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.
Friday, July 11, 2008
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!
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!
Thursday, July 3, 2008
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.
“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.
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