressors, and lastly, concerned that our
well meaning sacrifices are worth it. Therein lies the rub. According to Peace
Corps and many development theories, in order to be <i>worth</i> it, our work must be sustainable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">This makes
all the sense in the world. The lifespan of a volunteer is only two years.
Granted, so far it seems like the longest two years in the history of time, but
in the scheme of things it is a blip, a flash, a sprint. In the lives of the
people we want to help, two years is sadly insignificant. It is for this reason
that we strive to find projects that last. This means not only teaching
individuals, but teaching teachers. It means broadening our net of knowledge
and trying to reach as many people as we can in our service. It means trying to
hit all problems at the source and not the end. It means <i>not</i> doing everything yourself, a concept that has fallen hard on
many an earnest volunteer (Mamadiy, I'm talking to you here!) It means,
unfortunately for us, never giving a quick fix but always thinking in the long
term. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">I say “unfortunately
for us” because wouldn’t it be so nice to once, just <i>once</i>, give a few extra dollars to help a family get through the week?
Wouldn’t it be so nice to see a grateful smile and know that this baby is going
to live because you paid the hospital bill? Couldn’t I just buy this man lunch
so he doesn’t go hungry today? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">But what about tomorrow? What about the day
after tomorrow? What about next week?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Logically,
one can see the large crater I’m so gladly moving towards. I can’t possibly
give money to every sick baby, to every hungry man. I may be a white American
but I’m a Peace Corps volunteer which doesn’t amount to much financially even
in Senegal. Anyways, it’s better to teach a man to fish and all that, right? If I help improve the health care,
if I increase food security, these problems may work themselves out for the
betterment of every citizen, not just two or three. This is the very core
belief of the Peace Corps and sustainability. But this man will die by then,
and that baby will never survive the week without medication. Do I really want
that on my conscience? And so I continue to give small financial aid and
consequently feel like a dirty, corrupt volunteer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">There
are other issues at hand in this scenario. The family system in Senegal, in
much of West Africa to my understanding, is tightly wound and supporting. If
you’re in any need, your family is honor and duty bound to assist you. Some are
not blessed with a particularly loving or capable family, but that’s the
general idea. Let’s consider, however, the viewpoint of such a person in need.
You could save yourself the shame and hassle of petitioning your sister or your
husband by asking this hapless foreigner. You <i>could</i>
find the money in your family, but this poor lad doesn’t know that, right? Also,
he’s more likely to give you ten times the amount you actually need, through
sheer ignorance or that nagging privilege guilt. Sounds like a good deal! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Secondly,
Senegal thrives on the concept of making a quick buck. Any way to fix a piece
of junk for two dollars and resell it for ten is seized upon immediately. The
amount of money scams in this country is astounding. I may have written about
this before, but one that really gets me is coined the ‘prescription scam.’ In
this scene a person will find an old hospital prescription in the trash and
then set about house to house, asking for small donations to cover the cost of
the medicine. “My daughter is so sick, she’s all I have, I need to get her
help, please give me a few hundred CFA”. In reality, no one is sick, this
person probably doesn’t <i>need</i> the
money (at least not desperately) but sees an easy way to fool people into
emptying their wallets. The Senegalese are wise to this scam. Foreigners? Not
so much. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">This isn’t
to say we don’t have similar situations in the US of A (or worse, unless I
missed something and Bernie Madoff was Senegalese). The difference is merely the
continent and the continued perception that Westerners have towards the third
world , mainly, Guilt with a capital G. <b>The hand of fate made me a rich American and
so I feel compelled to shell out money for those with fates less fortunate. </b>I
believe this describes, on a small scale, many failed development schemes. <i>Voila</i> – the reason Peace Corps
discourages and frowns upon such handouts, as harmless as they seem. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">My personal
problems with sustainability stem from the Master Farmer site. My farmer is
working 24/7 to install this field, a place that is producing nothing as of
yet. Do the math – this man is broke. He can barely afford bread for breakfast.
The Master Farmer program assumes that the farmers have grown children to help
in the field and a family support system to feed them during this installation,
which most of them do. My farmer, however, owns land in Tambacounda, about 40K
from the village where his family lives, and has no grown children. He is
living in a small room in Tamba until he can afford to move his family out
here. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Therefore, rather than watch this rail thin man work himself to the bone
and suffer pangs of hunger and exhaustion, I’ve been giving him money for food.
I also bought him a cell phone to make our work partnership easier – better to just
lay it all on the table. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Flashes
of red warning signs appear in my mind as I write this. I know, I <i>KNOW</i> it’s unsustainable. Other
volunteers would tell me to be wary of setting a precedent that I can’t uphold,
or that the next volunteer will be saddled with. They’d tell me I likely don’t
know the entire situation and it’d be better to keep the boundaries of
<u>volunteer </u>and <u>work partner</u> without travelling into the wastelands of money dependency
from which one can never turn back. After all, Peace Corps is funding his farm - in the larger sense, he's one of the lucky ones. I'd be told to just wait it out and things will get better when we start selling vegetables in a few months. And I’d agree. I’d nod my head, say that I
understood. And I’d continue to feed him, and I defy anyone who reads this to
do differently!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">One of
my friends in Tamba put her thoughts about this issue very nicely. She said, “Frankly,
I’d rather be scammed out of a few dollars than deny someone the help they
really need.” My consternation with sustainability rises not from the concept
itself or its obvious merit. But I often feel strangled by the notion
that I’m not <i>ever </i>supposed to give
financial help to those in dire straits, just because I can. I think change agents are forced to sometimes turn a blind eye in the name of the greater good. We can be, if you will...sustaina-blind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">At the end
of the day, I don’t want to set bad precedents or ruin the reputation of my
organization, one that is tenuously built and often undermined by wealthy
French tourists (<i>zut alors!).</i> I don’t
want to leave Senegal having only temporarily helped several people instead of
setting in motion long term shifts that will better the nation forever. I <i>also
</i>don’t want to look into the face of a distressed mother and tell her her baby
will die because it’s not “sustainable” for me to give her two dollars for medicine.
A dilemma, my friends. And one that has been much more than challenging to face than
any third meal of millet porridge or a hot day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Until
next time, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><3 Phoebe <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">P.S – It’s
been a year, Africa! Happy Anniversary. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-53238269586459820432011-09-27T08:48:00.000-07:002011-09-27T10:11:06.365-07:00Battle against the 'Toubab'<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The perks of living in a small village include a Cheers type familiarity - it's where everybody knows your name. No little kids screaming "white person, give me gift" because you're <i>known</i>, you're one of them. No incredulous stares when you speak Wolof well, or not well, or somewhere in between, because your village is used to you.<br />
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Of course, I live in a city, so all bets are off. </div>
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I have to re-explain my purpose, my name, my single marital status, my job, no I don't know how to cook the national dish of rice and fish, no I don't want to buy you a plane ticket to France! - to almost every person I encounter. I think some Senegalese kids are trained from birth to yell "toubab!" ("white person!") whenever they see one. What really gets me is when adults yell too. Come on, people. </div>
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Yesterday I was biking furiously to the Pentagon (my field) and a woman called "toubab!" as I passed. I stopped. I turned around. I biked back. She looked blankly at me. I told her politely that "toubab" was not my name. Would she prefer be called simply "African person" or did she go by something else? Did she, in fact, want to talk to me? Or was she just being vocally observant? Yes, there's a white person! Ta da. I got back on my bike to leave. She waved and said "bon voyage, toubab!" as I biked away. Lesson decidedly <i>not </i>learned. </div>
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There's a French grocery store near to my house that sells a lot of my favorite foods such as Pringles, gummy bears, Twix bars, fruit yogurt and olive loaf. (As I write that, I realize I sound like a bizarre five year old. Can't help it...) This store, besides being the reason I don't have any money ever, is also a local hang out for the talibe gangs of Tamba. You'll remember, the talibes are the young Koranic students who are told to beg most of the day, to learn humility. Well, they see me a lot as I come in and out of this store, so I finally taught them all my Senegalese name (Aida) to avoid the typical "toubab" situation. Somehow this information spread all over Tamba so that when I see a talibe now, even in the far reaches of the city, he will know my name! I was pretty impressed by this until another female volunteer came into the regional house one day wondering why all the talibes were calling her "Aida". Drat. </div>
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In my somewhat reluctant role as the white foreigner, I can get away with things that normal Senegalese eschew. Having a pet, for example. Pets here are very rare; most animals serve one sole purpose, I think you can guess what. </div>
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It can be hard to see the too-skinny cows and goats and know where their destiny lies. Of course, there is something more honest in this type of butchering than in buying a pack of chicken breasts at Stop&Shop. At least you know where the meat came from.(Or is that worse? I can't decide.) Unfortunately you don't often know which <i>part </i>of the animal it came from...and that is how I ended up eating sheep testicles last week. Not good. Not even remotely good. </div>
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In March I arrived in Tamba towing my tiny black cat, unnerving half the neighborhood and earning myself a reputation right from the start. Now it's September and I've adopted a puppy to live at the Pentagon, so he can run free in the field and keep us company as we work. I recently took him on a walk through the small village area next to the field and earned myself a whole new reputation. It's important to remember that as strange as Senegal seems to me, I'm giving just as much as I receive; in terms of weirdness, of course. Yes - I'm pretty sure most of Tamba thinks I am very weird. But there are worse things!</div>
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Until next time, </div>
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<3 Phoebe</div>
