kate

New Arrival (September)

2007-11-05T05:14:00.000-06:00

After carefully tucking in my forest green mosquito net under the flimsy corners of my inch thick foam pad, I retrieved my sheet, turned out my light and within minutes was most likely snoring (although I have no way of confirming such things) like a baby.
Hours later, or minutes for all I know, I hear my host mother Aissitou rapping at my metal door.
“Fatou! Fatou! Joggal (get up)!”
Hearing no response, she continued, beating just a bit harder on the door.
“Fatou! Joggal! Aram dafa am doom leegi!”
As this proclamation was sinking in and slowly being processed, my body clumsily followed orders and was already scuffly around in the dark when my mind fully interpreted the message. My other host mother Aram was having her baby!
My body lurched into action. Running to Aram’s room, I passed her father who was pacing in the courtyard. We sleepily mumbled greetings in the blanketed darkness.
In the room, unveiled by the one small light bulb, my mother Aram was positioned on her floor with only a few layers of cloth protecting her and her arriving child from the dirt and carnivorous ants below. As her mother gently urged the baby into the world with my mother silently pushing, I noticed my younger siblings sleeping (or at least pretending) on the beds. There was a short cry of arrival as my mother laid against her bed frame in exhaustion, delirium written on her face. “I’m so tired”
I was sent immediately to the boutique to retrieve a razor blade and a small pot of evaporated milk.
I ran in the cool night air, my flip-flops flapping against my rough heels, to the small boutique. The village was starlit and unearthly quiet. Feeling as if I had disturbed some unwritten nightly code of the universe, I made for the owners door.
Tap, tap. “Mohamed! Mohamed!”
I heard a half-asleep mumble from within.
“Mohamed! Man la, Fatou (It’s me, Fatou)!”
There were shuffling footsteps before the door clanked open.
“Mohamed, Aram am na doom! Jaay ma lancelet ak pot u meow!”
“Tres bien, Fatou”
After retrieving the requested products, I sprinted back to the house, fully awake. It was liberating to be outside my compound so late at night. The whole world sleeping.
My second trip back through the dark village was less frantic and mysterious as I picked up some Nescafe (instant coffee) for Aram.
She had a small, but seemingly healthy boy. The birth must have been less than two hours since we had all retired to our rooms around 11pm and were all re-settling in at 2am.
Sleep did not come so quickly this time.

His name is Serigne Fallou.

(For more photos click on the title!)

Tidal Wave

2007-10-29T09:30:00.000-05:00

We were sitting around the dinner bowl. My host dad home from another extended stay in Dakar was asking me the status of the recently planted manioc plants (all 51 of them). Considering this had been a recent source of disappointment, I hesitated a bit before responding….

One week and a half earlier I had spent an entire morning preparing the soil where the manioc stalks, that came from a mother plant downed in a nasty wind storm the night before, would be nestled in the afternoon shade. Two days after the fresh planting I traveled to Tambacounda, a small regional capitol on the eastern side of Senegal. My first trip east of Kaolack since my arrival in Senegal. I was meeting with all sustainable agriculture volunteers and our director to evaluate our program, brainstorm and share ideas.

Upon return to the village after a week long absence, I quickly greeted my family, unpacked my belongings, broke the fast and excitedly made my way to check the status of my garden.
The eggplants were producing numerous flowers and even a few young fruits, the tomato plants looked dry and crispy along the edges but were also flowering with small fruit and the once prosperous bean plants were coming dying back to brown, leafless vines. The mulched sweet potato vines were stretching their arms and legs in luxury atop it’s straw bed. I continued on to the much anticipated manioc.

Dead. All but three plant stocks had were as empty of life as that frozirigimortified bird hanging from dad’s power lines. In my investigation of the death scene, I revealed the culprits busily consuming that which was no longer of use to me. Damn termites…they will be the end of me.

