'Til the Cows Come Home

Here in Pulaar land, households are made up of workers devoted to farming, herding and household/child raising duties. In my family, my brothers farm millet, corn, cotton, and beans, while the women farm rice and peanuts. I have brothers that take turns herding our cows and of course every woman takes on the responsibility of child raising, cleaning, cooking, etc.

Insight into herding: This little excerpt is about an event that takes place six times during the transition from rainy season to harvest time. I like to call it, "The Cow Party." Let me take you through the days events.

6 a.m. I wake up to the women pounding raw salt, leaves and bark with their mortar and pestles. People are excited because TODAY is COW PARTY DAY

7 a.m. One of my brothers knocks heavily on my corrugated tin door. "Aissatou! It's cow party day!" Although really its something like, "give the cows a medicinal drink day."

8 a.m. Whoever is herding that day goes to collect the cows and take them to the special spot in the woods where we will all meet.

9 a.m. The rest of my brothers, younger siblings and I start power walking to said special place to prepare for the cows arrival.

9:30 a.m. Those of us preparing for the cows arrive at the special spot and start digging a perfectly round 'bowl' for the cows. We take out rocks and try to make the bowl a perfect circle and as clean as possible (I mean it is a hole in the ground.)



10 a.m. We start filling buckets from a nearby seasonal pond and fill said cow bowl.





10:15 a.m. We break open a certain kind of branch to extract the insides that are good for the cows health.



10:30 a.m. We start washing these chunks of branches in the bowl. It produces a slimy substance that makes the water the right consistency. I am told that the slimy stuff prompts the cows to eat more. Anyways we scrub these pieces of branch for quite awhile to get all the good stuff out.


11 a.m. The consistency of the slimey water is checked over and over again.



11:15 a.m. The little girls and I get hot and decide to cool off in a little seasonal pond.


11: 30 a.m We all the pounded leaves to the mixture, next the pounded bark, then the pounded salt. Everyone tastes the mixture and determines if it is fit for the cows yet.

Noon. We heard the cows in the distance and my herding brothers and the cow drink preparation brothers start calling out to one another in random noises.

A little later, the cows come running in, excited, knowing wait is awaiting them. Here is a video of my brother Mamadian bringing in the cows. Pay attention to the calling noises of my brothers. I think they are pretty cool. (I didn't know I was still taping half way through. Whoops.)



My brother explain that they do this to keep the cows healthy. Each element has medicinal qualities. No one can quite explain it, as it is a tradition that has been passed down since the Pulaars started herding. It seems to me it's simply an oral rehydration drink for cows. Either way it is a fun past time and I thought it was interesting enough to share with ya'll. Hope you enjoy!

"Who run the world? GIRLS. Who run the world? GIRLS!"

One of my secondary projects in Senegal is Gender and Development (GAD) work. Peace Corps Senegal has put emphasis on exploring gender issues and working particularly with youth to improve understanding of gender and problems surrounding the concept of gender. These problems definitely affect both sexes but I have approached it from mostly the teen girl point of view with such problems being forced marriage, female genital cutting, early marriage, lack of schooling for girls, etc.

The reason I bring this up is because it is the beginning of the school year here in Senegal. The time of the year when parents decide if they will be sending their kids to school. In a country with an extremely high birth rate, and low employment, parents often can't afford to send all of there kids to school. This many times means that girls are not sent to school or are forced to drop out very early.

Something Peace Corps Senegal does to help combat the drop out rate is provide scholarships to promising young women. The program is called the Michelle Sylvester Scholarship and it is in memory of a Peace Corps Volunteer who was dedicated to girls' education. The scholarship provides funds for school entrance fees for nominated girls and additional school supplies for winners. Girls are chosen through a process of essays, interviews, teacher recommendations and grade reviewal. Other important factors are strong motivation and demonstrated ability by the girl and lack of financial and familial support.

