What would life be for naught the trials and tribulations that enrich it?

I haven’t updated in a while… to say the least. Well, after much prompting, I have decided to continue with at least a few more entries to let you all know what’s going on.

First, I was eventually medically evacuated from Senegal because I needed to receive an MRI/lumbar puncture. I have much more respect now for small children that face lumbar punctures (otherwise known as LP’s or spinal taps) on a regular basis – the procedure itself isn’t so bad, but oh, the pain afterwards. This was all done at Oregon’s fine medical university OHSU.
Second, the symptoms I was exhibiting made it a bit tricky to pin down a diagnosis. Once you are med evac’d from your country of service as a PCV, you and your doctors are given 45 days to complete diagnosis and treatment. Bottom line, the time ran out and I was medically separated from the Peace Corps. I’m much better now, but still have to go in for a second MRI to make sure everything’s okay.

In the meantime, I was quite sad to have my tenure in Wilanene truncated.

I had a really great group of folks to work with both in the local
community and in the PC community.

I miss my friends terribly and hope
to visit them again soon.

Life is good. Before my medical hold status was even up, I was invited to work with the Tualatin River Watershed Council (TRWC) writing grants, preparing professional presentations and doing fieldwork and outreach to help restore and improve streams and riparian corridors in and around Portland, OR. I also decided to continue on my academic career path by applying to PhD programs around the country. I should know more about where I’m going in a few months, but I am very excited about all the places I applied because there are great folks to work with at each of them (Arizona State, Stanford, Princeton, Tufts, Indiana State).

1) For all of my friends that I may or may not have lost contact with over the last few years; email me if you are near Portland! As it turns out, the coffee and beer taste even better after a year in the bush.

2) I will write more in the future, but until then, if anyone in blogland has questions about how the medical evacuation/medical hold status works for PCVs – I’d be happy to talk with you about my experience.

3) I will leave you with a photo of a TRWC workday at Moonshadow Park right behind where I live now – isn’t Portland pretty? This is an unwanted pipe we all carried out together with the help of the trusty radio flyer for the last leg. Standing to my right is my brother - soon to be a father! That makes me Aunt Arianne, scary. (If you are reading this from Portland blogland and would like to get involved in some of our projects, please email me or check out the website www.trwc.org)

Check it out!

www.developmentingardening.org

Hi All – just checking in. These past few months have found me traveling back and forth to Dakar much more than I would care for and facing ongoing medical issues that have attempted to squelch my spirits on a near daily basis. Med stories in this country can be quite entertaining, so once we find definite answers and solutions I think I will be able to laugh openly at all of the situations I've found myself in and write a synopsis you might even slap your knee while reading. Until then, thank you for all of your support and encouragement.
All the best

Season of the till

Seasons in Senegal are marked closely by the activities associated with them.

We went from the 'oh $#it, the rains are coming, better finish building those mud huts that have been sitting around for months' season to the 'crop planting' season that starts with the consistent rains.

The first step for planting was to burn the remaining dry grasses and spread the ash in strips on the field. I asked if this was done to help improve the soil quality; not really, I was told – it’s more like sweeping my counterpart offered cheerfully.

The second step is to hook up a rudimentary till to your choice of cattle, horses, or donkeys and create nice rows of tilled earth in your field. Of course the choice depends more on what you have available. My village fam proudly owns two cows which appeared in the compound one day a few weeks back (they’re kept in a pasture in another village the rest of the year I am told). Horses work faster and have more power, but they require special feed. Cattle can eat just about anything (those ruminant ‘4 stomached’ machines are good for something) and can pull a till for many long hours before tiring. The tills also leave funny marks across the paths in between fields. The combination of torn up pathways and a burst of sudden extreme greenness has (embarrassingly enough) left me completely lost on paths that I travel regularly.

Fruit and children’s games also follow strictly with the seasons. There’s really no such thing as eating a fruit out of season in my village (although imported fruit can be purchased in larger cities). It seems like every few weeks some crazy berry or fruit that was a staple is now gone and I walk upon groups of women everywhere peeling a fluorescent green new fruit. Do you know what this is? – they tease me. This must be that one fruit you were trying to describe to me months ago (fruit of the demb tree)… and the cycle continues. The young boys can now be seen playing in pairs. One carries a large forked stick (a till), the other the rope attached to the stick. Together, they make fanciful designs in the sand outside my compound. “So are you a cow or a horse,” I question. My inquisitions are met with shy giggles and a quiet answer, “a horse.”

And thus, life in the village continues. Trees in the pepinieres (tree nurseries) are just getting big enough to start a little outplanting. Soon enough, I have visions of little trees that will grow up to make live fences lining more fields and gardens. Of course in my visions, there are no goats or insects feasting upon the trees, farmers are extremely motivated and have plenty of time to water and care for their trees, and my Wolof is amazingly fluent – almost to the point where those fun hour-long charade games are no longer necessary.

A fruit by any other name...

Originally from the West Indies and northern South America; called corasol in French-speaking Africa, prickly custard apple or soursop by the English, and a myriad of other original local names including talapo fotofoto (Niuean) and sasalapa (Samoan).