…the termites, I explained to my host dad, had made a gourmet meal of the manioc rootstocks, almost as delicious as the millet and peanut sauce dinner we were consuming. Before I could say another would, one of my host mothers took the opportunity to once again criticize my work in the garden, belittling the gallons of sweat I poured into improving that wretched soil and discrediting any knowledge base I may think I have. My front line of defense was spread thin and I could feel the anger boiling just below the surface, ready to burst. Yet, even if I had wanted to burst, I couldn’t find the words to appropriately respond to my family members and my present state of mind. I was silent…loudly silent. I then stood up, rinsed my right hand and walked straight to my darkened room. I flipped on my light, sat down in my plastic chair, folded my hands in my lap and let the hot tears burn my cheeks. What the hell am I doing here?

I sat for a long time in the dark, thinking and calming myself. I wanted to confront my anger, my mother but quickly realized that the root cause of my frustration was nothing that could be changed. I just had to let it go. My solitude, loneliness, cultural differences, our gap of understanding and perceptions of reality…it is nothing but life in this world.

I left the compound, tried to get away. I needed a quiet dark place that was not my hut. I couldn’t find it but the dark sky and brilliant stars soothed my burning soul. I returned home, took a breath and explained to my host dad that there are just moments when the world becomes too much and I just need to ride out the waves. You can be assured, I am in peace here.

More Pics

2007-05-28T10:49:00.000-05:00

Here are more pics from Senegal...

Honeycomb

2007-05-22T04:36:00.000-05:00

I realize I've eaten gallons of honey in my life, the best originating right before my eyes in the north orchard of Meadow Farm. There has been light honey, dark honey, thick honey (like molasses), eucalyptus honey, honey in a tube, honey on bread, in bread, pies, yogurt, pancakes, chili, peanut butter banana honey sandwiches, in juice and tea, the list is endless. Honey is one of those foods that brings forth my inner child giddiness.

That being said, my bubbling excitement (which translated into some type of a skipping jig jog) came as no surprise to me but rather to my friend Mbara who had invited me to join a late-night honey search party. I had tasted a lick of the last nights find and couldn't wait to indulge my taste buds a second, third, perhaps even a fourth time.

Just outside my family's compound was our first stop. A troop of bees had set-up shop inside a large tree trunk. Smoke was produced to sedate the bees as they were ubruptly disturbed by the hacking of the ax. Mbara reached his already swollen hand (from bites the previous day) into the growing openning, pulling out clumps of carefully made honeycomb...dripping with sweetness. Next Omar took a turn and then Barbacar, each reaching in farther and farther to mine every drop of gold attainable. I watched in anticipation as well as providing a baking soda paste for their accumulating stings.

There was no waiting for our first tastes. Barbacar broke a piece of the comb, shoveled additional honey on top and placed it in my hand. I slowly deposited it into my mouth. Add honey straight from the comb to my list, there is nothing like it. Honey oozed from each small compartment as I repeatedly closed my teeth on the chewy wax.

We quickly stored the bucket in my hut before heading out into the country side to find more. Although the search was unsuccessful, for me just to be out tromping around at night was a new adventure. Women just don't do it here.

When we retrieved the honey from my hut I watched as the party of five gathered around, squatting on their haunches as if around the dinner bowl, and proceeded to eat as much honey as humanly possible. For the next five or ten minutes, all that could be heard was ravenous slurping sounds...

I believe I heard bees humming in the branches of the baobab tree bordering my garden. My mouth is already watering...

Cinema, Senegalese Style

2007-05-12T07:56:00.000-05:00

Last night, as a Senegalese theater group was beginning to develop the night's storyline, folks from seemingly every corner of the village made their way in front of the small, 13" tv screen. Boys and girls sat up front as well as wedged into any free space available (including my lap). Others, the adults, found themselves a stool or plastic container to sit on, creating layers of dark bodies and illuminated faces filling the entirety of my family's compound.

