Obama Does Kolda

Yesterday we received the newest group of Peace Corps volunteers in our region.  I am officially no longer a Freshman.  It's a great thing.  I spent the morning shopping with two of our new crew helping them negotiate prices on trunks, cups, mats and tarps to fill their huts when they are installed in two days.  

As we were searching for rope we caught sight of a stand of notebooks - they are everywhere as school is just starting.  It's no Office Depot, but it gets the job done.  It took a second glance to notice that I was staring at Barack Obama on the covers either addressing a crowd, a close-up smile or the classic off-in-the-distance stare.  I didn't know what to say.

I had spent the previous week in the capital of Senegal, Dakar, where I was greeted with chants of Obama's name in passing, conversations about how and for whom I had voted, and even got to watch his amazing speech at Grant Park as it was happening (at 5am!).  But Dakar is a large city with satellite TV, newspapers and national radio.  Kolda is and has none of those things, but Obama's face and faith made it all the way here.

But my real moment of pride and zen occured just minutes later.  I have a guy at the Kolda Post Office, Ibu, who likes to speak to me in English.  It is terrible English, but he tries.  He always has a new word to tell me which he has looked up in the dictionary.  I had gone in to mail three letters and quickly finished my business without seeing him.  As I was walking out the door, I caught sight of him waving me over to the window.  Without any greeting (greetings are absolutely customary in Pulaar), he says to me nothing more than "Congratulations."  Naturally, I asked for some clarification to which he repeated his well wishes followed by his approval of President Obama, and demands to know if I voted for him (keep in mind this is all in English... good English... he has been practicing and waiting for me to come in).  Of course, I tell him that I voted for Obama, and feeling slightly silly, said "thank you" for his approval.  At this point all three men behind the counter were nodding in unison to add their excitement too. 

I kindly thanked them and left with the most incredible sense of patriotism and pride for my country.  I passed on purchasing the Obama notebook, but I will never forget how excited Ibu was to tell me in my own language that he was proud of my country too!

I Just Can't Help Myself

Yesterday was a big day. My boss, APCD Mamadou Diaw, made the trek out to my village to lead a meeting with my villagers to identify needs, wants and desires to formalize an action plan for the remainder of my service. Yeah! It went incredibly well, and, even more so, was an incredibly validating experience in that nothing discussed was new information to me so maybe I have done an okay job assessing my community. Maybe I do know the language well enough that major topics weren't lost in translation. And maybe, thankfully, I have earned the trust and respect of my village. So yeah, it was a good day.

However, in preparing for this meeting, I was saddled with the responsibility of planning, purchasing and transporting enough food to provide lunch for the participants. Not a new concept for me, but everything is different in Senegal. My moms and I planned for them to prepare rice with oil and boiled veggies of whatever variety I could find. So we planned on 30 people - the number I had given to my dad, the village chief, along with the task of extending invitations; a responsibility he interpreted as inviting everyone he saw from five villages. What can I say, he got a little excited. I made the bike ride to my road town of Dabo with one of my dad's brothers and purchased the appropriate amount of food. I also acquired an unwanted amount of attention and excitement that couldn't have moved faster through my sorority. I dropped more cash on this lunch than many of these people see in a year, and villages 30km away were talking about the grand fete I was throwing by the end of the day.

Now, the morning of the meeting arrived and slowly people just kept coming. I hit and surpassed my goal number of 30 participants, and I could see my moms' eyes getting bigger by the minute...

And this is where my Event Planning instinct kicked in. Clip board in hand, I sent my brother to the next town to get more rice, my other brother to another town to get more meat, and my little sister to the bitik (read: the guy's hut in the next compound) to buy enough tea and sugar to keep them occupied while the women scrambled to make more food. All I was missing was a head set or walkie-talkie. And once I hit my stride, there was no going back. My boss arrived, and I was offering water to the driver sub-consciously. I had the women cooking giving me updates on progress every 30 minutes. I was taking copious notes while trying to greet all the villagers. All this in a community whose language doesn't even have words for things like organization, efficiency or coordination.

In the end, we fed more than 80 people that day. I lost count at 84. My moms led a team of rice making machines and the villagers were beyond grateful. My boss was happy. I was content. And everyone was full. I make a conscious effort not to approach things the same way here as I do at home for the sake of everyone involved, but I would like to think that even this laid back population of Pulaars responded to my fury of productivity in crunch time. And if not, I surely maintained my role as the crazy toubab - who at least can throw a kickin' party.

