Aging Across the World

11-22-08
I asked my neene once when her birthday was. She looked at me oddly and I repeated and rephrased. She said she thought maybe some time in the cold season. December? January? Or wait, was it March? She shifted under my wide eyes, poked the fire, and said she knew she had it written down... somewhere. Maybe.
When I asked my same-ish-age-mom how old she was she said 24. In a later conversation, 26. When neene spoke of her she figured she had to be at least 29. They tick fingers, blurt out numbers, and throw up their hands. Even their official ID cards sport dates that mean nata. I've seen several proclaiming the bearer's birthdate as 00-00-00. Who keeps track of these things anyway?
I don't really try to explain the American mindset to birthdays. Whole days and huge parties and presents all for one person... It sounds ludicrously selfish instead of individualistic. Here, they focus on family and communitities and using their time for more encompassing purposes than throwing parties for oneself. I shudder to imagine seeing something like "My Super Sweet 16" from a villager's eyes.
Although, on my (real) mother's birthday in September, I tried to explain. All day, they'd been promising to guide me up the mountain we have to climb in order to get réseau (phone service). They had me wait out the heat and then it was dark and they said morning was better. I said but it's her birthday. No reponse. I said she'd be sad. Stirring. Because I was so far away from her. At this, brothers were summoned and up the mountain we went, darkness and all. Birthdays may be ridiculous but moving away from one's mother is just barbaric.
I respect this philosophy. But it doesn't mean I'm not celebrating. I'm an old dog; it's too late to change! And it doesn't mean I wasn't ecstatic to wake up in the middle of the night to Heather's traditional phonecall!
The day is no grand masquerade, but I've decided to pamper myself in every place I'd otherwise think "I shouldn't." So I'm indulging in real coffee sent by my dad, real cheerios sent by Erin, and real milk sent by Mrs. B. The coffee fills to the brim and I play a secret game-- since I'm at the mature age of 24, I must be able to carry it across the room without spilling a drop. I can. I add two sugar cubes and the meniscus domes dangerously over the edge. I lift it to the other side of the table. I impress myself. So far, 24 is good. I may just be unstoppable.
The Cheerios taste fantastic, though when I find my taste buds searching for something, I remember my childhood habit of topping them off with cheese. In sentimental moments in high school and college, and to the bewilderment of friends, I reinstated this practice. If I was nostalgic then, you can imagine how the feeling multiplies as I find myself aging in a remote nook of Africa. But mostly I just wish I had cheese.

The rest of the day got even better than Cheerios, if such a possibility is even conceivable. Roxy, Matt, Andy, Thomas, and Aaron joined me on the Gambia. We floated down the shisto-riffic currents, punctuating the sparkles with laughter and cries as we "found" submerged rocks and bushes. (When se stopped off at an overhanging tree, I was only minorly disappointed at the sign of my aging that I didn't want to try to lug myself up for a jump of questionable safety).
Later, a Fancy dinner at the Bedik-- the hotel that doesn't serve warthog and to which we therefore never go. Fish, fries, wine, crépes, awesomeness. When the crépes came, everyone started sketchily saying, "Uhh.. we need.. forks..." Matt got up to talk to the waiter and I joked that he was asking them to sing and clap to me and bring me a sombrero. It was funny to imagine anything like that here. But then out came a grinning server with a special crépe and three scoops of ICE CREAM. The PCVs sang and put 2-4 candles on top! Whoa! I was shocked speechless. This in addition to an American junkfood basket, a 6-pack of Killians, and other related amazingness brought from Dakar pampered me perfectly. This was NOT what I pictured in my first African birthday!
It's crazy to think I might not set foot in the US for the whole age of 24. But if Doritoes can keep miraculously finding their way to me, I think it's possible. And starting off scrumptiously.