As usual, I put full effort into the wolof words, spilling way-to-fast for my comprehension from the lips of the actors, in hopes to follow the plot line. And as usual, it wasn't long before my concentration on the film began to slip from the screen to the even more intriguing world around me.

To my right sat one of my host mothers. She was cradling her youngest child, Mama. Moments earlier I had been tickling Mama as she "researched" one of my eyeballs. Just recently Mama began calling me "yaay" which means mother in Wolof. In her eyes, I'm not a stranger, the "toubab", white, American, or a money-source, I'm just another mother. It's incredible the joy a two-year-old can bring a soul.

To my left sat a young girl, daughter of one of my favorite women in the village. She swayed back and forth, front to back, as her body surrendered to fatigue. Occasionally an annoyed friend would slap her awake as she played bumber bodies in her sleep.

A group of boys up front randomly scatter as a small dark creature scurries away from the realized blockade of bodies...they are scared to death of snakes, even the harmless types. Yet, it was probably a frog or lizard.

I smile a lot to myself here. There are so many unvoicable moments and even if I was articulate enough to voice them, with whom would I share? You, I guess.

Niang

2007-04-25T06:01:00.000-05:00

I am sitting on a plastic mat reading as my body cools from a scorching afternoon bike ride from Toubacouta. The glaring sun during those twenty kilometers had done on number on my skin and hydration. I sunk my teeth into one of the four small but ripe mangoes, bought along the roadside from a group of talkative women. The sweetness flowed into my mouth leaving behind stick fingers and strings of fibrous membranes lodged between my front teeth. I am content.

I hear my mother Aram's voice call me from the compound side of my hut. I imagine she is curious about my where abouts or simply wants to touch base after a long day. She makes her way through my hut and appears around the corner. She is somber. The words that flow from her mouth leave me speechless as I struggle to find words for thoughts failing to pull themlselves together. She repeats her news as if I hadn't understood. I manage the basic, "I understand, Yes, I know him". She leaves and I sit in the solitude of my backyard, the leaves of the manioc plants whispering quietly the sad reality hanging in the air. "Niang Sagnane...Niang Sagnane...died, he died, his body is on the way...he was sick...better....sick, then dead....what a shame, so young, nice guy, no wife or kids yet....". I floundered about inside my brain trying to sort it all out. I feel the full force of unanswerable questions mounting on the back of my grief , aware of the lonely road on which I am travelling.

Niang, 22, brother of a good friends in the village, dead. Why? In Africa this question is arbitrary, perhaps asked but kept unanswered, unknown. Was it a matter of money? Mis-diagnosis? Apathy? Perhaps it was a terminal disease or the result of malnutrions lingering consequences? Who is to blaim? Colonization? The government? It doesn't matter now, he's dead. Y'Allah wrote the letter. Niang obeyed.

I listen, from the darkening, empty field beside the small school just beyond my compound, the village's walls, to the rhythmic scrape of shovel against dry sand. Some men are preparing the earthly bed. They will wrap his stiff, cold body in flowing white cloth before lowering what hours before had been a son, brother, friend.

Pictures from Senegal

2007-02-18T14:39:00.000-06:00

Here are the first set of pictures from Senegal.

Twas the day before Christmas...

2006-12-26T11:43:00.000-06:00

Where do i begin?