Friendly Skies

I have a bat.  I have had a bat for some time now.  He arrives each night around 6:30pm and kindly leaves in the morning.  I wake up several times each night from the sound of its swoops in and out of my hut, but never see more than its shadow with my book light.  I sweep up its leftovers each morning and with only one incident to mention, we have an understanding... don't EVER dive bomb me again and I will refrain from broom-in-hand attacks/terrified, uncoordinated fits of arm swinging and ducking.  

I had designed a brilliantly complex and elaborate two-part framed screen which I was going to use in deterring it.  I priced out the materials and everything.  However, I began to think that perhaps there was an easier way to "encourage" my flying friend to get the hell out of Dodge.  Inspired by my host mothers' hut, I purchased thin, midnight blue fabric (so as to disguise its presence at night - I wanted the marigold yellow, but thought that might be slightly less than discreet) and sewed a generous hem at each end.  Through the top I strung rope and hung them from the roof beams of my hut over my doors and in the bottom I added metal weights to keep them from moving in the wind... and restraining ill-fated attempts from suicide bomber bats.  

It took me three hours to sew four hems by hand, but it was worth every stitch.  The first night in use my bat arrived on time but got caught up in the fabric.  The jerk made it through the gauntlet, but was so confused, flustered and probably pissy that it immediately found its way out and has not been back since.  So while I am currently here on a quest to break down the  walls of society, maybe it's okay to hang some curtains.

And for those keeping score, that would make the tally:

Senegal: 3829 Me: 4

My Career is Over...

That’s right, my blossoming career as a left knee model is finished before it even started. Goodbye, Gilette for Women. Au revoir, Skintimate Shave Gel. I spent the better part of August back at the Thies training center (hence the absence of blogs – I had a real lack of material) and have since returned to the Kolda region and my village of Thiewal Lao, but not before the tragic (though secretly incredibly anti-climactic) incident. In an attempt to transport an embarrassing amount of baggage on my bike to my village, I, perhaps, may have possibly loaded my hiking pack (which was on my back) and my bucket (which was on my bike rack) a teeny, tiny bit too heavy. And about 13k in to a 15k ride, which I attempted at 12:30pm under what felt like the hottest sun ever, while fasting for Ramadam, after not biking for a month, I made the fatal error. On the up-pedal at a particularly rocky section of the path, my bike pedal hit a small stump which caused my front tire to wobble, my hiking pack to shift left and my whole body to seemingly jump after it as I bit it big time landing left knee first, ego second, about five feet from my overturned bike and bucket. While my pride was hurt more than anything, I soon became aware of the layer of skin missing from my kneecap. This sort of injury, were it to occur back in Nebraska, would warrant little attention, but here, in the height of the rainy season, where mold is king and skin infections are its legion of warriors, the former site of skin became a swamp of yellow pus within 24 hours. I know, appetizing, right?

Armed with Hibiclens, Q-tips (thank goodness for care packages), Neosporin and enough band-aids to keep Johnson & Johnson in business until the end of my service, I waged an all-out war, and believe I have won. While I don’t think I am in danger of losing a limb any longer, I believe it’s time to throw out my dreams as Tina Turner’s left leg stunt double. Lesson learned… all forty seven of them!

Street Cred

My village, Thiewal Lao, like nearly all villages in Senegal and much of West Africa, is currently observing Ramadan. What this means is that every day for 30 days every healthy man, woman who is not pregnant and young adult over the age of about 14 wakes up at 5am to eat a meal of rice with either leaf sauce or kosam (milky yogurt) before the sun rises, and goes back to bed for an hour or so. From that point on, they abstain from eating or drinking until 7pm when the sun goes down and they break bread (or at least cut it into even pieces), drink coffee and eat their “lunch” meal, the leftovers of which will serve as breakfast the next morning. This is followed by an hour or two of rest before they eat their “dinner” meal around 11pm. And the next day it starts all over again.