This year I got the chance to administer the scholarship at my local middle school. It was a lot of jumping though loop hoops, tracking kids down throughout several villages, dealing with unmotivated teaching staff and other annoyances BUT in the end I couldn't be happier to have participated in the scholarship program. The nine nominated girls were inspirational in their courage and motivation even without financial means or familial support. Reading their essays and giving interviews I learned about each of their personal obstacles and aspirations. It reminded me how privileged I am to come from a society that values women's education and made me so grateful towards the American women who fought to make that the standard. It also taught me more about what it means to be a woman. To strive through the seemingly impossible with a smile on your face and determination in your heart. These young girls were simply amazing.

Here is a picture of the three scholarship winners at my middle school after we went school supply shopping. What a fun thing to do with such grateful rays of light! There names from left to right are Makhamba, Fatou and Iline Tama. Tomorrows leaders of Senegal. Inchallah,



Another way GAD work has impacted me is through my Girls Club. I started the group primarily to focus on life-skills, the importance of education and obstacles that Senegalese girls face. The girls and I have very close and now our meetings are mostly just hanging out and having fun. We dance, play games, swim and act oh so silly. Fortunately, depending on how you look at it, these issues tend to come up in conversation anyway. It has been rewarding to be a part of a group that started as acquaintances awkwardly talking about uncomfortable issues to a family where the issues are thrown on the table and worked through together.

This year two of the girls in our group are having problems continuing school because of birth certificate problems. I have checked out a private middle school in our regional capital and am hopeful that they will attend school there with some financial help from some pretty cool parentals back in the U.S.of A. Anyways keep all the girls, especially these two, in your thoughts and prayers.

Here is a picture of us making bracelets with the cool beading kits that my grandparents sent. Thanks Rava and Papa, the girls loved it and now we all have matching jewelry.



The Michelle Sylvester Scholarship is still underfunded for the current school year. If you would like to make a donation (and you would) please do so at: https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=685-181

Who run the world? GIRLS.

It's Raining Babies or Three Babies in Three Months or This is the Most Effective Birth Control

On October 5th my family and I celebrated the healthy delivery of a yet another baby girl into the world. That makes three baby girls in three months in my immediate family.

This time the mommy was my tokora (name-sake) Aissatou, the woman I am closest to in my family here in Senegal. With two healthy babies and mommies already in my family I started to worry statistically what that meant for Aissa in a village where it is very common to have childbirth complications. We also started getting anxious that Aissa might be carrying twins, increasing the risks dramatically.

Needless to say I was instantly full of emotion when my mom Penda knocked on my door at 7 am on the 5th, shouting "Tokora maa jibbini!" "Your name-sake has given birth!" I booked out of the room frantically, needing to know NOW if Aissa and baby were both healthy. I ran into her hut and found her laying on the floor, next to her, baby was laying on a sheet, still connected to the placenta maybe a few minutes old. I surveyed everyone, tearing up and laughing, seeing that both mom and baby seemed to be doing well.

Although I hoped to be there for the birth it was such an honor to help them afterwards. My moms tied the cord and cut it and I helped Aissa get the baby to breast-feed. It was such a raw few moments when everyone was simply human and we were just souls working together in love.

Here is a picture of baby Adama Hawa Becky, at a week old on the day of her baptism and naming ceremony. Her Koranic name is Adama Hawa after her aunt and you might have guessed the Becky is after my very own american mother.



Binta, my sister Hawa's baby, is now two months old. Here is a picture of her and Ruby bonding.



And then there is my dad and second mom's child Aminata who was named after me. Aminata/Amanda...you know. She is about two and a half months now and quite the chunkaroo.



Life has been all about these little girls and their mommies for the past few months. I've taken on the household responsibilities of a Senegalese woman; pounding corn for meals, bathing kids, cooking, sweeping, washing dishes...you name it. It's been nice to take some of the weight of Penda, Hawa and Aissa's shoulders and pamper them as much as you can pamper someone in Senegal.

You join Peace Corps thinking, idealistically, you are going to change the world and that your service is going to center around projects attempting to do so. Then, you realize, that while you hope you are making a difference, just important are the human connections and love that grow out of nothing. I am happier than I've been at most points in my service, just being a part of a family, taking care of babies and watching them grow. How rewarding to know that I am truly part of the family. These women are my sisters, these babies are my nieces. Thanks be to God!

