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!
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Friday, July 11, 2008
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.
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!
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.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
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!
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.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
On the "Road" Again
This video represents approximately 30 seconds of a 15 hour ride en route to my site. Nuf said.
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