In an attempt to earn some serious integration points, I have chosen to participate (mostly), but I just can’t do it like the Senegalese. I have chosen to drink water throughout the day, for no other reason than I would die if I didn’t. I thought that was a good enough reason. I am discreet about it going into my hut to chug in private, but I am awed by the women in my village who spend six to eight hours a day working in the rice fields without drinking a drop. Additionally, I can only seem to eat the first meal, “lunch” after breaking bread and before I go to bed, neglecting the 11pm feeding. I just can’t do it. They start eating at 7pm and it’s like their stomachs have been growing all day. I get a few bites in me and feel like an inflated Violet from Charlie & The Chocolate Factory. My family is a combination of concerned and stunned that I can’t shovel it down like they do, but I’m rolling with it. I have managed to lose eight pounds in seven days which is fine since I made it my secondary project while in Thies to eat everything in sight! Nonetheless, my villagers are not only impressed with my participation in their religious practices, but incredibly proud and touched. It is a great feeling and equally good conversation piece, and I can’t wait until it’s over:)

Git R Done

Seeing as how I have been in country for almost six months, I thought it might be time to get some work done! And at this particular moment I am feeling slightly overwhelmed at the amount of work I have seemingly heaped on my plate. But then again, what is new?!?!? This is what I have been up to:

It was very obvious from the beginning that the reason I was placed in my village was to jump start construction, and therefore completion, of a half-built health poste. Upon arrival in my village I spent three weeks talking to literally every person and asking them a range of questions from what kind of food they eat, to how many kids go to school, to the most obvious question... what are the greatest problems/needs in this area? With no exception, EVERY man and woman was able to articulate the the single greatest need was an accessible medical facility. It made sense.

My village of Thiewal Lao is located 15km north of the road town of Dabo. The "road" to Dabo is, as previously mentioned in my blogs, a crazy concoction of landscape that makes any kind of travel difficult, especially for those seeking medical attention. What's more, Thiewal Lao sits in the middle of the Department of Dabo, so more that 30 villages are travelling even further to reach Dabo's health poste which lies on the outskirts of the area. Any medical needs exceeding minor skin abrasions must be referred. Women are not able to get the prenatal care they need, serious injuries become life-threatening en route and traditional medicine methods are relied upon in the absence of modern medicine practices.

This need was so poignantly articulated becuase they have had time to think about it. The greatest tragedy of all in this is its history. Four years ago the local government received a large sum of money to build such a facility. And for two years construction crews started and stopped progress. After two years of no completion, the original contractor from Dakar ended up stealing the remaiing money, pulling his crews and leaving a half-built structure to remind the people of my village what they are missing.

But today is a new day. Each year each village chief ('jarga' in Pulaar) is given an opportunity to meet with the sous-prefet (like a mayor or governor) and submit letters of petition addressing needs, concerns and requests. Shortly after my arrival, my jarga had his meeting, submitted four letters of petition, and the sous-prefet actually READ them! AND the sous-prefet also picked up the phone, called the national police who went out and found the original contractor and gave him an ultimatum. He could return to Thiewal Lao and finish the original work at his own cost, or go directly to jail. He chose to send a crew. Now, this whole exchange may sound cool, but it is additionally absolutely unheard of in this culture where confrontation is avoided like the plague.

Now, the only snag in this is that the s ous-prefet didn't tell anyone what he had done, so when two guys showed up from Kolda to work on the health poste I was beyond confused. I had been in Kolda myself and returned home. About four hours later, my family casually dropped the news that these two guys had showed up with 1.5 tons of cement and were working. I still can't figure out why my family wasn't jumping and screaming this at me as I was riding back into the village, but nonetheless, I jumped up myself and sprinted over to my half-built health poste. And sure enough, I found two men, a mattress, and a literal TON of cement. I was so flustered by the time I got over there that I was mumbling in three languages and not actually saying anything. After a minute or two I politely excused myself and said that I would return shortly. I went back to my hut, got a notebook, composed my thoughts and slowly walked back to the health poste where I was much more successful in my line of interrogation. But I still did not know where they had come from at this point. In a desperate plea, my closest PCV neighbor agreed to join me in a meeting the next day with the sous-prefet just to make sure I didn't miss anything in translation.

In less than 20 minutes in his office I got the story, could finally be happy about the construction (especially because I don't have to find funding for that part of it now) and made it clear that we all MUST communicate with eachother... something that is not emphasized in daily business. And since then I have discovered that the NGO I have been working with, World Vision, has had money sitting in the bank waiting to be used for the health poste should the original construction be completed. Are you kidding me?!?!?!? Was ANYONE gonna tell me?!?!? What this means is that by the new year we could have a doctor, two matrones and two medical personnel operating a functional health facility that will benefit more than 10,000 people. It is incredibly overwhelming and even more exciting, and just getting started.