Ma and Pa do Senegal: Heart warmth. Hardship. Hilarity.

My parents’ plane landed at the crack of dawn on my 25th birthday. I, being the responsible adult that I am, somehow slept through my alarm after my ‘anniversaire’ celebrations and was an hour late to pick them up. They, still with bright smiles on their faces, welcomed me with birthday hats and kuzos…on themselves and all of their newfound Senegalese friends. I hadn’t seen them in 9 months. How could a birthday get any better?

The two weeks they were here my parents experiences the full scope of my life in Senegal. Dear Senegal both wrapped its loving arms around them, while jabbing its knee into their stomachs. Here’s the jist of what went on.

My parents and fellow peace corps volunteers finally got to fall in love. It was nice for my American family here to meet the real live Amerian people who raised me and vice versa. My parents and I had a lovely seafood dinner in Dakar with some of my besties. They wasted no time getting to know one another and within minutes all of my embarrassing moments, as witnessed by either party, were thrown onto the table. It’s like my friends and parents were made for one another.

Team Tamba and mom and dad also got a lovely night of togetherness. It was neat to show my parents the house that I skype them from and that we Tambanites conduct our costume parties in. (PS: Tambacounda is my regional capital…we like to call it Sweet Home Tambacounda). It’s hard to explain to someone the bond that we PCV’s share, at first, simply because we share a region so I’m glad my parents got to see it firsthand and meet my dear Tamba folks!

Village. Oh Village. You are a lover and a beast all in one. My parents were both lucky enough to experience being REALLY sick without electricity or running water, in the hot, loud African bush. But seriously each of them were confined to bed…and the douche… for several days. This was real…shitty (haha)…no but seriously a real bummer considering what we had all had in mind.

On the upside, and it’s a big one, after everyone was healthy it was absolutely amazing to share my families with one another. For my Senegalese family, who has always known me as an independent adult, to see that, I too, have a mother and father who raised me. And for my parents to see that my Senegalese family is just that, my family. To see how deeply I love them and how deeply they love me.

You could just see the bonds of love form between my parents and my Senegalese family, ever so easily. My five year old niece teaching my dad clapping games, my mom playing bubbles with the kids and giving them light up wands to chase the bubbles with, my dad’s wrestling (hilarious considering my Senegalese dad is a midgety old man that probably weighs 85 lbs), mom showing my sisters my childhood photos , dad teaching Souleyman Jenga…all precious.

Mom fell in love with my very pregnant tokora (namesake), Aissatou. She took such good care of her, seeing how hard it is to be pregnant here, and made it her mission to see that Issa was comfortable and laughing at all times. Issa LOVED being doted on! She said that my mom was her mom too now. It’s hard to think of many women whom I love as ferociously as these two amazing women, so seeing their love beyond language to one another was enough to make me teary eyed at times. Mom and my younger sister Fatu also bonded quickly. Fatu has had a rough childhood and it was no surprise that my mom would swoop in and be the first to love the underdog with all her heart. Many nights my mom, sisters and I stayed up late talking and giggling...just like in America.

For my dad my brothers Mamadian and Souleyman were what made village so special. I often found them hanging out, regardless of whether or not I was there to translate. They somehow found a way to communicate just fine most of the time. Mamadian took my dad on a hike to a lookout spot in the woods and Mamadian came back with a random new English vocabulary. Big log. Small stick. Souleyman and dad were Jenga rivals and soccer fanatics. Souleyman made it his mission to beat dad in Jenga, where dad made it his mission to cheer Souleyman and Diakari Yow on at their soccer games (even though he couldn’t tell who was who after dropping his glasses in my douche).

It is funny how my parents gravitated towards the family members I am closest too. I don’t know if it’s because of my obvious love for them or because they are just that good. Probably both. Anyways, what an overwhelmingly meaningful few days. I really can’t compare how significant it many other mile stones in life.