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Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-83927057142242759892011-09-10T11:41:00.001-07:002011-09-10T11:43:42.650-07:00Recent Fun<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">!</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkbphqTUjB_IWlzxPYeKhokaQT31NezzjE2avyB63OQNR29CfFBNNn9D4S0XPXLpOMMXL6aW0KqWZ9FzZFzbr6KE7XA3uc4pUSNXciWjnyvmB_Fel0zjrCN5hejFeRrQKvCN2Rid0kfdQ/s1600/020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkbphqTUjB_IWlzxPYeKhokaQT31NezzjE2avyB63OQNR29CfFBNNn9D4S0XPXLpOMMXL6aW0KqWZ9FzZFzbr6KE7XA3uc4pUSNXciWjnyvmB_Fel0zjrCN5hejFeRrQKvCN2Rid0kfdQ/s400/020.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b>Wassadou, a beautiful campemant 70k from Tamba. I saw hippos!</b></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBIST9X67vutwstmxy1BONrQyXFiYIcqU907W0J15YfuYjDy8_bgPcA5b_k4HxRMs0KT9hiDXOObNYQFxwVv5Ksmti5TkdGgmza5bMu96930AR5iIUn8YJA2-_NwnkmN9831haOE_UD2c/s1600/034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBIST9X67vutwstmxy1BONrQyXFiYIcqU907W0J15YfuYjDy8_bgPcA5b_k4HxRMs0KT9hiDXOObNYQFxwVv5Ksmti5TkdGgmza5bMu96930AR5iIUn8YJA2-_NwnkmN9831haOE_UD2c/s400/034.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b>Surpise, Muus!</b></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaCPHeXDliNz52NXnqCHS5ZAv76UTkVM61M6sG09QTNQMZsvsjmTBeuJ00O83wtVgzz-M-yELPlm4y6_okYd3Rt7nhsGCCUoXjFRDlLCU8wdWVBtRNUHRbJ6CZtlczm1wAYbZzZ9j1sfg/s1600/041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaCPHeXDliNz52NXnqCHS5ZAv76UTkVM61M6sG09QTNQMZsvsjmTBeuJ00O83wtVgzz-M-yELPlm4y6_okYd3Rt7nhsGCCUoXjFRDlLCU8wdWVBtRNUHRbJ6CZtlczm1wAYbZzZ9j1sfg/s400/041.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b>Looking fancy for Korite...my younger sister Awa on the far left, followed by neighborhood friends </b></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYxCmeG8PcMHooDAq3IXfiBFp1Ho9Q9Q7VuCNaj8gsHL5NYLOKju_j-qCvP7qXsxMlxkOIxbMUfY5OHcVk3teKChyphenhyphen3eMIvSXF-ZmRr-aEQmE43DVjLDz14vOa1fw5X9_4EDtakHjQue0o/s1600/043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYxCmeG8PcMHooDAq3IXfiBFp1Ho9Q9Q7VuCNaj8gsHL5NYLOKju_j-qCvP7qXsxMlxkOIxbMUfY5OHcVk3teKChyphenhyphen3eMIvSXF-ZmRr-aEQmE43DVjLDz14vOa1fw5X9_4EDtakHjQue0o/s400/043.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b>Awa and friends!</b></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSYpVyqoQCubw-4fV_Q20JMpsOHIYOF2VBeycuO-S0Kkf2pgbGebgx11hUFIWaOJq1N18dRB0SIQfuCuoKyHDX6aSYBSBEK4-4oOO59l0WqOf2LcXTUie4dguYpRbQSW8Tk1asSVsGVNI/s1600/046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSYpVyqoQCubw-4fV_Q20JMpsOHIYOF2VBeycuO-S0Kkf2pgbGebgx11hUFIWaOJq1N18dRB0SIQfuCuoKyHDX6aSYBSBEK4-4oOO59l0WqOf2LcXTUie4dguYpRbQSW8Tk1asSVsGVNI/s400/046.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">More neighborhood kids :) </span></b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU_lLtRw2Am7N-Hn7glAAE9xZs7ZFeAqIdr2dcUN7eekEz6cXFj0HafSheg-t2Wqgp8mOJtfmU3EWqUwKyBCAse2RLJn6pPXG6JP4TarAIRNR1KmBsVaty7GgEJzq37Jmi3HATGGI3NXM/s1600/053.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU_lLtRw2Am7N-Hn7glAAE9xZs7ZFeAqIdr2dcUN7eekEz6cXFj0HafSheg-t2Wqgp8mOJtfmU3EWqUwKyBCAse2RLJn6pPXG6JP4TarAIRNR1KmBsVaty7GgEJzq37Jmi3HATGGI3NXM/s400/053.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me and Awa, relaxing! </span></b></td></tr>
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</div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-50272528433173338852011-09-10T09:28:00.000-07:002011-09-14T05:08:03.512-07:00Pure Ridiculousness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">One of my great friends is leaving his job with Tostan in Dakar and moving to Chad, to work with The Carter Center for the eradication of guinea worm disease. He’s been fantastic, one of the few people I could really count on in Senegal. This past week I went to Dakar to say my goodbyes and wish him the best of luck.What follows are accounts of a few ridiculous experiences I had while visiting the capitol.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>The Nightclub </b></div><div class="MsoNormal">Upon arriving in the city, my friend Dan and I grabbed a taxi and asked to go to the Tostan office. Dakar is a large, sprawling city, so normally you have to tell the taxi driver the name of the quartier you want to go to. Unfortunately, I don't know the city very well, so I felt lucky when this driver told me he knew exactly where to go. Dan and I settled into the back with all our bags. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After fifteen minutes of heavy traffic and twists and turns, we started to be suspicious. "This doesn't look familiar, maybe we should ask him again if he knows where to go," I said. The driver waved off my concern and said "Tostan! Tostan! Yes, I know!" so I sat back. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We finally arrive at a sketchy corner in the middle of the city, nowhere near the quartier where the Tostan office lies. The driver points out the window. Dan and I confusedly follow the line of his finger before lighting upon a crumbling, broken down nightclub called "Hoissan".</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Easy enough mistake to make, I guess. After all, why <i>wouldn't </i>two young Americans want to go to a closed, dirty nightclub in the middle of the day?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>The Restaurant</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">The second day of our trip, we learn our friend who is moving hasn't started to pack...at all. We leave him to it and strike off to view the big market in Dakar and get some lunch. Neither of these tasks proved to be particularly easy.</div><div class="MsoNormal">The market in Dakar is, to say the least, overwhelming. I basically tore out a fair amount of my hair while briefly walking around that day. It's full of desirable items - actually, if you can't find what you want, someone will get it for you in a jiffy. It's like a tag sale hunter's dream in that the hundreds of stalls have no direct correlation to each other and everything is cheap. If you look remotely like a tourist, however, be prepared for the harassment experience of a lifetime. </div><div class="MsoNormal">A couple men latched on to my friends and me right at once. "Come here! See my brother's shop! Come here! See my cousin's stall! Eat this! Now give me 25 cfa!" This kind of heckling isn't uncommon in any market worldwide, but I <i>hate </i>being followed. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Two men wanted us to go to a far side of the market to look at a shop. They trailed us as we were looking at fabrics, jewelry, fruit, talking incessantly and trying to move us in the right direction. My short temper finally blew up and I let off a stream of angry Wolof that deterred them momentarily, but not for long. We had to walk far outside the market area before they gave up.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At this point, wallets still full and nothing bought, my friends and I decided to eat. There are a lot of little standing room food shacks in Dakar but there are also some really nice restaurants, so why not take advantage, right? We walked around trying to find something suitable, pushing through heavy crowds and traffic before realizing we'd gone in a giant circle without seeing much. Harassment was on the horizon again so we quickly jumped in a cab and headed across town to another restaurant we'd heard of. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After another twenty minutes in a cab, we arrive on the clear other side of the city to find the restaurant closed for maintenance. There didn't seem to be a lot in the area but we started walking, trying to find that right combination of cheap, sitting area, good food, and quiet. Hard!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We trudged down a bright, hot avenue, sidestepping into a private residential area by mistake, passing expensive hotel bars and tiny rice shacks. Finally, thirsty and somewhat bewildered about our bad luck in finding a suitable restaurant in this huge city, we stumble upon The IndoChine Palace. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Parked on a big corner lot, this place had the full decor (inside and out) of a stereotypical Asian restaurant. We crossed a small sloping lawn, complete with statues of Buddhas and dragon fountains. Still unsure if the restaurant was open, we reached the big double doors only to have them open silently (magically!) upon our arrival. A full staff of Senegalese people dressed in traditional Chinese garb welcomed us. I looked at our ensemble in our sweaty, dirty, backpack-carrying glory, and raised an eyebrow. Typical. We were the only customers. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We sat down at a round table with fancy place settings and cloth napkins, surrounded by eclectic Asian art. I found myself facing a giant stone bust of an African queen. Not quite what I was expecting. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Over the course of the next hour, we proved ourselves to be unequipped to handle civilized society. After a solid month of eating with our hands, working in the grind of the fields, and showering once a week, it's hard to get back into the swing of... having any manners. To start, the waitress brought us damp hot hand towels. We didn't know what to do with this. I took mine and nervously held it out over my plate. Dan started using it to wipe the sweat off his face. Eventually they lost their heat and the waitress took them back, thank goodness. </div><div class="MsoNormal">After scanning the menu and realizing nothing cost less than 5 mill (approx.10$, a hefty amount for our 100$ a month salary) we ordered a few things to share. The food was amazing, honestly. I could write about the savory mushroom spring rolls for an entire paragraph (I won't). My friend Minnie and I tore at the spring rolls with our hands while Dan slurped a dumpling soup. </div><div class="MsoNormal">During the meal, out of the corner of my eye, I spied a mouse. It flitted by our table. I barely reacted. Ten minutes later, Minnie said 'Hm - I think I saw a mouse over there.' Apparently we'd all seen the mouse at different times and no one had mentioned it. Dan said, "Yep - we're still in West Africa." I think our collective lack of reaction says it all. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>The Bars</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">Third night of our trip, Minnie and I decide to go out on the town. We stop first at a well-known hotel bar for happy hour. The bartender took a liking to us and kept refilling our drinks, so we stayed a while. The clientele consisted of a few overweight foreigners and a old lady dressed in a tennis outfit with a mullet haircut. After whiling away some time with chitchat and wine, we walk a few blocks to the French Cultural Center for dinner, a place famous for exotic burgers. I've probably eaten three burgers in the past six months, so this was a draw. Of course, we get there, and they don't have any burgers. If fact, they didn't seem to have half the menu. With my dismal French I couldn't read most of the entrees, so I asked the waiter to translate into Wolof, which he found hilarious. With his help I ordered a great steak. Success. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After the restaurant, we walked two blocks to a bar called The Viking. The fact that there is a bar in Senegal named after Nordic blonde warriors is amusing. There were a smattering of people there, mostly foreigners and one very intoxicated Pulaar man. He struck up a conversation with Minnie that was half Pulaar, half incomprehensible slurring, 100% annoying. We left our bar stool seats and went to a table in the half lighted interior. We nursed our drinks and engaged in conversation. After a while, I noticed that seated next to us was an extremely attractive Senegalese woman and a dumpy male white guy. I watched them curiously and saw some money exchange hands before they left together. Not hard to tell what was going on there. At about 2 am, Minnie and I called it quits and headed back to the packed Peace Corps house where I stayed up a bit longer before falling in a sweaty heap onto my bed and waking up five hours later with my shirt stuck to my back, off to the garage to catch a car back to Tamba. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Overall, a fun trip. West Africa is a colorful place. On the way back, our car broke down four times due to an over-hot engine, so I didn't get home until late. But I'm back and ready to get back to work! Well, sort of. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Until next time, </div><div class="MsoNormal"><3 Phoebe </div></div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-41826093661830461902011-09-05T12:30:00.000-07:002011-09-05T12:30:08.972-07:00Start of a New Season<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="caption"> Last night, I woke up suddenly around 3 am. It’s time for a change, I thought. Something’s gotta change.<br />
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In my last post, I wrote about falling down, getting up, and moving on. I rearranged my blog, something more ‘fresh and so clean, clean’, and I’ve put out a hit on my stress and anxiety. This whole evacuation, re-adjustment thing has bogged me down for too long, so if I’m going to stay in Senegal, I’d better quit dragging and start living.<br />
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Conveniently, Ramadan is over! The rest of Senegal has picked up its feet right along with me. During the month of fasting, i.e the month of food-related aggression, productivity dwindled and tempers ran hot. I accomplished very little and sat in stuffy heat for hours on end. I couldn’t seem to please anyone by fasting or not fasting (see dialogue below). I played dreary rounds of a board game akin to ‘Sorry’, although <em>my </em>board was decorated with pictures of the longest standing African presidents. So, my board was decorated with pictures of Qaddafi.<br />
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Needless to say, I’m glad lunch is back. Work can progress and I can stop looking at pictures of Qaddafi’s face for so long that he morphs into sandwiches, roast chicken, or a bucket of ice.<br />
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<strong>Future plans:</strong><br />
Heading to Dakar to say goodbye to a great friend who traveled with me from Niger to Senegal and is now moving on to Chad. It’ll be sad to see him go, but I know he’s excited for new work opportunities, so I wish him the best!<br />
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Finally installing the fence at the Pentagon (aka the Master Farmer site. My Master Farmer, Salif, told me very seriously that his field would be named “The Pentagon. For the national security of food and the elimination of poverty.” Can’t argue with that)<br />