This facility will give me an opportunity to address myriad a health related issues, and, if done correctly, create an organized structure to my village that will influence changes in so many other areas as well. This is just the beginning, but its a good one!

On My Way to Work

I have previously held a 9-5 job. Each morning on my way to work I munched on a baggie of dry cereal while listening to the radio for the 13 or so minutes it took me to drive from my house. This routine is not unlike that of millions of other gainfully employed individuals. And despite the obvious changes to my routine having arrived in Senegal, it was not until today that I made the specific comparison between this routine and my current commute.

This morning I had a meeting at the Health Post in Dabo, my closest road town which is about 15km from my village. I usually bike this distance in just under an hour, but having received considerable rains yesterday and again last night, my road was impassable via bike (I amend that statement: I was not able to bike on the road… the Senegalese are MUCH better at riding through any puddle or mud pit you throw in their way. I am still working on this skill). I expected this, and woke up early enough to be able to walk the three hours to Dabo by 9am for my meeting with my professional counterpart at the Health Post.

Comparison #1 – I just added 167 minutes to my commute time to work.

En route to my 9-5 job, I was seldom distracted by more than ambitious joggers, a few cute kids trying to cross the street or the occasional awkward moment when you stared just a second too long at the person in the car next to you. Again, not an incredibly original scenario. However, this morning, just after the sun had come up, no more than 15 minutes outside my village, I entered a heavily wooded section of my path to Dabo. In the absence of a radio, I had become engrossed in singing my own version of song lyrics when I was overtly distracted by a group a six monkeys who seemed to fly out of a tree, bolt across my path and stop just short of completely vanishing back into the woods so that I could glimpse their shenanigans briefly before they really did disappear up another tree.

Comparison #2 – Animals who typically require some combination of netting, fiberglass or even massive reservoirs of water to separate them from me at the zoo, just cut me off! Back home they would have caused a 10 car pile-up.

As a child, I was called the bag lady. Not only did I always have at least one bag with me, but it was always FULL of whatever I deemed important (or would fit) at that particular moment. My mom was kind enough to entertain the compulsion through my childhood, which has now matured into a quest for the perfect bag for every situation. On any given work day, you could easily find my work-out bag (a huge LL Bean boat tote), my backpack (though not incredibly professional, it had all the right pockets for my laptop and accessories which went with me to work everyday) and some version of a “purse,” though I don’t like that label, which could vary from a hiking day pack to my favorite black leather shoulder sac. This was at a minimum. However, when trekking three hours through the busch, one needs to downsize. And while I have cut out most of the baggage, I have added my bucket. My fist week in Kolda I purchased a 15L purple bucket with a lid that now accompanies me every time I leave my village whether strapped to my bike or in hand. It’s waterproof. It can hold a lot. I can do bicep curls while walking… you know, all the important stuff.

Comparison #3 – Some things never change… even in Senegal I still find the need to always be prepared, if not with the right bag, at least the right container.

Cornhuskers 4 Ever

Now, just stay with me on this one…
There is no doubt that this experience is the hardest thing I have ever done. There are moments, if not hours, everyday that I spend trying to figure out what exactly I am still doing here. And then, at the very moment I need it, I seem to be given the smallest of signs (either that or I am so desperate for purpose that I will make something out of anything – which I am totally ok with) that calm my concern and lay to rest any doubt… at least for the time being.

As I have previously written, we are in the heart of the rainy season. As I write this paragraph, rain is pounding down outside, and I am praying that we don’t lose power as we usually do with mass amounts of rain. Literally, everyone who is not employed in education, medicine or transportation is spending some portion of their day working in their fields. Several weeks ago, as if overnight, everything turned the brightest shade of green I have ever seen, and just now I can start to see the first crops popping out of the ground while rows and rows of seeds are still going into the ground.