Not only did my family love mom and dad, but (obviously), my whole village did. We had quite the dance and drum circle to welcome my parents (after they were finally feeling somewhat better). All the women danced their hearts out, including my rhythmically talented and sweet as can be girls group and my very pregnant sister and neighbor, both hard to take your eyes off of.

Out in vil my mom got to spend time with my work partner Ablay and his family, and again some of the girls from my girls group, all of whom have played a big role in my life over the past year and a half. An ancient old lady, Salemata, also tried to breast feed from my mother because, “Your mother has come! Our mother has come! Let us breast feed until we are full!” Yep.

Before leaving village my parents and I went to Wassadou to spend the day with my adopted Catholic family there. This is a family I hands down cannot imagine my service without. There are three girls about my age, Veronique, Terise and Marie Madeline, who are unmarried and without kids. Pretty much unheard of in Senegal. Thank you Catholics. This means that they are essentially the only women who I can relate to well and relate we do. We have a blast whenever put in one another’s company. They are my escape from village. My sleepover haven. Their dad, Illi, is the leader of the church and someone who I trust and have no problem going to for advice. That and the nature of our constant joking makes our relationship similar to that of me my Papa in America. Love this family.

My parents and Illi sat in our little cement and corrugated tin church and thanked one another back and forth. My parents know how important having this home away from village has been for me and thanked Illi over and over for welcoming me into the family and taking care of me. Illi told my parents how special I was to their family and church and thanked them over and over for raising me well and accepting my time in Senegal. Maybe I was just emotional during my whole parents visit but this was yet another time I wanted to cry out of pure joy and love.

My parents gave the church a black Madonna that made Illi the happiest man in the world. He insisted that I take a picture of my parents and him posing in front of the church, my parents with Mary in their hands giving her to Illi. Cheesy and freaking adorable.

That day my parents got to spend time with the catholic sisters I love so much. They are what the Senegalese call si-si’s. This has no English equivalent but is a combination of silly, playful, a little naughty, outgoing, etc. We joked around, all laughter. The theme of the day was, “jay fundae,” big butt. My parents were pretty good at that joke by now, pointing to me and saying JAY FUNDAE. It was refreshing to share yet another facet of my life here in Senegal with mom and dad.

As village time came to a close it was a very sad goodbye. My mom, my tokora, and I stayed up past midnight, all exhausted by clinging to the short time left we had with one another. As my parents and I headed towards the car, every single family member came and gathered around for one last goodbye. I don’t think there was one person who was not teary-eyed. It put real fear of my final goodbye into view. That is going to be one of the hardest things I will ever do. Anyways, in those moments of goodbye, it was obvious love had taken root and relationships had begun. My family. American and Senegalese. “Fof ko gotun (all are one).”

The trip doesn't end there...more to come...with pictures...God willing!

It's a Girl!!!

At the wise old age of 24 I have a brand new baby sister! Amanda (Yep she is my name sake!!!) was born on Friday July 29th and she is healthy and beautiful in every way.

I could not be more relieved at her healthy birth. My mom was sick for awhile and I was terrified that there would be birth complications, knowing that her health and the health of the baby were at risk. I also have seen so much sickness and death lately that I am really not sure I could take more.

When my family finally took momma to the health-post the doctor told her she was in the early stages of labor. Then, my brother brought her back to village. It is seven kilometers by donkey cart to the health post so it makes absolutely no sense to bring her back to her dirty hut to give birth. I really didn’t want to be there for the birth, because like I said, I wasn’t ready for more heartache and also am not a midwife, but I also didn’t want her to give birth in the middle of the night all alone, like my sisters have told me happens a lot so I told her to send for me if she needed me. Needless to say I didn’t sleep at all but by morning she still hadn’t popped.

The next day I went to meet some friends at the river, urging my family to take my mom back to the health post. By the time my friends and I came back, only hours later, there was a brand new baby to greet us. She had beautiful, thick, curly hair (before they shaved it off at her baptism) and is light skinned enough that everyone says she looks like me. I am so happy that Penda gave birth during the day with plenty of women around her giving her health and support and that everyone was healthy.