At one time, I might have professed the peach or the mango as my favorite fruit - that was of course before I discovered this beautiful succulent fruit while wandering the crowded markets of Dakar. I have heard reports of scattered trees in southern Senegal and will definitely be bringing back seeds to attempt a few trees in my village (I'll have to return a few years from now to enjoy the fruit). In the meantime, I am able to make myself sick by eating several fresh corasols nearly everyday I visit the big city - about $1.10/kilo. Additionally, there is even a corasol-flavored icecream offered at the newest and best icecream parlor in Senegal. So you may have your java-chip-whipped-cream-on-top Starbucks Frappuccinos and electric fans this summer, but the PCVs of Senegal have 15 cent/kilo juicy mangos and corasol fruit.

For more exciting information on the Annona muricata tree visit Pacific Island Ecosystems at Risk (PIER) or Purdue's Horticulture resource library.

Baaba Maal in Portland

When I first arrived in my village, I was never seen without my little notebook. Names of people, phrases that seemed incomprehensible, and tidbits of days in a village went into this book like pieces of a greater puzzle in hopes that I would someday see a finished picture. I've come to accept that I never will, but that's a story for another day.

The first page of said notebook contains the names of village family members and approximate ages. The first were my two brothers Margie and Bomb - well, Maame Aadji and Bobul I quickly found out. "No, 'Bomb' is the name of the animal that cracks you up every time it speaks (donkey)" For the record who knew that donkeys created chain reactions of hee-hawing like it was their last hour to live across the village - most notably at 5am EVERY MORNING.

The third brother I met was Baw-Bal. It took me a good month to figure out that that was actually his nickname and that it was in fact Baaba Maal. Wait, isn't that... Yes, the famous Senegalese singer. Most babies start out by calling for their life support: Mom or Dad. Apparently, my brother came out singing like Baaba Maal.

Whilst talking to some of my favorite people on the phone yesterday (aunt and uncle in Portland, OR), I was informed that my brother's namesake: Senegal's very own Baaba Maal will be performing at the Portland Zoo this Wednesday (June 28th for you Oregon folks). "Have you heard of him?" my aunt asked innocently - "Once or twice..." I look forward to hearing how the concert goes - And no, I'm not jealous at all thinking about my friends enjoying eachother's company and his music while sitting on a blanket on actual grass eating sugar-coated fried dough, soft serve icecream, a big piece of cheesy pizza, and drinking a cool fountain soda with chipped ice. Nope, not one bit. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date with a large bowl of millet and peanut sauce - and Baaba Maal.

Dinner with the Mbengues

Last night, I approached the dinner bowl like any other night. I had taken my moonlit bucket bath and was reading a much-loved Smithsonian magazine that my mom had sent me in my hut when my 12-year-old host brother Bobul knocked on my tin door. "Fatou?" he called. "Naam," I replied signifying that I recognized my name was being called. "Come eat dinner," he answered quickly and abruptly. "Okay, I’m coming." This is a routine that we are very used to; I grabbed my spoon and flashlight and headed out into the compound. Just beyond my hut, I recognized the dark figures of my host family members gathered around the one large bowl that contained dinner. One spot was open and had a little stool waiting for me to take my place.

I sit down with my knees jutting to my left; my host dad Keba lifts the lid to reveal plain millet couscous under the glow of my flashlight. Generally speaking, there are few surprises when it comes to the food – my host family is fairly poor which means that unless I specifically buy vegetables and other ingredients to make "fish and rice," we are eating some form of peanut sauce. For lunch it’s over rice, for dinner: millet couscous. Thus, the plain millet wasn’t surprising, but the lack of a peanut-sauce ladle was. Then the surprise is revealed. Keba had made the very rare purchase of a chunk of spinal column earlier that day in the big town of Kaffrine. Boiled bits of oddly shaped meat and juicy water that it was boiled in toppled over the edge of a second, smaller bowl. The connected vertebrae came last, landing with a declarative sploosh in the middle of it all. Keba turns to me with a shit-eating grin, "Oh, really, meat!" Choking back my sudden need to vomit, I make a valiant attempt to smile and ask, "what is this?" "Meat!" He repeats enthusiastically. "Yes, but what kind of meat?" "Meat of a lamb" "Okay!" I answer through clenched teeth knowing how proud he is.

I debated saying that my doctor in Dakar told me I could no longer eat meat, but the feast was immediately descended upon by all family members with several pieces tossed specially in my part of the bowl. I quickly grabbed two spoonfuls of millet before the juicy entrails could slide entirely over the bowl. My little brothers were alternately sucking bits off of individual vertebrae when I paused to make it seem like I was at the dinner bowl for longer. I looked across at my 10-year-old brother. He was squatting typical Senegalese style with his bottom just off the sand – a big smile on his face as he stuck his right hand back in the bowl for another bite. All four fingers went into his mouth when I realized that his shorts had finally ripped entirely through the crotch; it’s doubtful that the boy has worn underwear in his entire life – he certainly wasn’t wearing any at that dinner.

Stifling the both amused and troubled look on my face, I stood up and left the bowl saying thank you, I was full. Everyone: "What!? – no, come eat!" "I’m full, and my belly has issues right now," I persisted. After sitting down on the family mat, my host mom and dad reiterate what they tell me at nearly every meal, "Ah, Fatou, when you go back to America, you are going to be so small – your parents will ask where you are!" I joke back saying that my parents will think that I am the size of two people – which is more likely based on my high-carb, low veg diet.

Everyone laughs. They accept the feeble sick excuse from their fair-skinned sister. I must certainly be crazy for giving up meat, but in the end, it means more for them.