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Meeting the new volunteer in Tamba! He/she is already in Senegal, the new class of trainees arrived on Aug 31st. Site allocations won’t be decided for a few more weeks, but the prospect of help has me almost drooling in anticipation. Give them to me NOW!)<br />
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Preparing for Halloween. Tamba hosts the Senegal-wide volunteer Halloween Party, so we’re getting prepped early. If anyone wants to send me orange jello…or black spray paint…<br />
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That’s it for now! Thanks for keeping up with the change of blog, and keep in touch. :)<br />
Until next time,<br />
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<3 Phoebe<br />
</div></div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-17540819709918355222011-08-18T09:58:00.000-07:002011-08-18T10:29:07.205-07:00Scrapes and Bruises<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In the past month, I’ve fallen down a lot. The day before yesterday I fell into a giant hole dug for a mango tree. Yesterday I fell into the same hole…again. Today I fell over while getting <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">on</i> to my bike. (I know…) A couple of weeks ago my closest friend was sent home after a medical evacuation to the States – that was probably the biggest fall of all!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
I’ve posted about this particular friend before, but for privacy I’ll use her Senegalese name, Fatu. Refer to "Brief Job Reflection" posted on 5/21 for other stories involving her. We traveled from Niger to Senegal together, surviving the trials and tribulations of re-readjusting and trying to fit into a volunteer culture already formed without us. She’s been the support of a lifetime in only six months. Her tale can be found in her own words at <a href="http://www.shelbyrajk.wordpress.com/">www.shelbyrajk.wordpress.com</a>, but the long and short of it is she ruptured an artery in her intestine and had to be taken to the States for treatment. She’s ok now, but Peace Corps doctors don’t want to risk a recurrence and have decided to medically separate her from service. (The more detailed story involves almost two liters of blood on the ground, a midnight race from Kaolack to Dakar in an ambulance, and two days in a sunny resort-like clinic.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
After returning to Tamba from this impromptu trip to Dakar, I took a few days to reflect before jumping back into my work. What happened to Fatu was a rapid reminder of the general impermanence of our roles as volunteers. We make flash appearances in people’s lives and change them, for better or for worse. We remind the Senegalese of what they don’t have and inspire them to reach for better circumstances. We run the risk of antagonizing those who celebrate a different culture and have no desire to revolutionize. Not for the first time, I questioned if my presence here is right. This is a gray area for me and has been from the start. But I’m still here.<br />
In Fatu’s case, she traveled first to Niger, next to Senegal, each time with the anticipation of an extended stay and each time denied it. I thought about my commitment to stay in Tamba and wondered if we’d all make it through the elections in January, or if I’d survive the loneliness of losing a good friend here. Each day in Peace Corps brings new challenges and opens new doors, and I’ve never experienced anything like it. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
The large discrepancy between Fatu’s medical care and that of an average Senegalese was also startling. Healthcare is an enormous issue in the United States and for the first time in my life, I felt thankful, because this indicates our understanding of its importance. In Senegalese villages, healthcare often stops beyond the local healer and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> because of unavailability; in fact, the government has made great strides in the past ten years to provide affordable medicines and treatment. Many people have just not grasped the importance of this change, or believe too fervently in methods that have low statistical success but are traditional. Those who do understand are often not making the decisions within families. This is the challenge given to health volunteers, not just with Peace Corps but with any organization – to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">modify behavior</i>. It’s a psychological shift more than anything else. The effort of these volunteers is incredible and their successes immeasurable, quite literally. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
If Fatu had been a poor Senegalese, chances are high she would have died. I thank the Peace Corps doctors for their quick action and salute the many volunteers who are working to shift that imbalance, to not only offer good care to all poorer citizens in Senegal, but insure that it is taken advantage of. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
After my few days of reflection, I tackled the workload that had been piling up in my absence. My volunteer work partner and friend has since moved on to greener pastures, and I don’t mean that as a metaphor. He moved to Thies, a city just outside Dakar, and actually much, much greener than Tamba. He’ll be helping out there for a year with new volunteer trainings and support. Unfortunately, that leaves me to try and take on two volunteers’ worth of projects. So far it’s been pretty difficult. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
To sum it up briefly, I am still partnering with the Master Farmer program, as well as trying to revive the demonstration garden after a few months of neglect. I’ve taken on a women’s garden to assist and struck up a relationship with AfriCare to help with a series of gardening trainings. The school garden is on hold for a bit until school starts in October. In theory, I am doing all of the above - in reality, I am at the Master Farmer field all day every day, with quick appearances at the demo garden to water and drive-bys of the women’s garden to say “Try to weed better! Well, I gotta go!” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
I’d say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so</i> far I’m failing to maintain all the projects I’d like to be involved in. The MF field is full time and frankly, time is running out. We’re on a strict seasonal clock here. There will be a replacement volunteer in Tamba arriving in the beginning of November, and I’m crossing my fingers that I can hold on to everything until then. I don’t want to have to show him/her an empty wasteland and say “Now grow things!” So wish me luck. I’ll need it. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
As I said, I’ve fallen down a lot this month, both physically and emotionally. Working in this environment has tested me in every possible manner. At the same time, I've learned things about myself and the world I would never have known otherwise. I hope to keep sharing these things with you. For now, what I've learned is that for every time I fall down, I'm able to pick myself back up again.<br />
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Until next time,<br />
<3 Phoebe </div></div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-61928429583187400572011-07-11T08:51:00.000-07:002011-07-11T08:51:13.887-07:00Mason! Mason! Build Me a Toolshed! But Seriously.Hello!<br />
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It's been too long! My relationship with this blog has been infinitely better than my relationship with my journal (she'll be calling it off any day now) and yet I've still neglected it. My apologies. A lot has happened in the past month!<br />
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June passed very quickly. I spent most of it wrestling with the mason at my Master Farmer site. We hired a mason to build a stone tool shed, what should be a four day project, but one month and three masons later, we're still not done. Building projects in Senegal are <i>troublesome</i>, to say the least. In my case, I learned the person who builds the shed is not the same person who installs the roof...but then you need an additional mason to put bricks on top of the roof after it's in place, because the roof worker can't possibly do that. How do you get a mason out to your field? Not by offering money and work, apparently! How do you get two masons and a roof worker? You don't, you just don't. Sigh. <br />
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Now it's nearly finished but the window's been cemented in upside down, a problem I can't even deign to address right now. The roof is on! Hooray! We'll focus on that.<br />
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After struggling to comprehend the intricacies of Senegalese work patterns, I left for a much needed vacation in London with my parents. It was a week of blissful tourism in which I was paid absolutely no attention by the casual passerby...hence the bliss! Don't underestimate the power of anonymity. After seven months of constant heckling, it was wonderful not to be noticed. We ducked in and out of famous pubs, stormed the Tower, stood in two time zones in Greenwich, visited Hell during <i>Dr. Faustus</i> at the Globe and in general, enjoyed ourselves very much. It was a much appreciated and restful break.<br />
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Now I'm home, back in Tamba and gearing myself up for a summer of working in the fields. So far I've battled land title rights with my garden partners, extended rice and bean seed to a local farmer and witnessed the capping of our tool shed at the MF site. I'll be doing more research than I ever have, conducting studies on why one type of seed is better than another or why this practice is more beneficial than that one, and hopefully writing a comprehensive report to submit to Peace Corps in Washington. It all sounds very official! I've said this before, but the illusion of Peace Corps volunteers sitting around in the shade fanning flies off themselves has been shattered into many pieces - although the advent of rainy season has introduced more flies than I can possibly cope with. I just ignore them. It's worked so far.<br />
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I have to run to Wolof class, but I'll try to write more regularly - I'm excited to say some of my fellow Niger refugees have recently found success in Peace Corps Ghana, Moldova, and Kenya so I'm very proud of them and can't wait to hear more!<br />
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As for things stateside, I miss everyone very much and letters are on their way. I promise. I bought stamps after three hours of general confusion at the post office, so count on it!<br />
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<3 Phoebe<br />
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P.S For a look into another side of the volunteer experience, read my friend's latest entry on her blog. It's a good insight into more frustrating part of Peace Corps and I relate to much of what she says. Just in case you're interested! <br />
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http://shelbyrajk.wordpress.com/Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-72718593975744569292011-06-04T01:27:00.000-07:002011-06-11T13:08:36.955-07:00Magic Africa<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">A little known fact is that I have Wolof class every Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday at four. I'd appreciate if this fact would be taken to heart by the select <i>few </i>who are constantly interrupting me at this precise time (ahem, host family and other volunteers). When not disturbed, I have learned quite a bit at these lessons, and very little of it Wolof. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">For example, yesterday, as my tutor Abdullaye and I relaxed in chairs under the mango tree in my courtyard, sipping sweet syrupy tea with more sugar in it than a Pixie Stick, we touched upon the topic of healthcare in Senegal. My host mom had recently been to the hospital and received some medicine for her chronic dizziness. At least I think that's what she told me - it's either that or 'chronic donkey.' See, I need these Wolof classes!</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">"I never get shots," he claimed. I took this to mean he had a general phobia of needles, like a lot of people. I told him about all the shots required for Americans to travel to Africa, and vice-versa. "I'm staying right here," he responded emphatically.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">"What do you do if you get sick?" I wondered. Abdullaye stared at me and said "My mother heals me with her hands."</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Unfortunately, it was too late for me to hold back my scornful scoff. After three months of classes, I'm fairly comfortable around Abdullaye. He's a youngish, laid back Senegalese, always good for a laugh. I'd begun to think of him as one of my Western friends, which was my first mistake. Amateur move for a cultural-sensitivity trained volunteer, Phoebe! </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">He narrowed his eyes. My scoff was quickly replaced with a look of polite interest. What followed was a truly fascinating introduction to mystical Africa, and my polite interest transformed into actual wonder. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">"Africa," he began, "is different than America." I rolled my eyes. But then he said, "this is not religion. It's mystical. The people from here are tied to the land. The land protects us. If I am sick, I can draw on that power of the land to help me." The conviction with which he said was surprising. I sat up a bit straighter. He continued to repeat that unseen forces were at work in Africa, such an ancestors, ancient spirits, and land sprites. I watched him in amazement, completely taken in.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I think I'd been waiting for something like this to happen during my service. I've been in Africa for seven months, but because I've moved around so much, I've never felt close enough to someone to talk about 'raw' Africa, Africa before missionaries, before organized religion. I loved it. It felt authentic, it felt passionate, and it felt uncontested. During decades of non-Africans dictating what Africans should believe, most have quietly kept their native traditions, vibrating just below the surface, ready to emerge in an invisible conversation with more organized religion - so stealthy that an outsider might not detect their presence. While it might be difficult for educated Westerners to accept African mysticism, I admit I'm totally converted. Who am I to say one way or another? But if the ghost of wrinkly Great Aunt Fatouma appears to help heal the sick, I might be more than a little freaked out. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Africa is, indeed, "different than America" and you might have to come here to experience what I'm talking about. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The only source of our disagreement arose when my tutor mentioned the Gambian president's <a href="http://articles.cnn.com/2007-03-15/world/koinange.africa_1_aids-patients-aids-cure-anti-retroviral?_s=PM:WORLD">cure for HIV/AIDS</a>. This, I have not been so convinced as to believe, and I find the fact that the president has encouraged (or rather, mandated) that his citizens cease all normal antiviral treatments disturbing. If my good friend Abdullaye were to (God forbid) contract HIV, I wonder if I should have to force-feed him medication. This, I struggle with. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Towards the end of our discussion I asked Abdullaye hopefully "So if I'm sick, your Mom can heal me too?" He said "Are you from Africa? NO!" And that was the end of our class! </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Until next time,</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><3 Phoebe </div></div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-14706647605958746012011-05-21T09:55:00.000-07:002011-05-21T10:31:16.094-07:00Brief Job Reflection<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">It’<span style="font-size: small;">s almost June. I’ve been in Senegal longer than I was in Niger. Sometimes I find myself standing for moments on end, flying back over space and time to that unfinished business. It’s an odd sensation, but the country of Niger made an imprint on my mind and I can’t erase it, even as distance stretches between me and it.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My efforts now turn to immersing myself in Senegal. The more I learn, the more I am intrigued. As in the States, the economic, social, and religious demographic varies widely from region, to city, to village. This is mirrored in the volunteer experience. I live in a concrete house with electricity, running water, and a very small family. I visited a friend of mine in a village, and she lives in a mud hut, with no such luxuries and a large, bustling family that is constantly encircling her with chatter and laughter. Over the same weekend, I went to Dakar and viewed a friend’s gorgeous (Peace Corps funded) apartment on the top of a high rise building. We work for the same organization. Each of us has the same goal, and same motivation. We are achieving it very differently.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">After getting a taste of the range of volunteer living arrangements, I became wistful for the village life that I am missing. In the city, I’m overwhelmed daily by the amount of people, the pollution, and the attention. In my friend’s village, everybody knows her by name and she is comfortably settled into her routine. She sleeps under the stars and breathes clean(er) air. Of course, I’m romanticizing it. She would probably be quick to point out the advantages of my situation, of which there are many. We always wish for what we don’t have, isn’t that the way it goes?</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Interestingly, in this same village that I mention, poles were recently erected for electricity. My friend called to tell me, and my first reaction was “that’s great!” and she immediately said “no, it’s terrible!”</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’ve written about this phenomenon a bit in past blog entries. I would call it stagnant progress. As volunteers, we become so immersed in our community that we don’t want it to change, even though that is our job. We are change agents. </span><span style="font-size: small;">In this particular village, my friend is working as an agriculture volunteer to increase millet, corn, and cereal production in surrounding fields. She is extending seeds to farmers and monitoring their fields for greater yield. Most of the men in the village are farmers. Village life centers around community gatherings and family compounds, around a slow pace of life that embraces the timelessness. How will the advent of electricity make a difference? The schedule of the day will surely be altered. Young people will play music late at night, keeping the lights on until they see fit and perhaps disturbing the neighbors. You won’t be able to see the stars. New products will be available to sell - cold drinks, yogurt, an entire market to crack into. And get ready for a wave of electronic products!</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We live in the digital age, in which strangers can share entire life stories and never meet. Some think of this as an unfriendly system, and others marvel at the opportunities and technologies. For example, even with the speed and reliance of email, I’m enjoying writing and receiving letters. There’s something elusive and important in that tangible message, something that’s missing in an email. Sometimes I feel as if that square of paper is tethering me to whoever wrote it, and I feel connected, briefly, as I hold it. For someone like me, far away from home and familiarity, it helps. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We’ve been dealing with this technological revolution for quite some time now, adapting to how it shapes our relationships and our work. Senegal is in the throes of doing the same. But it remains ‘to be determined’ at what cost.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I live in a household that has one foot in each country, so to speak. My host dad is a high school physics teacher. He leaves the house each morning looking like a well dressed American man heading to the office. My host mom is a traditional woman who cooks, cleans, takes care of her man and wears beautifully tailored Senegalese clothing. They have a nice Dell computer, a modem for internet, electricity, and running water. She attends proper social functions. He works at home on the computer grading papers. It’s an interesting and yet comfortable blend. If we were to take this house as an example, we might find no contest between past and future Senegal. You really <i>can</i> have both. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Of course, I’m getting ahead of myself. My house is wired for electricity but we only have it thirty percent of the time. Senegal yet lacks the infrastructure to offer these resources properly. So villagers? Take a deep breath, because we still have a long way to go. </span></div></div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-2269803331845698952011-05-11T06:16:00.000-07:002011-05-20T09:46:49.299-07:00A City with Cheese, A Third-World Surgery and Some Disappointment<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I have learned several lessons this past month that I’d like to share with you. Most of these won’t apply to those at home in the States, but you might learn a thing or two from my experiences. For example: </span></span><br />
<div style="border-color: -moz-use-text-color -moz-use-text-color rgb(79, 129, 189); border-style: none none solid; border-width: medium medium 1pt; padding: 0in 0in 2pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Don’t take your cat to a farm vet.</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">In April he gave my cat all the proper vaccines against infectious diseases, but for dogs (it’s the same!) and somehow that wasn’t enough to deter me from returning to have her spayed. Something about limited options. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Of course the vet neglected to mention he’d never worked on an animal as small as a cat before, because Senegalese people aren’t “crazy” enough to have cats as pets (his word, not mine). He started by giving it enough anesthetic to knock out a horse - his usual client - and finished by telling me sternly to “BE COOL” as I dry heaved in a corner. There’s a reason I don’t watch surgeries in the States. Hello, religion major, over here!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Long story short, the cat survived just fine with only an enormous, misshapen scar to tell the story. I’ve warned all other volunteers with pets that this might not be the way to go, although watching her drunkenly come off the drugs was pretty entertaining. (Get up, stumble, fall, drool a lot, repeat) </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><i>Disclaimer: </i>The vet I mention was very concerned about my cat, and followed up with me every day for a week. He meant well, and ended up doing a fine job! I don't mean to besmirch him by any means. Muus is happy and healthy. It just wasn't my most favorite experience...</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Kaolack is not as dirty as Tamba.</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> After arriving in Kaolack at the end of April for the master farmer training, I found all rumors of its fatal disgustingness to be false. The Peace Corps house was impeccably organized, complete with color coded signs in the kitchen for plates, bowls, and silverware, and nametags to reserve a bed for the evening. In Tamba, it’s pretty much a scramble to throw a mattress on the roof and hope there’s at least a semi-clean sheet you can snag. The city itself has a strip of <i>water</i> and a <i>delta </i>for goodness sake, what else could you ask for? Compared to Tamba, Kaolack wasn’t as hot, it wasn’t as dusty, the French grocery store sold my favorite cheese from home - the little red ones covered in wax! – all in all, a magical place. I didn’t even have many travel malfunctions, just a breezy couple of flat tires. Needless to say, I like Kaolack, for now. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Misunderstandings are Frequent and Awkward</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">It’s not easy to be a foreigner in Senegal. I’ve been warned by past volunteers and the Peace Corps bureau that many people will try to take advantage of me, either by jacking up their prices or by asking me outright for handouts, and I’ve certainly lived that experience these past few months in Africa. It’s a difficult position, because I <i>do</i> have exponentially more money than the average Senegalese, and sometimes I find it hard to justify saying no. Peace Corps reminds me that the program is not here to shower money or gifts on the people, but to make a lasting contribution to the community through teachings and small project funding. As a “volunteer”, I don’t get paid much more than the amount allotted for my rent and food, so it’s true that I’m not wealthy by any means. This sounds very appropriate, but running the Peace Corps mantra through my head doesn’t help when there’s a small child looking up at me and asking for food. Some days are better than others, but when I’m significantly frustrated with a project or a particular group of people, being a foreigner just exacerbates the problem. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I am, also, becoming notoriously bad at distinguishing when I’m being taken for a ride and when I’m being treated normally. For example, I attended a fancy wedding the other day with my host mom. The daughter of our next-door neighbor was getting married, and there was food, drinks, and dancing. I had fun mixing with the people, some of whom I’d met before. As a “toubab” (Senegalese word for ‘white person’) I was something of a spectacle, but that’s nothing new – it just means they took extra pleasure in laughing at my bad dancing. It’s all harmless and in fairness, my dancing is terrible. The Senegalese I’ve met so far really appreciate it if you can laugh at yourself. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">At the end of the wedding, as I returned home and changed out of my fancy clothes, a younger kid came to find me saying “the bride wants a picture with you, the bride wants a picture with you!” After a night of heckling and attention I was starting to get fed up, and this rubbed me the wrong way. She wants a picture of the ‘toubab’ at her wedding, I thought bitterly. She doesn’t even know me, she won’t bother to get to know me, this is so inappropriate and frustrating, I’ll never fit in here, blah blah blah – you can see my train of thought. I went, took the picture, and sulked in my room for the rest of the night. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> About two weeks later, the bride stopped by my house with a giant photo album, in which she proudly displayed pictures of her and every guest. That’s right – every single guest. Well, if that didn’t make me feel like an asshole!