I asked my sister what they do with the placenta, as I was warily looking around the hut and it seems we arrived just in time for the afterbirth ceremony. My other mom and two of her ancient lady friends dug a perfect cylindrical hole in the backyard. My friend, Shannon, and I watched as my mom brought out a gourd bowl with the afterbirth inside it. The old women lined the hole with leaves and then, WEAK STOMACHED PEOPLE STOP READING HERE, my mom picked up the placenta by the umbilical cord and placed it in the hole ever so gently. Then they threw a couple grains of rice and corn in, poured blood from the bowl over it all and then tipped the bowl upside down breaking it into the hole. We all covered the hole with dirt and then put a giant rock on top. There you have it. Placenta taken care of.

In Senegal, they wait a week to name a baby at their baptism. New baby girl was named Amanda, although her Senegalese birth certificate will read Aminata. Everyone here calls her Amanda and it’s the first time most people realize that I have a name other than Issatou. When someone is named after you, you never address them by the name but call the “tokora (namesake).” It seems silly but it creates an unexplainable special bond like the one I have with my brother’s wife Issa.

Amanda’s baptism was pretty uneventful because Ramadan has begun. That means no cooking food, dancing or singing at the baptism. Lame. Back to fasting daily from 5 a.m. to 7:30 p.m. I am not partaking this year as I don’t really feel the need to prove my solidarity anymore. I will be drinking as much water as I want, a cocktail every now and then, eating protein bars and cuddling my new tokora. Happy Ramadan!

Pictures to come after my camera cord starts working!

Time for Africa Part 2

(This is the second part of my guest blog! Scroll down to the entry below for the first part of the journey).

So after visiting the Campement, we biked back home and went to bed. Since Amanda's bloc of villages is Muslim, we had been hearing the first of the five calls to prayer each morning around 5 am. About 15 minutes after the mosque announced the first call to prayer, the wind picked up, it started thundering, and all of a sudden there was a huge downpour! Whoever was at the mosque put on another round of "Allah Akhbar!" (Praise Allah!) to thank Allah for the first rain of the season. How beautiful, thanking God as a whole community for something like that. Couldn't help thinking of the Toto song... "I bless the rains down in AAAAAfrica!" Amanda and I moved our mattress back inside her hut and slept blissfully in the chilly 78 degree weather.

The next morning we said our goodbyes to her host family, and Mamadian surprised me with a verse he had clearly been rehearsing since Amanda taught it to him the night before: "You are my wife!" Good joke, y'all. Mamadian was probably my favorite member of Amanda's host family, yes, even more than baby Mamadou. So we headed back to Tambacounda. We ran into one of the girls from the Catholic family, Mary Madelin, and hung out with her for the afternoon. We ate beef and rice stew and mangoes mixed in delicious Senegalese full-fat, full-sugar vanilla yogurt. Ardo yogurt, I bless you. Turns out Mary Madelin knows more than ten languages! Her friend Asmau knew six. I was astounded at this Pope-like feat. In the US, we're an anomaly if we know more than one!

We went to the tailor to have some dresses and purses made, and spent the evening with other Peace Corps volunteers. We fed our "bad selves" with many rounds of "Hot Seat." Apart from the questions of a sexual nature (have pity on a poor affection-starved PCV!), there were some really bizarre questions brought up. For example, "Would you shoot a live baby out of a cannon at Hitler if you knew it would end World War II?" It led to a lot of metaphysical conversations, which are pretty scarce in village.

I loved spending time with the other PCVs. They're just such a passionate, unique, and driven group of people who have gotten a dose of tough reality, but still maintain their optimism and belief that something can and should be done about injustice. It refreshes me to be with people like that and strengthens my own resolve to work for a more just world.