Behind my hut in my village there is a square area that I believed to be a holding pen for cattle initially, but has since been seeded. I hadn’t thought anything of it until I went for a walk yesterday morning by the rice fields, called “farro” in Pulaar. I took the scenic route back to my hut (then again, just about everything is scenic about my location:) and cut through the small area behind my hut. And not until I was half way through the row did I realize that I was walking through… CORN! Now we’re not talking about Nebraska sweet corn… hardly a distant cousin, really. Nonetheless, of all the things the Senegalese are planting; millet, peanuts, cotton, rice – all things that will bring far more money or sustenance later in the year, they chose to fill the small space behind the girl from Nebraska’s hut with corn!

If for only a moment while I stood there surrounded by corn stalks, I could rest easy in knowing that the Cornhuskers still have my back!

You Don't Know Beans

You could say that my village is a bit “scenic” in its locale. Thiewal Lao is buried 15km in the busch. I am slowly learning to enjoy the eclectic terrain that separates me from the main road including dirt, clay, rock, sand and a peculiar form of salt flats. At a steady pace, I have narrowed my bike time to about 50 minutes from my hut to the road barring any natural disasters. And approximately three weeks ago, I experienced my first natural disaster (a disaster only in terms of my transportation needs).

“Ndunngu” – Pulaar for the “rainy season,” has arrived. For three months, and three months only, we will get consistent rain fall which will not only flood the fields making it the single most profitable time of the year, but also flood the roads. Specifically, the rainy season has flooded MY road. My road of dirt, clay, rock, sand and salt, following each rain, is simplified to flowing water and mud. And my 50 minute bike ride has now periodically become a three hour walk/wade to the road.

Concurrently, each Saturday my road town, Dabo, hosts a “lumo” – Pulaar for “weekly market.” Each Saturday men and women walk, bike and bus themselves to Dabo to sell everything from vegetables to tools, and clothes to goats along the road in small huts. It is not only my one chance each week to buy vegetables, but also, as I have discovered, is my chance to eat a bean sandwich. Bean sandwiches have very quickly become my treat to myself. Not only are they NOT rice or millet or any other empty starch, but bean sandwiches have coveted protein and taste amazing too.

Last Saturday Thiewal Lao received copious amounts of rain. My plans to venture out to the road were squandered, and my prospects of a bean sandwich all but eradicated. Dramatic, I know, but the little things DO matter. Nonetheless, I took this all in stride and ended up having a great day in my village. However, I woke up Sunday and my head was just not in the right place. Period. I missed my family. I missed my friends. I missed ice cream. I missed not sweating. It was a slippery slope my mind was on, and I was sliding fast. For reasons I cannot explain, I decided that the single, solitary thing that could fix my mental state was… a bean sandwich. With the road to Dabo still flooded, I decided to WALK to Dabo (that would be 15km to the road and 15km back), much to the dismay of my villagers who were convinced the crazy white lady was actually crazy now. I put on my GoreTex shoes (thank you REI) and started my trek. Three hours later I surfaced in Dabo, bought my bean sandwich and a litre of water, and immediately started walking three hours back to Thiewal Lao as I savored every last bite of my beans. Dramatic, I know.

In the meantime, with six hours on my hands, I sang an incredibly random assortment of songs, soundtracks, theme songs and product jingles (Almond Joy is a tricky song to get out of your head once it is there). I had a few chats with the man upstairs, if you know what I mean. I walked in silence for part of it; actually a lot of it. And I got my head in the right place. By the time I returned to my village, not only was I ready to be there again, but my villagers were so excited that I didn’t die en route that you would have sworn I had been gone for weeks with the welcome reception I received.

So, 6 hours + 1 bean sandwich = happiness… at least in Senegal. I don’t think I will find that kind of math on the GRE, but it is one of many equations I am slowly learning to solve.

Senegal: The Best Diet You'll Never Go On

I have always felt inferior to those who, when working out, get those obnoxious, gynormous sweat rings, or have the ability sweat through a shirt in its entirety. Back in the States, I felt like no matter how hard I exercised whether it be running, aerobics, lifting weights, it didn’t matter, I could never walk out of the gym - not even Husker Power - with what I felt was enough evidence of my effort (I am going on the record as fully admitting my sick need to compete in every facet of life – I can’t help it).

Nonetheless, since my arrival in Senegal, I have found it impossible to not sweat… all the time. I have successfully worked up a full-on, drops-running-down-the-side-of-my-face sweat in doing nothing more than brushing my teeth. They say that the body’s internal temperature rises slightly after eating while the body is digesting, and in Senegal, you can actually feel the increase.

