It's Been Awhile...

First off, here is a list of things I miss from America (outside my friends and family of course):

Parks

Live music

Taking a shower and putting on pajamas

Real toiletries

Mountains

Being able to go anywhere on a moment’s notice (aka the ease of transportation)

Clean feeling/smelling sheets

Going out to breakfast

Good beer

Alas, I have conquered my first Ramadan!  Not an easy feat, I’ll let you know.  Now, I didn’t know much about this “holiday” until I experienced it.  It’s a month-long, fast that ends with a day of big eating.  Those who are fasting are not to eat or drink anything from sun-up to sundown.  I’ll be honest; I only did it for about 4 days…2 of which I was sick.  Also, I cheated…I drank water.  For the most part, though, nothing happens during this month.  My villagers pretty much just sat around and spat all day (apparently, they avoid even swallowing their own saliva).  The eve of the first day was so funny.  The minute the sun went down, everyone cheered the coming holiday, but most especially the kids…and they don’t (or shouldn’t) even participate. 

My family would wake up around 4:30 or 5AM eat a big breakfast, usually of rice or noodles, and then wait around until the evening, when they would eat a big dinner.  Once 2PM came, they would ask me for the time about every 30 minutes.  And, when it came time for them to be able to drink (about 7:25PM), it was like my watch was king.   It didn’t matter if 3 villagers had watches that said something different, mine always won out.

Then end of Ramadan comes with Korite.  It reminds me a bit of Easter in the US.  We all woke up, put on some “fancy” clothes, went to a random field. The men were in the front, with the women and children in the back.  They prayed for a bit, and then afterwards the whole town went around apologizing to each other for any harm or embarrassment they could have caused each other during the month or year.  Afterwards, everyone goes to his respective compound.  The kids shed their “Sunday’s best” (although it was a Friday), the men kill and dismember a goat, and the women start cooking.  Yes, I shed my “Sunday’s best.” Yes, I learned to dismember a goat. And, yes, I learned to cook the traditional macaroni noodle, potato, onion, goat, bread sauce…definitely not the tastiest plate, but they look forward to it all year.   Despite the lack of activity, Ramadan did give me a new insight to myself, though…I love to spit.  I used to be awful at it, but a month-long of practice has truly enhanced my capabilities.   

Shortly prior to Ramadan, one of my sisters-in-law became pregnant.  My first thought was, “Awesome! Another chance to have someone named after me or Dad.”  I was honestly pulling for “Rick” to become one of the regular names for my people out in the African bush.  Unfortunately, malaria came to my village in strong form this year.  All the sudden, my pregnant sister-in-law became severely ill. She ended up getting better, but she lost the baby.  She already has two toddler boys, and, come to find out, this was to be her first girl.  I was so sad for her.  This is something they know all too well, but it is still devastating every time.  The doctor prescribed her birth control, so it looks like  “little Rickie” will have to wait a bit longer.    

On a funnier note, a few months ago, prior to a bike trip to Koupentoum, my family warned me of the dangers of lightening in the bush.  It wasn’t for my safety on the road, however.  It was for the metal things in my hut.  I was to put them all in a bucket, and to cover my water filter with a towel, or else “the lightening was going to get it” (sound familiar, Alan?)  The metal things of which they were speaking included my teakettle, a bowl, and one of my beaded necklaces with a metal clasp.  When I asked about my two completely METAL trunks, they said those shouldn’t pose a problem, but that necklace had to be placed away. A part of me thought they were just being crazy, superstitious Pulaars, but when the time came, what did I do?  I put all my metal objects (including the necklace) into that bucket.  I don’t know-maybe I’ve become extremely integrated, or maybe I’ve just lost my mind. 

After a tourney of my metal objects, I departed for Koupentoum. En route, I literally had to bike through 5-10 solid minutes of cow/sheep herds.  It was like a cattle rush hour…very Planet Earth-like experience.

Last time I hitchhiked, the man driving the car proposed to me.  I said, “no, I am a child.” He then went on to ask me how old I was.  I, of course, lied, and said I was 12.  He said that was fine.

Another awesome hitchhike includes the one with my friends from Sweden and Norway. I had ridden my bike to Koupentoum to meet Jillian in order to continue to our regional house in Tamba.   As I was walking through her town, all of the sudden a really nice car with 2 twobaabs drives by.  I, not being used to seeing such niceties, of course stare at it.   All of the sudden, I hear someone yelling out to me.  My immediate reaction these days is to ignore such attention…it usually just ends up in a marriage proposal, a request for money, or being asked to send them to America.  I soon realized that these were the voices of the 2 twobaabs yelling to me.  I go over there to find the two Europeans sitting in their air-conditioned Land Rover.  We talk in the middle of the road for at least 30 minutes.  Turns out they were on an overland road trip from Oslo, Norway to Accra, Ghana, and back. They had their SUV shipped from Spain to Dakar, and were in Koupentoum on their way to Tamba.  During the convo, not only did they offer me a bag of clothes to give to the kids in my village, they offered to take Jillian and I all the way to our house in Tamba.  Needless to say, the whole set up was pretty sweet.   It also proved to be the nicest ride I have had in the 7 months since being here.  They had air conditioning, real music, and even offered us Swedish chocolate.  One word…BALLIN.     

Next up…skin stories.  The rainy season proved to get the best of my skin.  Inchallah, it will clear very rapidly as soon as the season ends.  The funny part of this is, my entire village questions every pimple as a mosquito bite.  Oftentimes when I explain that, no, in fact, they are not from mosquitoes, they will actually argue with me.  It’s my body, you would think that I would know, but whatever.

Also, my birthmark proves to get the best of them.  According to them, when my mom was pregnant with me, she had a mango.  She put the mango in a safe spot in her room and left.  A little later, my brother came into the room, took the mango, and ate it.  All the while, my mom was unaware.  She came back into the room, and saw that the mango was gone, and for that reason, I will forever be marked with my birthmark. 

Thirdly, in regards to my skin issues, I was recently electrocuted a few times while recording a radio program in Tamba.  The scar, incidentally, is in the shape of a smiley face.  My village keeps asking me about said injury, and as is often the case, I make something up.  Trying to explain electricity, computers, shock, etc. to people who don’t have electricity/know how to turn on or off a light switch was far too big a task for my broken Pulaar.  In the end, I just said something about the sun burning my skin, because I forgot to “wad kreme.”  (put on sunscreen).  They even try to argue this as mosquito bites. Once again, you’d think I would know.  

This story kind of segways into my feelings whenever I enter into the capital city, Dakar (which has really only been twice). .  I have come to find that nothing creates patriotism like living in a developing country. Dakar is like a little America.  It has most things that America can offer at an inflated price.  My friend, Amanda, and I arrived in our village clothes.  It was an overabundance of sensations-sights, smells, and sounds.  At first, I was so excited/awed that anything in Senegal could look like this.  Anyway the first time I walked into the “Casino,” which is similar to an American shopping mall, I felt so inadequate.  My village clothes were not made for such “elegance.” I was almost embarrassed to be there.  Afterwards, I couldn’t get over the thought that probably 90% of my village will never even see Dakar, much less go into a “Casino.” That was an odd sensation, which was immediately followed by the realization that it would take less time for me to go home to “real” America than it would for me to get back to village.  Needless to say, I had to leave Dakar fairly soon after that, in order to avoid the temptational pull of my native land.  

Apologies to the fact that I haven’t uploaded any photos in about 3 months.  I recently had my camera and some other artifacts stolen.  As soon as I can, though, I will steal pictures from some of my friends and then post them as if I, myself, had taken them (sound familiar, South African friends?).