The next morning we headed out of Tamba and waited a few hours for our station wagon to fill up. We didn't leave before entering a Mauritanian man's shop and buying Senegalese Nutella, called "Choco Pain," which would be roughly translated as "Bread Chocolate" in French. I prefer 100% the English version, since it is usually what happens to me after eating the amount of chocolate that I like to eat: pain. Choco Pain. At this little convenience store, Amanda asked the man whether he would extend her the hospitality of letting us use his toilet before we started our voyage. He replied that he didn't have a bathroom in his store. Amanda insisted that he let us use his toilet, and he kept bantering back that he didn't have one. Finally, Amanda threatened to pee on the floor of his shop if he didn't allow us to use his bathroom. (Mind you, this is in a country where women would never mention the word "pee," you'd say "I need to make a stop" or something of the like). Our Mauritanian friend just smiled and laughed. I think the presence of another toubab emboldened Amanda and made her say things she normally wouldn't have said traveling alone. We ended up peeing in an alley.

On the trip to Mbour, we had a beautiful conversation about faith and about living abroad, and how that changes your perspective on so many things. When we arrived to Mbour, a little beach town, we took a walk on the beach at dusk, showered up, and ate a delicious dinner of sauteed shrimp and calamari. The next morning we ate a breakfast of coffee au lait, OJ, French bread, butter, and apricot jam. So satisfying. I'v'e never appreciated butter more in my life. I was almost starting to see it as a source of protein... When you eat corn and millet mush three times a day, food starts becoming a really big deal. More accurately, an obsession. The PCVs in Tambacounda get together and go on a website called FoodPorn.com to drool over pictures of gorgonzola and spinach stuffed chicken wrapped in bacon.

We spent a beautiful day on the beach, but I forgot that my malaria meds made me very sun sensitive and sustained a spectacular burn. Every time we were accosted by a beach vendor or a Senegalese man asking "You are from France? America?," we would pretend that we were either a) mute, or b) from Russia. As Amanda put it, "This is my vacation. I am nice to everyone in Senegal in every other moment, but right now I don't want to have a 30 minute conversation with every Senegalese man who approaches me." Well put. We packed up and headed to Dakar, and spent the evening at the PC house eating one last meal of Senegalese sandwiches and talking about post-PC plans.

Amanda, at various points during the trip, would pull a blank face and say "Toubab. Toubab." imitating the men, women, and children who would announce our presence everywhere: "Whitey!" When Amanda would get sick of being called "Toubab" and say "My name is Amanda, please call me that instead," very few people understood the root of her frustration. They would say, "It's just like if you saw someone black in America and said, 'Black person!' It wouldn't make them mad!" Eahh, try to explain that cultural nuance of America!

I have been blessed to be able to live in the Dominican Republic for a few stints, which is part of the Spanish-speaking Caribbean, and where most people are of mixed Spanish and African descent. During the time of slavery, most of the people brought to the Americas were from the Western coast of Africa, and it was so, so interesting to see where so much of Dominican culture had originated from. That Senegalese directness and "calling it like it is" is very much alive in Dominican culture as well! People are regularly referred to as fat, ugly, pale, or black as coal, without it being considered offensive. You're just calling a rose a rose, people! Senegalese music also reminded me so much of the influences that Africa has had in Latin American music! It swelled my heart to hear the same accordions, repeating lines, and drum rhythms in Senegalese music that I love so much in merengue and salsa. Food was another clear African influence - Dominican food incorporates meat into rice dishes a lot, like thiebou djien or mafe. Even the structures that people lived in were similar - gazebos and the roofs of Dominican homes in the countryside are often made with thatched palm, and the same style of woven fences are used a lot, especially where there are a bunch of Haitian immigrants living. Comparing similar things from the two cultures also made me realize which parts of Dominican culture are definitely influenced by Spain! Physical affection was the biggest one I noticed. Dominicans are so touch-friendly and outwardly affectionate, whereas a handshake was the norm in Senegal instead of a kiss on the cheek or a big hug.