Approximately two weeks ago I started jogging very short distances early in the mornings before the sun is even thinking about being really hot. And approximately two weeks ago I discovered that I, too, have the ability to sweat through a shirt in its entirety. I have been in Senegal for more than three months now, and, to date, have knocked off 25 pounds. Now, don’t go getting alarmed. I am neither starving, malnourished, hating the food or in any way unhealthy. It has been a gradual, surprising and altogether unintentional process mostly the result of snack food being more than an hour bike ride away through the busch, and the ability to actually prepare food for myself more than 70k away. It makes 8pm ice cream runs 6 blocks away to the grocery store seem light years ago.

And all things being equal, I argue that anyone who sweats this much deserves to see some results. I currently have a friend who is kicking butt and taking names with Weight Watchers back home - totally proud of him and his efforts. But I submit that my 25 pounds have been the 25 easiest pounds to lose, and have no doubt that, upon my return home, will also be the easiest 25 pounds to gain. So while I am having fun with this whole clothes are too big, new me thing, I wouldn’t recommend buying a one-way ticket just yet. Enjoy some ice cream for me and embrace the air conditioning while you’ve got it. If you need me, I will be here… sweating and loving it!

SCORE!

Current Score:
Senegal: 374 Me: 1
To keep in the spirit of the national sport of Senegal, soccer, I confess that there are moments of every day in which I feel like my Peace Corps experience is a bit of a shut-out; like I am a lone opponent against the entire force of the Senegalese National Team. Don’t get me wrong, I am so glad to be here. I am learning lots and getting excited about the work I will soon begin. But everything is difficult and everything takes a considerable amount of effort. It is easy, on a bad day, to feel defeated.

But last week I launched a ball from midfield and sank it into the top right corner of the GOAL. Score one for me. For more than a month I have wanted a bookshelf for my hut – nothing fancy, just a place to put things, off the floor. The second week in my village I had asked the local “handy man” in my village to make one for me; a task I thought reasonable. Upon completion, I was not impressed, kindly did not accept the product and continued wanting a shelf. I was even willing (and against all faith from my villagers) even able to build it for myself. But just finding the necessary materials for such a project is an undertaking. So until this point I had admitted defeat.

Then last week, I woke up at about 1am (you should know I sleep outside my hut in my backyard) and just knew a storm was about to hit. You could just feel it. I literally shot up, grabbed my pillow, sheet and alarm clock in one fell swoop and ran into my hut. I barely cleared the door when the rains and winds blew through like a freight train. It was an amazing display of nature – and not being used to the nature here yet, it scared the living daylights out of me. Needless to say, I was unable to fall asleep for the next three hours.

So I read for awhile. And then I cleaned for awhile. And then I realized that I REALLY wanted that bookshelf. So with the cardboard box which I used to transport my books and binders to Thiewal Lao, some plastic rope and duct tape (there really are 1000 uses for duct tape), I fashioned a hanging bookshelf. It is not pretty. It may not last more than a few weeks. But it is a place to put things. And I made it, by candlelight, in a fit of anxiety at 2am during my first encounter with Senegal nature, and I think it is pretty freaking amazing!

And so it is the small things that make this long, hard, really incredible experience possible. It is the hanging bookshelves in life that make all the difference at 2am when nothing else can calm your nerves. And it is the people in your life who whole-heartedly appreciate the inner beauty of your totally horrendous creation that remind you that two years is only two years when you’ve got some place to put your things.

On the "Road" Again

This video represents approximately 30 seconds of a 15 hour ride en route to my site. Nuf said.

What identity?