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But it doesn’t always play out like that. Yesterday, I met with a committee that is planning a festival in Tamba to celebrate the Diola ethnicity. Although I learned Wolof in training, my host family is from the Diola clan, and so this festival has special importance for them. My host mom had previously told this committee that I might be willing to help out, which I didn’t initially understand, but it turned out a lot of the people coming for this festival are farmers and gardeners, and they would appreciate the chance to talk with me and ask questions. I spoke with the president of the committee, we took a tour of the sites in Tamba where the festival was to be held, and I was becoming fairly happy with the opportunity to plan my exposition and bring some demonstrations. This falls exactly into my job description, and I was excited that they had come to me and wanted my help. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Of course, they waited until the end of the meeting to tell me that every participant gives a contribution in money to the festival. It took about ten minutes of roundabout conversation to establish this point, but unfortunately if you’re not direct with me in Wolof I simply don’t understand. The committee seemed uncomfortable, and I suddenly realized they expected me to pay them for my space. This goes against any Peace Corps mandates, and I immediately knew I wouldn’t give them any money, but I was so affronted that they asked and disappointed that this was being revealed as their true intention. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I asked them how much they wanted. They told me I should name what I was willing to pay. It’s a “contribution”, they kept telling me. I said 25 mille, an exorbitant amount of money, about half my rent. I said this partly out of confusion (they completely sandbagged me, to borrow a word from my dad) and partly out of curiosity. I was hoping (naively) that they’d protest and say most people are giving five to ten mille, that would be plenty, thank you so much for all the <i>time</i> and <i>effort</i> this is going to cause you, but instead they sat in silence and then said “Actually, 50 mille is more appropriate contribution.” </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I felt very used. First of all, if I am going to give 50 mille (about 100 dollars and my entire month’s rent) to a cause, it is not going to the Diola culture festival. It will go to something <i>worthwhile.</i> Second of all, I’m coming to realize that my host mom likely described me to this committee as a rich American who would gladly give money, and that makes me sad. She should know what Peace Corps is about - I tell her often enough. Instead, she raises expectations that I’m a walking bank. I feel as though I can’t trust anybody here. This is why Muus the cat remains my only Senegalese friend. (And also, I don't really speak the language. It helps that I can speak 'cat' fluently.)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I left things with the committee uncertain, as I was too befuddled and disoriented by being one moment lifted up by project potential to suddenly confused and disappointed. I’m going to have to call the president and let him know that I can’t contribute money, but if they’d still like me to come and answer questions I will. However, if you’re reading this, perhaps you can shoot me an email with some advice. This “exposition” would take a lot of my time over the next month and I’m not convinced by any means that it’s worth it. I don’t feel like they truly want my knowledge, and so I’m tempted to back out all together. I’ll keep you posted. In any case, there are sure to be several misunderstandings in the future both comical and frustrating, so keep reading!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">My Garden Partners are the Worst…Just ‘the Worst’.</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">This is another delicate situation. The volunteer in Tamba before Austin set up an abysmal system with the family that lives right next to our demo garden. The deal was, they water the garden twice a day, and we pay them ten mille a month. To give you some perspective, some workers in Dakar make ten mille a month working 9-5 jobs. They are already receiving a disproportionate amount of money to the amount of work. On top of this, they are unpleasant people, always fighting in grating voices and they don’t take the watering seriously. We have suspicions that when both volunteers are out of town, they simply don’t water. The other day, I arrived to find the five year old boy struggling to lift a full watering can and subsequently drenching himself and little of the actual garden. This is a problem on a couple levels. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Other volunteers have similar systems in which they hire a Senegalese person to water and work in the garden. These people have been carefully selected as capable, friendly, and hard-working. They are not paid directly but are able to sell the produce of the garden, thus giving them an interest in its maintenance. They make a comfortable living off this and usually learn a lot from working with the volunteer, thus affording the skills to start their own garden or contribute to the demo garden. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Somehow we ended up with this hostile family that lets its kids trample the beds, spends all morning screaming at each other, and barely does the work for an enormous amount of money. You might suggest that we allow them to sell the produce, creating a similar sense of ownership and pride in the garden, but as I was surprised to recently learn this <i>is</i> the case. They're able to sell everything except the trees we pepinere for our own projects. For some inexplicable reason, they just don’t care, damaging their own meager income and our project. It’s hard to believe. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Austin has considered terminating their contract with us, but hasn’t for a couple of reasons. One, they live right next to the garden, and are spiteful people. It’s easy to see them taking revenge on our work. Secondly and more importantly, they are dirt poor. The family has several kids, three under the age of five, and without this income they would likely starve. (Again, baffling that they don’t take their job more seriously.) But they’ve found the correct way to milk the system, because as perhaps they’ve guessed, we’re loathe to cut them off completely despite their dismal performance. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’m formulating a plan to continue paying them some money but bar their entrance to the garden. I just don’t want them in there, they’re destructive and distracting and unfriendly. I’ll let you know how it goes, but I refuse to spend the remaining sixteen months of my service dealing with their incompetence! </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Volunteers in Tamba are Great </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’d like to end this blog post on a cheerier note! Over the past couple of months I’ve gotten to know my fellow volunteers in Tamba Nation (as we call ourselves) and it’s been really positive. I like everyone I’ve met and they’ve welcomed me into their close-knit circle, which will sincerely help me succeed. That support network is crucial.. We’re getting ready to welcome the new health/environmental education class that ends training this Friday, and although I’m going to miss their installation, I’m excited to have them here. I’m missing their move-in because I’m headed to Dakar for a much needed break from the heat, and also to catch one of my best friends from college who is passing through for other reasons. I’m going to buy a guitar while I’m there, and hopefully get back into my music a bit. It’s been too long. Things to look forward to! Missing everybody as always and ta-ta for now!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><3 Phoebe </span></span></div></div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-77546510999521022912011-04-16T09:05:00.000-07:002011-04-16T09:18:11.843-07:00Some Lessons Learned, or Just One Important One<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Last week I left Tamba for the first time since my installation. I traveled down to Kolda, a city near the Guinea-Bissau border and attended an agricultural conference. The conference was informative, and the heat in Kolda a <i>little</i> less oppressive. My least favorite session consisted of a three hour explanation of the dreaded Volunteer Reporting Form (VRF), which I won’t be writing this time around considering...I have nothing to report. I guess I could talk about how my cat got stuck on the roof last night and I spent four hours climbing the rusted battlements trying to get it down. Yes, Peace Corps, that is how I spend my time! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The conference in general was great but as expected, travel was a major issue. On the ride down I was folded into a backseat of a station wagon in which my head didn’t clear the ceiling and my knees touched my forehead. You see, when I say folded, I mean <i>folded</i>. This wouldn’t have mattered if the ride didn’t last five hours. I began to lose sensation in multiple appendages. When I arrived at the garage in Kolda, finally able to free my pretzel-ed body from the car, I realized I was missing 30,000 CFA. That amounts to about sixty dollars, a pretty hefty amount in Senegal. Peace Corps recommends you start screaming the Wolof word for “thief” as loudly as possible and shame people in helping you locate your money. I wasn’t really up for it. Afterwards, the driver refused to give me my change from my ticket payment and I was so fed up I pathetically told him he was a “bad person.” That’s about as aggressive as I get! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The ride back from Kolda, the car broke down several times, once when the wheel fell off and once when the transmission fell out. I’m surprised the engine didn’t just drop out too. If your car is your entire livelihood, wouldn’t you take better care of it? But we made it back. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Another frustrating aspect of living in Tamba is the wretched mail system. I haven’t heard of any of my letters arriving in the States, even ones I sent in the beginning of February. However, the letter I sent to my friend in <i>China</i> arrived after only two weeks. Go figure. I guess based on past record in which my Nigerien letters arrive after four months, I might still be ahead of the game. Let me know if you get one so I can feel a bit better about paying exorbitant postage rates. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Our current projects are coming along fairly well; my volunteer work partner/slave driver (just kidding, Austin) wrote a fantastic grant for a school garden and we received the money yesterday. This morning we biked around to several hardware stores and bought grillage and metal posts for the fence, put in an order to have a metal door made, bought cement and sand for the water basin and tools for the labor. (I sometimes think of Austin as a slave driver only because no sane person bikes around Tamba at noon in hot season, and forces others to accompany them. Sigh.) </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After buying the materials we returned to the school to see the garden. We had planted some trees at the end of March, and the gardener called yesterday to complain that nothing had grown. This was strange, because the species we planted should have started sprouting at <i>least</i>. So we biked out there, with our materials following in a horse-drawn buggy, and found our tree-bed overtaken by a thousand weeds. Not sure why someone would call to say <i>nothing</i> had grown, when clearly <i>the opposite </i>was in fact true. The tiny tree sprouts were hidden by a mass of grass. Three hours later, the bed was de-weeded and the trees left in peace to grow.<b> Lesson learned</b>: always budget in several hours more than you anticipate spending on any project. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In other news, our carefully selected and recommended pilot farmer was accepted into the Peace Corps Master Farmer program, meaning we will now entirely fund his farm and teach him improved techniques. That’s pretty exciting – he’s been waiting almost a year to be approved by administration. As a result I’ll be leaving Tamba <i>again</i> at the end of April for a Master Farmer training in Kaolack, a city on the road towards Dakar. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The Talibe (Koranic students) garden project is also flourishing. The project exists to provide local talibes with some garden experience and frankly, to give them something to do besides beg. They will also receive the crops to supplement their meager diet. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I visited the site about a week ago to take pictures for the conference in Kolda, and the owner of the garden greeted me enthusiastically. He was bare-chested and out of breath from working in the heat of the day, but as soon as he saw me taking pictures he ran inside and put on a fancy Senegalese robe. What followed can only be called a photo-shoot. He started by calling in all his staff from the field, and making them stand behind the water basin. He then handed each of them a piece of corn or a watering can, and told them to pose. Finally, he turned on the hose so water cascaded poetically into the basin and told me gravely “we’re ready.” I ended up taking almost a hundred pictures of him in different parts of the garden. He kept saying “take one with me and this corn section. Did you get the corn? How do I look? Now take one with me and this lettuce. No, that doesn’t look good. Take another.” I mean, really, I just needed a few snapshots to show my peers at the Kolda conference. <b>Lesson learned for a second time: </b>always budget in several hours more than you anticipate spending on any project. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">That’s all for now – me and Muus the cat (in Wolof, Cat the cat) are here and braving the heat as best we can. Would love to hear how everybody is doing in other parts of the world, and as always, love from Senegal. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><3 Phoebe </span></div></div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-33112338165933635442011-04-01T09:22:00.000-07:002011-04-01T09:28:39.789-07:00The Usual Routine (With Some Variation)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">It's morning, and I awaken to a high pitch noise and a notion that I am strangely wet. As I become more aware, I remember that the cat is hungry (and making it known) and once again, I’ve managed to sweat through the sheets. After groggily getting to my feet, becoming entangled in my mosquito net, struggling bitterly for five minutes, I emerge ready to start the day. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">First order of business is to dunk a bucket of water on my head and stand in front of the fan. This morning step is crucial if I am expected to function. Gradually I dress in a dirty tee shirt and torn pants to work in the garden, kicking the cat around in the process. It has an unfortunate habit of climbing my leg like a tree trunk. This makes it hard to put on pants. It’s low heat, only about ninety degrees farenheight. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I grab my bike from the courtyard, evading my host mom as she judges my appearance with a disgusted eye. I think one day I'm going to wear a fancy, embroidered Senegalese outfit to work in the garden and watch her face as I come home covered in mud and manure. Maybe she'll stop heckling me then...of course I'm dirty, I work almost exclusively with <i>dirt</i>, woman. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
I meet my work partner at our garden, where a few beds await digging. This process entails heaving a giant pick at the hard earth until it is broken up enough to be shoveled out. Since I have been here, we’ve created twenty wheelbarrows worth of rocks after sifting through the minimal soil. And we’re nowhere near done! I resign myself to another morning of digging, shoveling, and learning. Today I might learn how a squash plant is pollinated, or why sage cannot be layered upon itself. Odds are it will be another day of realizing just how useless my degree in religious studies is. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Around noon, the sun is burning and even my motivated, vastly-stronger-than-me work partner can’t take the heat. I trudge home, feebly waving to kids who yell my name and ask me for money. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I arrive my host mom skips the greetings and waves me enthusiastically into the shower, imploring me to “stop being so dirty.” I go willingly and prepare myself for a lazy afternoon of dozing in the heat, reading, and drinking tea with the numerous ladies who visit my house. </div><div class="MsoNormal">In the evening, I return to the garden to spray for pesticides or transplant perhaps lettuce, fruit trees, or lemongrass. The rest of my day consists of socializing with my family and an early retreat to my room for sleep, armed with six bottles of cold water and the fan placed strategically at the corner of my bed. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">--There have been certain variations to this day, but in general, I’ve been grateful for the stability. No more evacuations please - I've had enough excitement! Some deviations include the following: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Biking to the vet with my cat in a basket on the handlebars, exciting pure confusion and contempt on the part of the Senegalese </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Arriving at the vet surrounded by old men with their sick goats and cows, trying to be taken seriously with my hot pink cat basket and pleas for vaccinations</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Doing laundry with my host mom, only to realize she wasn’t washing her own clothes but merely following me and washing mine twice</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Inviting a man and his young daughter to a girls’ leadership conference and dealing with the question “Uh…why?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Wheelbarrowing a large pile of manure for compost…”What is that for? Why are you wheeling around a giant pile of cow poop? Is that for your cat? Does your cat eat cow poop?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Attending a Senegalese wedding and being called into the center of a large, intimidating dance circle…I did my best</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Hearing my cat’s distress calls and rushing out to find my young host sister force feeding it sand, consequently snatching the cat and saying in an angry huff “No! Bad! You…are bad!” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Realizing I need to study Wolof so I can politely say "Please, don't feed the cat sand, it will die, thank you so much." </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Until I write again, you know where to find me! </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><3 Phoebe </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-34506803712150376072011-03-06T05:09:00.000-08:002011-03-06T05:09:54.952-08:00Tambacounda, Among Other Things<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I've finally arrived!<br />
...Well, sort of. <br />
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I made it through our technical training, a pretty anticlimactic experience considering the phone call I received from the agriculture agent (see "Something Lighter"). He turned out to be one of the nicest men I've ever met, wholly concerned with our well-being and happiness in Senegal. Despite this (haha) I learned about double digging, zai holes, demi lunes, tree grafting, and don't ask me how to do them because I've already forgotten. It's going to be a steep learning curve, but gardening and I are going to be great friends by the end of my two years here. <br />
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At approximately six-thirty am yesterday morning, I bid farewell to my fellow volunteers and hopped in a rental "sept-place" (seven seat station wagon) to drive seven hours to my new site. The city is dusty, hot as all hell and full of garbage, but also graced with a large amount of character and potential. I unloaded my baggage, met my new work-partner and biked immediately to the demonstration garden where I will spend the majority of my time here. The garden is right next to the town dump and infused with the most rocks I've ever seen <i>not </i>in a gravel driveway, and so it presents its challenges. However, the volunteer I am now teaming up with has made huge headway and I'm excited to get started.<br />
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The garden is used to host gardening classes and introduce new techniques, hence a significant amount of pressure on the volunteers to keep everything growing healthily and strong. In a plot of land with more rocks than soil, this is no mean feat. I'll keep you posted on our developments and <i>insh'allah</i> report some future successes.<br />
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My particular situation is a little tricky given that we (Niger transferees) are being installed in a non-traditional manner. In any other case, I would not be working alongside a volunteer in my exact sector, and so figuring out the division of labor and where I fit into projects already underway is a bit difficult. I haven't met my host family yet or moved in fully, because Peace Corps screwed up - what else is new? - and didn't give us any money to buy beds, mattresses, food, etc. I am currently bunking at the regional house until tomorrow when the offices open and I can access my funds. I can't tell you how excited I am to<i> not be living out of a suitcase</i>. One more day...one more day and I'll have a real home! Fingers crossed I'll live here for more than eight days. Maybe set up some pictures. Or have a real bed. Never discount the importance of simple pleasures...or necessities!<br />
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My host family is very small by even American standards; a young couple and one daughter. I am lucky to have running water (yes, we're definitely not in Niger anymore) and electricity. Essentially, I have landed in the lap of luxury, so I don't know that I'll be able to claim the classic "rough" Peace Corps experience. My host family even has a computer, allegedly. But don't worry - it's still 120 degrees!<br />
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<3 Phoebe <br />
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</div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-40294854787491439032011-02-23T07:06:00.000-08:002011-02-23T07:14:39.709-08:00Something Lighter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The West African Intermural Softball Tournament (WAIST) was a blast - Team Cape Niger (Cape Verde + Niger) was undefeated until Team Niger had to deflect and head home for language class on Monday. Bummer! It was great to meet tons of people, and here's hoping they remember how nice I am and not how awkward I was. It was just so overwhelming! I was also misinformed about my new region, so I spent a solid morning introducing myself as the "new volunteer" in X region, being raucously welcomed, and then retracting that information and having to introduce myself to a whole new crowd. People are still confused about where I'm posted, as am I, to be honest. In the end it will all work out!<br />
Just had an unexpected phone call from our agriculture trainer who will be working with us next week. It went something like this:<br />
<br />
Trainer: Hjiggdskhfh<br />
Me: Hello? What?<br />
Trainer: Feeejgjjgkdk?<br />
Me: What? Who is this?<br />
Trainer: Fooeebbe?<br />
Me: Phoebe! Yes! That's me!<br />
Trainer: (Several intense agriculture questions that I didn't know the answer to)<br />
Me: Uh...I don't know (several times)<br />
Trainer: Well I guess I know what to work on next week during your training. So, you're Italian?<br />
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This is just my week for awkward interactions, I think. I'll let you know if any more crop up before Saturday. I'm also becoming quite adept at hair cutting - income generating activity, anyone?<br />
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<3 Phoebe<br />
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</div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-14868233133857589002011-02-16T07:46:00.000-08:002011-02-23T06:54:30.679-08:00Casual Cruelties<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Senegal is, in many ways, similar to Niger. It's hot. It's sandy. The people are friendly and welcoming. But what I've been sensing over the past two weeks is an underlying harshness in Senegalese culture, what I believe is the direct result of the improper meshing of Western and traditional culture. Let me further explain.<br />
In Niger, life was very hard but simple. Up with the sun, down with the sun. Modern luxuries have been trickling in, such as cell phones and electricity, but most people don't seem to feel the loss of these in a place where family and friends are all within a half-mile radius, and forms of entertainment are few and far between anyways. In all certainty, life is difficult and often short. But it isn't complicated.<br />
<br />
In Senegal, the people are currently caught between a more intense cross-fire of Western influence and traditional heritage. In my host family, we have electricity and everybody has a fancy cell phone/mp3 player. My older host sister is a tailor and runs her own business, while my father farms and my mother makes frozen juice pops to sell to kids after school. All in all, they are doing very well for themselves. Sometimes it's hard to remember that they aren't American, especially my older sister who wears tight jeans and fancy shirts, similar to clothing I own back home.<br />
Unfortunately, this is causing a certain amount of strife between the more traditional parents and the trying-to-be modern children. Because my sister can sustain her habits through her lucrative tailor-business, she has no financial obligation to her parents. However, family is extremely important in Senegalese culture and she would be forever labeled if she abandoned her upbringing and religion. Which she is not inclined to do, in either case. A difficult situation.<br />
Senegal is still a developing country, so while mobile phones and electricity may be more commonplace, water is still a precious commodity and so is food. Yesterday my Western clothing-wearing, educated, self-employed sister backhanded her younger brother viciously for dropping a plate of rice. He lay in the corner of the room with a hand-sized welt ever growing on his face and was refused dinner that night. I understand corporal punishment is more common here, and I was prepared. It's still difficult to stomach and made me very uncomfortable. He's probably upwards of six years old.<br />