I haven't written about any of the difficult things that were going on in Amanda's village, but I was so impressed by her resilience and grace in dealing with these issues. While I was living in the DR, I had a really hard time handling certain cultural differences, especially women's inequality with men, and just suffered and felt isolated and powerless. Amanda, on the other hand, has learned to deal with these issues in a way that can be understood and accepted by any Senegalese person. She knows how to "work the system," if you will, and do so gracefully. I was so impressed by this beautiful, mature, and competent woman who has been so resilient in seeing tough realities but not losing her drive to keep working towards a better future for others.

Amanda, thanks for opening up Senegal to me and being my interpreter, dear friend, and dehydration specialist for all those moments of boiling rage. I can't wait until you're back here! Know that I'm sending good vibes your way and asking God to protect you and comfort your heart in the hard moments. I love you, "everything friend"! Can't wait to take off on our next step of the adventure.

Alyssa

P.S. As a public service announcement for the good of Amanda, please send packages if you are able! You would not believe the joy that a bottle of Italian dressing or a package of M&Ms brings to a Peace Corps volunteer. When I was unloading all the goodies that Becky had sent along, you would have though that Santa Claus himself had paid Amanda a visit. She was overjoyed! So take a look at the list on the side of this page and send that girl some lovin'!

"It's time for Africa!"

Hi all! As Amanda mentioned in her last blog posting, I was so blessed to be able to visit her in June! Let me tell you a little about our adventures in Senegal.

My first impressions of Amanda in Senegal were of a confident, graceful woman who has learned well how to fit in with the local culture. She negotiated a cab ride from the airport to the Peace Corps house in Dakar with drivers who spoke Wolof (not Puular, the language she speaks in village). She made jokes with the cab drivers and laughed when they quoted her an astronomical fare made just for Americans, and said "I live here! So how much is it going to be?" instead of getting angry, Ugly-American-style. I just stood to the side with my huge backpack and thought, "If I keep my mouth shut, maybe everyone will think I am an albino Senegalese woman!"

We ate delicious seafood that night, after walking around Dakar and taking in the crazy mix of cultures. Talk about creole. There were women wearing their traditional "comples," the beautiful dresses with headwraps and men wearing long tunics and prayer caps, right alongside women wearing skinny leg jeans and guys wearing baggy jeans with hugely oversized shirts promoting Money, Respect, Power, Bob Marley, etc. Bob Marley seemed to be hugely popular there, even in the remoter villages.

Next morning we ate these delicious breakfast sandwiches with pigeon peas, hard boiled eggs, homemade mayonnaise, and french fries served on the remnants of colonialism, the French baguette. Heavenly! While we were waiting for our station wagon to fill up with people, we were presented with an onslaught of people hawking a very wide assortment of wares. We tried to guess what the next person would bring to offer us. There were baby Senegalese clothes to choose from, squirt guns, washcloths, sticks used for toothbrushing, apples, sunglasses, posters of Michael Jackson. Walmart on foot, in other words.

On our way to Tambacounda, we ate thiebou djien - deliciously seasoned rice and fish - and it got progressively hotter as we went inland. I had never been hotter up to that point in my life. The scalding breeze that was going through the car just made your internal temperature increase! Also noteworthy during this trip was my first encounter with a Senegalese bathroom - aka a porcelain hole in the ground. Peed all over my feet, but luckily the bathroom's owners gave us a kettle of water to wash up with.

The next day we went to the Tamba market, where there were all kinds of beautiful crazily patterned fabrics. Most of it was open-air, but there was a section of it that was underground, lit with blacklights and was apparently the "black market" area where risque items were being sold: crocheted lingerie, incense, sequined fabrics, buckets of woods used for medicinal purposes,etc. As Amanda put it, "It feels like a bad club that you know you're getting roofied at, even though your drink is in your hands at all times." Well put.

In a country where malnutrition is common, if you're heavy, you stick out a lot. Amanda introduced me to the concept of "ceeb mamas" (rice mamas), which are the regal and enormous women who often sell food (and eat half of it themselves, as the story goes). The ceeb mama that we ran into at the market was hilarious, because she never stood up to do anything herself, she just sent others to do her bidding. Amanda had to take a few bolts of fabric off the wall and go make change at another stall while the lady just sat there looking queen-like and beautiful.