Prefer Ribs

November 11, 2008

Ate pig testicles

No Boys Allowed

Roxy and Kay's First Kedougou Girls' Club Schedule:
-name tag decoration
-name game (I was by far the worst!)
-human knot game (didn't work so we ended up trying to explain how three tangled rings showed our inter-connectedness... not that I can say any of that in french...)
-stereotype excercise: girls places words (ex. marriage, violence, education, love, farming, cooking, money, sex) under either homme or femme, according to their automatic response. Then we discussed why we had those connotations and the difference between biological and societal traits or abilities.
-Collages about ourselves! (mostly from old Economists and Newsweeks, but we had a few popular cosmo's which we had to edit before distributing)
-Presentations
-Lunch!
-short rest to give a few girls time for prayer
-gave little notebooks and pencils and talked about club's purpose (social craft/game time, and to learn about careers for women)
-phone tree set-up
-SUCCESS

The french was a struggle but the girls were so great that it still worked with flying colors.

Obama, My bama

11-5
In my hut, by candlelight, I've pointed many a time to Obama's bright face. It shines from the cover of a Rolling Stone magazine (curtesy of Becca G!) over which every villager has huddled 5,000 times. I've proudly bumbled through explanations that HE cuold be the next US president. Mostly people didn't believe me or understand. He's one of two... he could... the first... what??? And the appropriate joyfully surprised reaction came a smattering of times.

I can't wait to return à la village with some concrete news. From Dakar to Guinea, people shouted "Felicitations!" to me and we high-fived and shook hands and grinned mirror-images. I can't wait to be wholely proud of my country and not have to clam Canadian citizenship.

I've slept for about 3 hours. We held up a bar (I'm in Dakar) and got CNN on a slide projector until 6 AM. I madly texted updates to village-bound unfortunates. I'm thankful I wasn't on of them, cranking my radio in the dark, pulling the antenae out of the moquito net, biting my fist, and lacking company apart from the Rolling Stone cover. It would have been more romantic in 50 years ("Where were you when you found out?"). Still I'm glad I could be with visual coverage, electricity, friends, a cold drink, a full stomach (contents including tuna and octopus! delicious!), and a crowd of British, French, Wolof, Pulaar, Sereer, and our US democratic MAJORITY, bien sur.
I don't know how it felt in the States at your reasonable hours and live rallies and all. When we left the bar, shaking arms around one another, the morning prayer calls sang and bodies folded over mosque mats in the dark, pious as the day before. Did any of them know?
I voted around 2 months ago on an official ballot that Senegal's humidity warped so I had to rip open the envelopes and glue them back shut. I resisted including a post-it explaining, I KNOW THIS LOOKS BAD/ TAMPERED WITH BUT PLEASE SEE RETURN ADDRESS AND CUT ME SOME SLACK. I'd only had snatches of updates. Ridiculous things like "polls down because McCain called Obama a socialist." I know I've been gone a while but statements like this confused and worried me to such a point that after seeing the results I'm still skeptical about the reality of all this.
Can they take it back? Just kidding? Incorrect counting? Overthrow? Or is this all a mephloquine dream?
I allowed myself to unclench a bit once Obama took the stage. People around me had been cheering for a while but I'd been sipping iced paranoia, thinking jinxes. He looked different than he did the last time I saw him. More tired, like a man whose grand prize happens to be All the Problems of the World. And, like my next president. That's him, that's really him. Obviously a crowd of screaming goosebumps and parades of tears made the next appearances.
It's a gorgeous day. I have hockey bags under my eyes as I wander in a daze. People randomly shout OBAMA! at me and I stop to high-five them. Everyone's happy, sometimes just because he heard Obama is a black dude! One paper's headlines got straight to the point, "NOIR!" And a lot of people have clearly followed the news, policies, and their personal investments and connections.
Whatever it is, today I stand tall.

Me Meeting Meat

One can only be
So Masochistic.

12.5 years of tofu
until October 30:
I lose my veg-inity
on a warthog sandwich.

Chewy.
Stomach confused.
No regrets.

Someday,
I will have a corn dog.





(Here are some from today of a Gou Crew butcher and the future bacon I will eat!)