So for those of you who may have forgotten or never known, my name is Mary Margaret. This is a name that for the last 24 years I have used exclusively on official documents. To the rest of the world I am Maggie. The Peace Corps, being an United States government program, requires a few pieces of paperwork and subsequently, I suddenly became Mary to the other people in my training group who didn't know me as anything else. I still forget to respond to Mary sometimes like the first day of class when they take roll and this girl doesn't say 'here'.
And as I started to get used to this new phenomenon that is my name, I was given a Senegalese name: Jenaba Balde. For several weeks this name was the only thing I could recognize coming out of my host family's mouth (that has since gotten much better)!
In just a few days I will go to my site and receive my permanent Senegalese name.
All this I can handle and even laugh at, but yesterday I was mistaken for a buillion cube. Yes, my American name of preference, Maggie, is coincidently similar to the seasoning of preference in Senegal, Maggi cubes. The Maggi brand of buillion cubes is easily the most recognizable brand in Senegal - not even Adidas has a leg up on this one. Their yellow and red logo is plastered everywhere and they use the seasoning in almost every meal they make. It is more than a staple of Senegalese cooking, it is a symbol of modern living for this culture.
So yesterday, a man visiting from a small village walked up to me during training while I had on a name tag and asked me - in Pulaar - if I liked Maggi. And in perfect Pulaar, having abandoned all semblance of self, I made my first real joke in another language: A linguistic break through and personal realization that in a third world country it doesn't matter what they call you and sharing a name with a sodium-heavy seasoning may just be the break I have been looking for.

Outta Left Field

Let me preface this moment with a fact: all emotions are exponentially magnified in Senegal. It is possible to be indifferent at times, but when your body gets an inkling of something specific, it is all or nothing. One does not shed A tear, one does not slightly giggle and one does not get somewhat annoyed... or maybe that's just me! This past week in language class we learned the future tense of verbs; a useful skill. And I was soooooo proud of myself for saying in Pulaar I have one niece (present tense) but I will have two nieces in about 20 days (future). I know, it's tricky. I thought this was a harmless sentence.
One more fact: my niece is the coolest person I know. That is not saying anything less about the rest of you, she is just actually that cool.
So later that night I stayed up late reading and at about 12:30, as I was flipping the page, I suddenly internalized the sentence I had previously constructed that day and absolutely lost it. It was the kind of choking, coughing, gasping gross sob that really makes you feel pathetic. I could only pray that my family did not hear me because I was not going to be able to spit it out in English what my problem was, let alone Pulaar.
And two minutes later, I was done. Like I said, uncontrollable emotion, or none at all. I realized in one single moment that not only am I missing out on two amazing years of Evie's life, but the new baby (recently dubbed "baby without a name") will not even know me. These were all things I had known, but it doesn't make it any easier.
The moral of this story should be that it is wonderful to know you have people who love you. But to be honest, I am just as sad for everyone who hasn't met Eve. Does that make me a bad person, or an overzealous aunt?... or both!
So to Evie's parents, all the grandparents, her many aunts and all the other fortunate people to get to see her before I do, give her a hug and when the new baby comes remind her that aunt Boggie will be 'right back!'

The Next Step

In just 10 days I will make my final move in country to a small village of 378 people called Thiewal Lao located in the south of Senegal near the regional capitol of Kolda. I will be living in the village chief's compound and am the first volunteer to live in the village... there's a first time for everything! We are incredibly fortunate to be in the south because the fruits and vegetables are everywhere, unlike in the north. Last week I actually ate four mangos and six cashew apples (PS - cashew apples are easily the coolest discovery I have made thus far in country) in one day right off the trees. Despite the obvious cause and effect concerns from such a sugar intake, it was easily one of the best days I have had and plan to replicate it as often as possible.
The adventure really starts when I am dropped off in my village to figure things out for myself. I feel great about the language skills I have, but am fully aware that I know absolutely nothing. And I don't think that my extensive vocabulary describing the furniture in my home is going to come in handy on a day-to-day basis, but I am learning much faster than I ever imagined possible... so here we go!

Through My Eyes

My "window" in my bedroom.













View of main porch from my room














My kitchen.













My bathroom - affetcionally called "the hole."

Just getting started...

I am secretly trying to compose this email in both English, French and Pulaar but I am not sure that I can even pull off the first one at this point. In the town of Thies they mainly speak Wolof which I know a VERY small amount of at the current moment. I speak English about 50% of the time, 30% I spend speaking French and the other 20% I am pretending to know Pulaar which I will use when I am at my site of service in south eastern Senegal starting in April. We are all so tense trying to figure out which language is going to come out of someones mouth at this point that we do not even recognize english half the time!
The family I am living with is so kind to put up with me as I stumble through every day... I am a little surprised that they have not sent me back yet. We are all just big bumbling idiots who literally do not know how to wipe our own butts yet... aah, the adventures of a squat toilet and bucket baths with the bugs!!!!
This is by far the single hardest and most amazing thing I have ever and may ever do and it is just getting started. Will add more later, but I am out of time for now.
A jaaraama