Perhaps with Merry Christmas. I awoke before the sun on Christmas Eve to catch the daily auto that stops in my village on its way through many villages to the nearest city of Koalack. The auto, which is comparable to a mini-bus that has been used and re-used and then shipped to Africa to be utilized in the public transportation sector, was particularly late this morning, rolling, or rather, rumbling and gurgling into my quiet, mostly sleeping village at 6am. As it didnt look as though it was planning to stop, one of my mothers Aissitou and I ran after the already heavily loaded vehicle. I will add here that when I say heavily loaded just try to imagine an old diesel bus with sacks of peanuts two layers thick piled on top and seeral people, mostly young men, creating yet another layer on top of the peanuts. As the Senegalese are reluctant to turn passengers away, now imagine seven or eight people hanging off the back of the bus with the door swinging open. At this point I cant imagine how I am going to be squeezed into this holding tank of human bodies, but alas, I find myself half-seated in between a beautifully dressed young woman and a rather sleepy man. Behind me I hear a familiar voice call my name, "Fatou". Ah! I have met this woman the last three times I have taken the bush taxi. Greetings are given as I practically knock out the sleepy man beside me in an attept to shake the dear womans hand. The next hour is filled with careful driving along the sand paths as the bus sways from side to side over the many eroded areas of the road. Of course, precious cargo is especially vulnerable atop the vehicle. I find myself smiling and even laughing at times at the increasingly familiar situation I am in. Between the goats, sheep and random uproars and arguments in Wolof spoken too quickly for my comprehension, I cant help but feel like I am surrounded by a large and expansive family travelling on a great adventure in the most well-used public transportation I have experienced.

I hope the holidays bring such excitement to your lives. Know that I am healthy and living each day as it comes. Merry Christmas.

Peace to all,
kate

Quick

2006-12-08T04:36:00.000-06:00

The other day I made my way down a sandy rural path used for walking, motorbikes, animal-drawn charrets, autos and yes, my red mountain bike and I. It is rather difficult to bike in soft sand but I can usually make the 7 kilo ride to the weekly market (Louma) with only having to walk my bike a few times.

I spent an entire Sunday exploring the market with one of the three school teachers in my village. He is young, intellegent and knows a bit of english so when we werent greeting everyone on the street, I managed to expand my Wolof vocabulary. I have to admit that I realized all those years of having to wait and talk to everyone when going anywhere with my dad was a valuable preparation for my time in Senegal. We love to greet and greet everyone!

Not much time today to write.

It gets rather cold at night, I wear a wool sweater, fleece and wool socks to bed. Hard to imagine, I know.

Have a wonderful December!

love and peace,
kate

A window

2006-11-18T13:04:00.000-06:00

Assalam maalekum samay waa ker ak samay xarit. Senegal neex na. Baal ma ngir sama neglegence ak sama blog. Xamuma naka lanuy bindee (walla waxee) neglegence ak blog ci wolof...yet! Sop naa Senegal ak nit u Senegal bu baax. Sama waa ker ci Senegal toppatoo nanu man bu baax. Geraam naa lool. Beg naa bu baax. Namm naa leen yu bare. Yaakaar naa nekk ngeen ci Jamm. Nobel naa leen!

(translation)
Peace to you all, my family and friends. Senegal is fabulous. Forgive me for my neglegence with my blog. I dont know how to write (or say) neglegence or blog in Wolof...yet. I love Senegal and Senegalese. My host family takes great cqre of me. I am very grateful. I am very happy. I miss you all very much. I hope you are all in peace. I love you all.

As you now know, I have been learning Wolof, which is one of many languages here in Senegal. Lucky for me and my pathetic French, wolof is widely spoken. It has been an exciting, frustrating, and challenging process qnd will continue to be for the next two years I imagine. Tomorrow I leave Thies for Kaolack and then to my village where accents, pronounciation, and woods will be different. I am ready...I think!

Because there is so much I could write about and not much time for me to do it now, Im just going to give some snippits into my experience so far...

It is difficult to be lonely in Senegal. I was thinking about this fact the other morning as I laid awake awaiting the sun. Mornings begin with the sound of Arabic prayers welcoming the new day and beckonning Muslims to their morning prayer. Of course, the chant-like songs are well heard thanks to the wonderful technology of loud speakers! I have actually grown quite fond of the ritualistic presence of singing five times a day.

Today for lunch, I gathered with my family around out large metal bowl fillex with rice and fish and some small pieces of squash and eggplant. Ceeb u gen is probably what Ill be eating for the next two years. Except for the numerous fish bones, I find it quite tasty. I usually use eat with a spoon but my sisters eat with their hands; tearing bits of meat and tossing them in my direction. Communal eating is at the heart of Senegalese lifestyle, just as eating habits reflect lifestyles qround the world.