We bought a chicken at the market to make dinner with, and Amanda once again showed me how Senegalese she has become in carrying the beast through the market for an hour by its feet. It kept squawking and carrying on. We got on a pretty crowded bus and arrived to her village, where we greeted her host family, who was very excited to meet us. We ate pounded millet (with lots of crunchy desert sand in it!) with leaf sauce, which was actually pretty good. One of Amanda's favorite village foods now. After dinner, Ruby and her friends invited us to dance, and dance we did. We sang Shakira's "Africa," the first of about 30 times that we would hear the song in a week. It surprisingly never got old, and gave me goosebumps to think, "This really IS Africa! Man, I am so blessed to be able to be here!"

The next day was the end-of-the-year party for the school, which involved a bike race, a soccer match, tons of drumming and dancing, and a feast of beef and rice. Meat is a once-in-a-blue-moon thing in Amanda's bloc of villages. We went back and hung out with Amanda's older host brothers and sisters for a while, and I had the really strange experience of not knowing ANY words to communicate with. There are no cognates between English and Puular, nor Spanish and Puular, so I mimed animals and their sounds while Mamadian, the brother (who also would later be presented to me as my betrothed!), told me how to say dog, chicken, donkey, man, woman, corn, etc in Puular. Now armed with my Puular arsenal of important words, I tried to converse with Issatou and Hawa about menfolk. Apparently, the concept of "boyfriend" doesn't exist in Puular. You're either someone's "gorko" (husband), or their "kele" (casual sex partner). Errr. no in-between.

The next day we went to Wassadou, the closest village up the road where there was a Catholic church. Elie, the father of the Catholic family, gave the service in French and gave an explanation/homily in Puular. We said the Our Father, and gave the sign of peace, but the service ended there because there was no priest to celebrate the Eucharist. Amanda said he comes once every few months, if they're lucky. Made me sad to think that people can't receive God in Communion but a few times a year because they're considered a backwoods village.

We painted the Stations of the Cross in the church and had an audience of about 20 little kids just watching us in silence. We took a break for lunch and had my FAVORITE meal in Senegal, which was seasoned rice with dried fish and root vegetables with a tart hibiscus leaf sauce. Amanda's PC friend Spence, also known as Baba Nding (which translated means "Little Daddy") arrived and helped us paint the rest of the scenes, which we painted in Puular style with Mary and the women of Jerusalem wearing comples and headwraps! When we finished, Elie was ecstatic, told us that the paintings were a better gift than money, and said he was so happy that he wanted to sleep in the church that night. Talk about immediate gratification! :)

The daughters of the family offered Amanda and I a cup of palm wine, after which Amanda said "You should do your burp [which is my infamous hidden "talent"], they would think it was hilarious!" So I did, and it was NOT hilarious. It went over like a rock, and the entire compound fell silent! Haha, really popular. Amanda said, "Well, they probably just think we're drunk on a cup of palm wine now." It was a quick and shameful escape for me, and we biked back home. At this point, I had never been hotter in my life, and couldn't find a way to cool down, so I just poured water on myself, still clothed, and fanned away. Issatou, Amanda's host sister, could not fathom why I was doing this. "She's watering her gifundae (big butt)! She should just get a shower." However, first I needed to bring my 104 degree internal temperature down a notch before I showered and started sweating immediately afterwards.

The next day, we went out on our bikes to the Campement, a ritzy little place alongside the Gambia River where hippos and monkeys can be spotted. We went out during the hottest part of the day, and again, my internal temperature arrived at a new peak. I think I might have been a little dehydrated, as I started to seethe with intense anger at the most minor of things. I like to call it "boiling rage." We saw some baboons up close on the road, but they couldn't even distract me. All I wanted to do was to jump into that inviting body of water, but guess what? If I did, I might have contracted schistomiasis, a parasite that enters your body through your feet. Even my boiling rage couldn't convince me that it was worth the risk. To be continued in the next post! (Read above!)