It's an inconsistency like this that bring out the underlying harshness to the culture, in which I find the people struggling to adapt to the new technologies; wanting the luxuries and the resultant status but retaining the same frugalness that is forever ingrained in those who know hunger. Sometimes it seems like a new piece of electronic hardware might be more valuable than a bag of rice, and so the food they <i>do</i> have is preciously hoarded. It becomes worth hitting a kid over dropping a plate, because there's just so little to spare.<br />
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(There is a a slightly related article on <span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2010/07/the-politically-incorrect-guide-to-ending-poverty/8134/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">international development</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span>that I found very, very interesting. I think everyone should read it!)<br />
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I'd like to touch upon the horribly ironic story of Koranic schools in Senegal. An infuriating practice, and one that many a Peace Corps Volunteer has encountered.<br />
In Senegal, as in many Muslim countries, it is considered an honor to have your child study the Koran from a young age until they have "mastered" it. Ultimately, this means sending your child away to a city to live with an existing Koranic master until a vague age in their teens when they return home, with theoretical honor.<br />
In practice, the scholars who run these "schools" don't have housing or food for their students. Instead, they set them to begging for money all day long, so the streets are clogged with kids singing Arabic loudly and jangling bowls in your face until you submit and offer a coin. The kids return to the "master's" house late at night, surrender the money and are often beaten if it is not enough. They are then set to beg for their own food because they are given none by their teacher. Often they sleep in the streets. This, in theory, is to teach them "humility." Pardon my over-usage of quotation marks in this story, but I find this all incredibly ludicrous. How can someone identify himself as a Koranic scholar and treat children so inhumanely? The irony is obvious and painful. It drives me crazy!<br />
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When these now-adolescents return home, they are untrained in any skill applicable to village or city life. They don't even have the minimal education that all Senegalese citizens are entitled. Volunteers have started projects to try and train these students in gardening, farming, literacy, really anything and everything that they haven't been taught in the first eighteen years of their lives. And of course, many volunteers have tackled this custom head on. But, as I've mentioned, there is always culture to consider. It's just not easy.<br />
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As for me, details of my day to day life are fairly mundane. Today is the Gamou, Prophet Mohammad's birthday, so happy birthday I guess! All it means to me is that I don't have language class. That probably seems culturally insensitive, but after the past few days I'm feeling rebellious.<br />
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I found out that I will be posted in a city in the middle of the country come March 5th. I'm very ready to get out there and get going with my work. Training for five months is a <i>little</i> excessive. This weekend I will travel to Dakar for the first time for an NGO/All Volunteer networking conference which should prove fruitful, as well as the West African Intermural Softball Tournament (WAIST) sponsored by American ex-pats in the capital. There will be four hundred volunteers in Dakar this weekend for both of these events, so I'm prepared to feel overwhelmed by social anxiety - but in the end, it will be nice to meet other Senegal volunteers and build some relationships for the remaining two years of my service!<br />
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Missin' everyone back home, and hope the snow isn't keeping you down. Literally!<br />
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<3 Phoebe<br />
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</div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-8992028681144696872011-01-31T11:48:00.000-08:002011-01-31T11:48:24.634-08:00Communication<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Here is my Senegal phone number, and calls are always welcome but can be expensive! (Google calling and international texting is pretty cheap I think...)<br />
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Senegal is 5 hours ahead of the East coast in the States. FYI. :)<br />
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(221) 77 487 1097<br />
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My address for now is<br />
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Corps de la Paix<br />
B.P 299<br />
Thies, Senegal<br />
West Africa.<br />
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Bismillah! </div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-7431638020221568722011-01-30T05:44:00.000-08:002011-01-30T05:44:20.259-08:00A Musing on Development<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I've been thinking a lot lately about international development and my role as a Peace Corps Volunteer. The issue of sustainability, lodged into our heads from the very beginning by the records and records of failed projects, continues to be a main concern. Senegal, a small country with over 200 volunteers, is well-known for innovative, successful work within the Peace Corps community. This is, in my opinion, due to the fact that the program focuses on cross-sectoral work, emphasizing collaboration between volunteers to the greatest extent. In Niger I was prepared to spend multiple days sitting and staring into space; that won't be the case here. <div><br />
</div><div>As we become more and more immersed in local African culture, I begin to question my intrusion into these peoples' lives. Sometimes I wonder what right I have to come here, to preach about a better lifestyle, and to try and incite change. I worry about the effect I might have, positively or negatively. Of course this is ultimately an arrogant thought, for likely I won't be changing anything. </div><div><br />
</div><div>It struck me, as I left Niger, that the local people in my village seemed indifferent to my arrival but devastated at my departure. This fact has been churning in my mind ever since. Did my presence mean something greater than I realized? By the time I left, I hadn't done anything to warrant my being missed. I'd only been there for eight days. Perhaps the impact of Peace Corps' withdrawal from Niger cannot help but be felt by its people, after so many years of service. That alone serves as proof that we <i>did</i> something. </div><div><br />
</div><div>The debate about foreign aid in Africa rages on in intellectual circles. Why does the continent continue to be underdeveloped? Is it the culture, the climate, the poor structure, the political instability? A combination, surely. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Cultural barriers are by far the widest and tallest. "I won't bring my son to the clinic because it is God's will that he be sick." At times I find myself wondering what right I have to question this statement, a dangerous position to take as an aid worker. It's easy to allow oneself to be sucked into the richness of African life and ignore the harder aspects, especially for me, one who doesn't suffer from hunger or thirst. The difficult part comes in seeing beyond the laughing, smiling teeth and looking into the hollowed eyes and sharp rib cages. I believe there <i>is </i>a better lifestyle awaiting those who will work for it (that's why I'm here, isn't it?) and I have to get over my hesitation of convincing those who will listen. But sometimes it's easier to eat my plain rice and laugh along with everybody else. </div><div><br />
</div><div><3 Phoebe </div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div></div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-4466346155464301122011-01-26T11:05:00.000-08:002011-01-30T05:06:11.139-08:00"Wo-Holiday"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">In Hausa, Wohala means "suffering", so Niger volunteers have aptly named the past two weeks a "Wo-holiday." It's amusing now to recall my anxiety about moving into site, when in fact, I had no idea what I was in for.<br />
The first week at my post was eventful, to say the least. I worked in the health clinic every day, learning the basics of pre-natal exams (taking measurements, doing consultations, filling out the forms in French). I walked around the village, greeting, re-greeting, and re-greeting people, as custom demands. In terms of work and village life, I was slowly beginning to see myself settling in.<br />
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My house was another story - what a nightmare. Some of you may recall my excitement at having electricity and ceiling fans, but in reality the house was not only big, filthy, rat/bat infested, but also occupied when I arrived, causing slight confusion. My installation was done without half of my belongings because the one car couldn't fit everything belonging to the six trainees being installed on the same day (don't get me started) and so I lived in literal dirt piles for eight days with no means to do laundry or clean my house. The highlight of the house was the rat vs. bat battles that took place each night, during which I started taking bets just to keep myself entertained.<br />
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After four consecutive sleepless nights, it was beginning to become an issue. But then we got evacuated, so problem solved!<br />
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If you haven't already heard the news, Peace Corps Niger is officially on suspension due to security threats in Niamey. Three weeks ago, French aid workers were kidnapped and killed in the capital by an undetermined contingent, but that was just the bean that tipped the balance. Rumors say our program had been hanging on a thread for quite some time. I returned from the clinic one morning after eight days in ville, saw that I had fourteen missed calls from the Niger Safety and Security officer, and got the bad news.<br />
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The evacuation was quick and successful, as far as Washington is concerned. For us, it was too fast, too painful and too chaotic. We were told on Wednesday that the program was finished and to be ready to be picked up the following day. We were flown out of the country early Friday morning and deposited in Rabat, Morocco, a window to the developed world we'd all but forgotten about.<br />
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In Rabat we attended a "transition conference", the existence of which is a sad testament to the frequency of such situations. We were offered various options including re-enrollment, direct transfer, or close of service. I was offered a slot to transfer to Senegal to work with Urban Development, and after much consideration, I took it. I was flown to Senegal last night and have arrived safely at the Peace Corps training site with seven other Niger "refugees" (if you will).<br />
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Direct transfer is a weird beast. We are able to continue service with only a few weeks of language training, and we can re-negotiate our close of service dates. I'm especially excited about the program I'm entering. However, we're not part of any particular training class, and we're put in regions without getting a chance to know any of the current volunteers. It is, as some say, a rather "hardcore" option to take and I think it will be worth the struggle. But it's definitely a day to day process!<br />
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The week and a half in Rabat was stressful and also delightful, hence the genesis of the term "Wo-Holiday." The fracturing of our class is heartbreaking and thoughts of the Nigerien staff and people we left behind are ever prevalent. <i>Inshallah</i>, Peace Corps will return to Niger, because it was a truly wonderful program.<br />
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I'll be continuing this blog with my new Senegalese adventure, so after my few weeks of training I'll let you know all about my new site! Keep Niger in your thoughts, and to all my fellow displaced volunteers, best wishes.<br />
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<3 Phoebe<br />
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</div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-89618029642596909342011-01-04T06:56:00.000-08:002011-01-04T07:06:36.057-08:00The REAL Beginning<div class="MsoNormal">Celebrating Christmas in Niger was a little weird, I’ll be honest. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
We began the week with the Supervisor’s Conference, a two day affair in which a significant Nigerien member of every new post came to our training site to debate cultural barriers and common expectations. To relive this experience, you should think of angry gesturing, much shouting, awkward interactions in Zarma and few accomplishments. I did meet a staff member of the clinic where I’ll be working, but instead of making a productive work schedule, she asked me questions about America. I don’t know about America! I’m in Niger! <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