I know this isnt much but I know Ill have more time to write in the coming months. I will be experiencing a drastic change of pace when I get to my village.

Peace to you!

Cinq

2006-09-14T23:11:00.000-05:00

I'm overwhelmed and tired of lists....

I'm about ready to say enough is enough, I'm ready to go!

Seis

2006-09-14T01:04:00.000-05:00

I almost forgot to post a message on day six of my countdown!

Progress was made today even though I feel like there is a lot to do! Oh my, it is past midnight! I am tired and ready for bed. My favorite part of the day...hanging out with my family. We enjoyed some yummy stuffed acorn squash (thanks Deneb for introducing that recipe) and Boston pie for desert.

Wondering about all the stuff I'm taking with me...feels like a lot.

Sept

2006-09-12T14:24:00.000-05:00

Where does the day go? Toby and I walked with Emily most of the way to the St.Paul Campus of the U of MN before heading to the Falcon Heights Farmers Market. The vendors stalls were loaded with fresh onions, potatoes, leeks, basil, mint, cantalope, watermelon, corn, peppers of every color, tomatoes, green onions, apples and more. Folks young and old filled the crowded aisle socializing and admiring the fine foods around us. Of course, Toby was the most popular attendee at the market. It helps to be well-mannered, little, four-legged, furry and cute. I thought one woman was going to pick him right up and take him home with her. After perusing each stand, I purchased way too much for a comfortable walk home. I couldn't resist that bag of apples. My mind kept wandering to thoughts of fresh apple pie...yum!

I am excited to experience markets in Senegal. I wonder what fruits and vegetables will be grown and available to buy? I remember the large, open-air markets in Tanzania...everything from mangoes and pomegranates to roots for your aches and pains.

Seven days.

Huit

2006-09-11T16:16:00.000-05:00

The paperwork is being consolidated and possessions packed away. The Peace Corps folks suggest taking pictures to make our living space more homy and to give away. It's rather difficult deciding what pictures to take. I have to admit I laughed several times as I flipped through photograph after photograph. Laughter is a great cure for homesickness right? I think the PC people are onto something.

It's been a good day. My favorite part has been helping Emily come up with subjects for seven "shitty first drafts" (that's what her text book calls them) for her fiction writing class. My first suggestion was a either a city ant's experience in a garden or a country ant's experience in the city...I guess I can relate a bit. She chose the latter of the two. Then I suggested Toby as a character, which unknowingly happenned to be the name of the Comcast guy fixing our internet connection. He was rather confused (or really freaked out) when I made that suggestion. He didn't know our dog's name was Toby.

Neuf (nine)

2006-09-10T09:37:00.000-05:00

It is a rather rainy and cold sort of day, yet I am happy for this bit of autumn. I imagine that I will miss the dramatic change of midwest weather.
I guess my countdown has begun. Nine days before I meet my closest support group in Philly. :)
My goal today is to actually put the items I have sprawled around my mom's living room into my backpack and see how much room I have to spare. Clothes I hope will protect my fair Norwegian skin from sun and sand while keeping me relatively cool, a few books that seem to follow me wherever I go, some journals (that also seem to follow me wherever I go, but remain blank..oh, the intentions), sunglasses, toilettries (should I pack toilet paper?), an army knife and diamond sharpener, powdered goat milk (you never know), a silk sleep sack, an inflatable beach ball of the world, the best camera I've ever owned (thanks Sherry, Pat and Steve!), a nalgene, two pairs of shoes....so far so good.

Staging Kit

2006-08-21T21:48:00.000-05:00

Today I received my staging information from the PC folks. Seeing my flight info gave me goosebumps. Philadelphia will be my first stop before heading to Dakar, Senegal. My blogging may be sporadic but I will do my best to keep it updated with my adventures over the next few years. Stay tuned!