After two days of the stress of hosting and interacting with our Nigerien counterparts, we said goodbye to them and hello to bureaucratic nightmare. Mounds of paperwork, rules, regulations, and logistics followed us well into Christmas Eve. And then, without the usual buildup or Hallmark advertisements, surrounded by hundreds of Muslims, Peace Corps Niger celebrated Christmas. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
There wasn’t a lot of energy (physical or mental) to spare for the holidays as our training came to a rapid close. We spent days preparing for our final language test, and after I’d explained why I wanted to do Peace Corps for the eight hundredth time (but first in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Zarma</i>) we moved on to our swear-in ceremony at the U.S Embassy. The Ambassador was on crutches and thus waved at us from the balcony of her expansive residence instead of attending the talks. The ceremony itself was quick and painless – we heard representatives from the US and Nigerien governments as well as the Peace Corps Country director, fumbled through our oath of service in English and then in French, and without any further fuss were declared official volunteers. I drank about seven sodas (they were free!) and felt rather ill later on, but it was worth it. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
As we enter the New Year, there are many changes coming up for me and for many of you. I think it’s appropriate to cite some resolutions that will later be discarded, as such things usually are. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">1.)<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>Kala suru. (have patience…)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">2.)<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>Kala suru (have patience…)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">3.)<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>Kala suru (have patience…)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s it! <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
I’m not sure who is reading this blog, but for those of you who know me well, you’ll be pleasantly surprised to see how patient I’ve become. I sometimes feel strangled by American concepts of punctuality and productivity, as such things in Niger simply operate differently and I've yet to shed what has been wired into me. Patience is required in abundance. The other personality trait that is a saving grace in Niger is a sense of humor, which I have thankfully been blessed with. Instead of feeling overwhelmed and frustrated by hordes of children yelling “Hello stranger! What is your name! What is your name!” we reply “My name is towel. My name is soap. My name is poopface.” We laugh as children repeat the names, then forget and ask again the next day. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Small successes also need to be rewarded, something I’ve fallen out of habit with. For example, I wanted a dress to be made for our swear-in ceremony. I negotiated for fabric in the market, brought it to the tailor, explained what I wanted and paid a bargain price. I felt pretty darn proud of myself until I picked up the dress and realized it had so much excess fabric around the waist it would be been better as maternity clothing. Not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i> women in Niger are pregnant! Oh well, you can’t win them all. I wore it anyways. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I am currently sitting in the Dosso region hostel, waiting until tomorrow when I’ll be officially installed into my village. Installation is a logistical nightmare for Peace Corps, for two reasons: first, we are required to perform all sorts of meaningless protocol i.e. meeting with the Governor, the Chief of Police, the Prefet, the Sultan, and not just of Dosso proper but of our individual smaller regions as well. I’ve had to sit through several meetings in French, nod prettily and smile as if I had any idea what was being said to me. I’d better get used to that, I suppose. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Secondly, fifteen people need to be installed in the time period between this Monday and Thursday, for Niger holds its first democratic elections on Friday and we are not allowed to leave our posts for safety issues. Third world elections are always a tricky business. Installations consist of loading two years’ worth of luggage, furniture, housewares and storage onto one small car, driving it up to 5 hours, unloading, and holding a small town meeting to announce our arrival. To accomplish this for fifteen people in the span of four days seems near impossible, but they’ve made it work so far. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Inshallah</i> I will be moving tomorrow and my next blog will describe my first (and hardest) month at post. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Happy New Year – and so it begins! <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Phoebe <o:p></o:p></div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-91361935698178647782010-12-17T08:35:00.000-08:002010-12-17T08:49:23.639-08:00Wiza*, I Have A Real House!* "To my surprise"<br />
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Training is coming to an intense and rapid close. The end of Language Immersion as well as the first week back with our host families has come and gone, including a colorful session on Nigerien superstitions. My personal favorite was "If a woman is struck by a pair of pants, she will not find a husband." Okaay... <br />
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Life in Niger is becoming easier day by day. The heat is no longer oppressive, for we are in the coveted "cold season." It's actually quite funny to see Nigeriens bundled up in winter jackets. Yesterday I glimpsed a little girl wearing a body-length puffy North Face coat with a furry hood. I would have registered the temperature at around 75 Farenheight. She reminded me strongly of the younger son in the classic movie "A Christmas Story" ... "I can't move my arms! I can't move my arms!" <br />
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I don't have a lot of time to write this and I apologize for the slapdash manner in which most of my recent posts have been published. In general I feel my ability to write and speak in English is deteriorating, so I hope by 2012 but you can still decipher my meaning! What I hope to mention quickly is that our Site Announcement ceremony was today, and I am very pleased with the post I've been given. The village is one I have visited before (only briefly), and is considered to be the nicest house for a Peace Corps Volunteer (in the bush) in Niger. So, you know, I'll take it! <br />
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Honestly, I've adjusted well to living in a mud hut and had envisioned myself doing such for two years, but now I have to completely restructure my visions of my service. The house I'm given has 2 bedrooms, a kitchen and a living room, with tile floors, ceiling fans, electricity, carpets and sofas. Wiza!* There are downsides to the post as well, so don't be too awed by my good fortune. The village has never had a volunteer and is unsure how to treat Americans, which can translate into unfriendliness. There is a large health center that I'll be affiliated with, also new to American presence, so I have my work cut out for me. I'll have to establish and represent the Peace Corps as best I can, as everyone knows the first impression counts immensely! <br />
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Another key upside to my post is that I am in the same region as many of my friends from training class. This means I can travel and visit with them easily, and see them once a month for Volunteer Meetings. It makes such a difference!<br />
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<strong>New Address:</strong> <br />
Phoebe Uricchio<br />
Corps de la Paix<br />
B.P 144<br />
Dosso, Niger<br />
West Africa<br />
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I have to dash, but a fellow stageur has put up a blog with all our trainee biographies if you wish to see the rest of my class. Check it out! <br />
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<a href="http://jacobmbarela.wordpress.com/">http://jacobmbarela.wordpress.com/</a><br />
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Best - <br />
PhoebePhoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8750993389805942731.post-14367230270447121782010-12-03T06:17:00.000-08:002010-12-03T06:17:20.371-08:00Giardia: My New Best FriendYou may be wondering how I am able to post a blog so soon after leaving for language immersion. The simple answer is: I got giardia! The title of this blog rings true as I am now sitting comfortably in the Niamey bureau - in air conditioning - instead of sweating through six hours of Zarma class a day. I'll be right back to it tomorrow...but we won't think about that just yet. <br />
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My language immersion site is very beautiful, set in the south of Niger on the Benin border. The village is surrounded by a yet-unknown source of water - really, I have no idea where it comes from - and thus has arable land and gardening potential. The only drawback I can see to being posted there is its daunting distance from the rest of the "civilization." After a harrowing four hour drive down the worst, most pot-holed road I've ever seen, we turned <em>off</em> the road (literally...off-roading) and plunged through the African bush for another hour (fording a river at one point, I might add) before reaching this little tucked away oasis. I would enjoy my life in this site but I would not enjoy trying to leave it...as I can attest to today as I was brought on the return trip to the Niamey infirmary. <br />
To help you understand what this week has been like, I should start from the beginning. We arrived, as I described, on Sunday only a little worse for the wear (and green around the edges). The recipe for language immersion is essentially one hundred billion kilos of Zarma class sprinkled with a bit of local interaction; visiting the tailor, shadowing a housewife, going to the market. To fulfill this last requirement we rode on an oxcart for an hour to another village on the coast of Benin, right along the Niger river. We forded another spot of waterlogged land to get there and I had a brilliant flashback to the PC game "Oregon Trail"...fording a river in my oxcart! Who thought I'd be living "The Oregon Trail" in West Africa? Life is truly weird sometimes. <br />
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Back to this market village; it is really breathtaking. After a month of viewing only sand and sparse vegetation, the sight of a sparkling blue river was quite startling, but very welcome. I was about to jump in one of their huge canoes and paddle off for the afternoon but apparently Peace Corps regulates that we need life jackets...as if! Another time. <br />
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After the market I began to experience my giardia symptoms, making language immersion a bit less fun. On Thursday I realized I effectively hadn't eaten in two days and something needed to be done, so after much finagling to find a cell signal (think back to the Verizon commercials...'can you hear me now?') I managed to get in touch with the Medical Officer. Not having any way to test my symptoms in village, he sent a car out to bring me in, just for tonight. <br />
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Let me describe for you the following scenario. I am lying on my mattress, surrounded by local village kids who have never seen a white woman and have consistently followed me for the past week, trying to drown out their chattering voices. I hear the sound of the Peace Corps car tearing up vegetation and sit up warily. I see the Dosso region driver step out of the car. <br />
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Now, the Dosso region driver is a large Nigerien man whom I have only ever seen wearing a crisp black suit with black undershirt, bold Nike sneakers and Matrix-reminiscient sunglasses. His driving style could be compared to that of, well, nothing I've ever experienced! He dominates the aforementioned bad roads as well as the African countryside with little concern for what might be in his way, casually swerving at several intervals to avoid a particularly bad pothole or sheep. On the way to our site I hit my head on the ceiling of the Land Cruiser five or six times while jouncing about in my seat. I'm sure you can appreciate the dread I was feeling this morning at the anticipation of another such ride...with a roiling stomach. <br />
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I'll spare you the details, but for most of the ride I was decidedly uncomfortable. The driver seeemed determined to get me to Niamey as quickly as possible (perhaps a shorter ride with more bumps is better than a drawn out one...?) and I arrived in record time. Considering the man made a full six hour trip to pick me up and is probably going to do the same to take me back tomorrow, I'm certainly in his debt. But I'll probably feel more grateful when my stomach stops telling me off! <br />
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That's all for now - despite giardia and our malfunctioning gas stove that singed off the bottom half of one of my skirts (a story for another time) language immersion has been surprisingly pleasant. I'll report back at the end of next week and hope to talk to many of you soon!<br />
<br />
<3 PhoebePhoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17559710683745540249noreply@blogger.com0