Tabaski: first meat in village; dead sheep; ataaya; fancy clothes; cool drum
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The Tabaski Pictures That This Annoying Computer WILL Let Me Post
Tabaski: first meat in village; dead sheep; ataaya; fancy clothes; cool drum
Sunday, December 7, 2008
The Fabrique of Our Lives
It takes 45 minutes to walk to our fields. They are technically in Guinea. My family knows I ride my bike 50 horrid k to and from Kédougou. They know I've done "karate." They don't know I'm planning on climbing Kilimanjaro, but I'll try to explain one of these days. Still, they could not believe I'm capable of walking to the fields. "I don't think you can," everyone kept saying.
"I have leg, yes?" I answered.
They pondered this and said again, "I really don't think you can."
It's true I can't wash clothes, cook, shuck peanuts, pull water, pound, and haali the pulaar the way every other villager can. But, come on! Sometimes I find myself starting to try hard to prove myself in each area. Then I let it go. It's the broken dish philosophy: if I suck at something, maybe they'll ask me to do it less! Plus, there won't be yet another perceived reason to worship the white. I'm trés cool with my villagers being more skilled than me at their own livelihoods. But, still, WALKING?
To heads shaking in disbelief, I suited up for the journey. I opted for Tevas (thanks, Cindy!) instead of the papery flipflops everyone else wore, rubbed in sunblock-- which they'll never understand, put a spoon in my pocket, and filled up my battered nalgene. "That's all your water?!" my jaja asked.
"Yes?"
"Hadiatou! You need more than that! Don't you have a big bottle?" I brought the big bottle. They're often right and it's kind of nice to be fretted over anyway.
We went to Guinea. They were impressed with my ability to walk even more than with skipping stones. (Tell me how generation after generation have lived next to these rivers and no one skips stones!) The cotton fields are gorgeous. As we walked towards them, I had a feeling like I was walking on the board of CandyLand, reaching fields of poporn plants-- or more appropriately, cotton candy.
We crunched over corn husks to piles of cotton that looked remarkably like snow drifts. With fields of green in the distance, I felt like we were travelling through the seasons: autumn, winter, spring... I touched the cotton. It felt like cotton. "Do you know cotton?" a girl asked.
"Yes."
"Do they have it in your country?"
"Yes..."
"They have fields?"
"No... we buy it."
I pictured the cosmetics isle of Stop n' Shop and knew that from the next time I saw a bag of pristine carebear cloud balls to the last, I'd think of this moment.
I wanted to jump in the pile, but I was nervous due to the previously mentioned snake sightings. "No snake here!" they encouraged me. It felt like a warm cartoon cloud. I could've stayed all day, but then I remembered sorpians and jumped out.
Cotton blooms from pretty pink-purple flowers that dry out and turn into thorns. After an hour or so I could almost hear my fingers say, "Dont go near that thing!" I got the hang of it. Depending on its stage in growth, the flower will divide the cotton ball into little marshmallows, or it will be one big ball of insect bed. If you pinch your fingers around just so, (careful of the thorny part!) you can grab it all in just one go. But sometimes they're stubborn to leave and the wisps string out like magicians' scarves.
I thought about slavery. People who picked cotton here were captured and forced to pick cotton in other countries. What they had to remind them of home were balls of cotton and sore fingers. All day.
Selling cotton brings my family's only income. I think you must know a person is at the bottom of the chain if he or she picks cotton. We all use it; we need someone to do it, but who wants to? I wish all the pale kids with summer jobs at fast-food joints at home could be the ones. There's no shame, but it's definitely the bottom. My fellow pickers complimented my work. One said she'd love me as a co-wife. I couldn't say that what made me work hard was the knowledge that this wasn't my life. It made me happy and guilty and sad.
Senegalese and Guinean hills watched us from under a haze like a coating of dust on an unrealistically beautiful painting.
"I have leg, yes?" I answered.
They pondered this and said again, "I really don't think you can."
It's true I can't wash clothes, cook, shuck peanuts, pull water, pound, and haali the pulaar the way every other villager can. But, come on! Sometimes I find myself starting to try hard to prove myself in each area. Then I let it go. It's the broken dish philosophy: if I suck at something, maybe they'll ask me to do it less! Plus, there won't be yet another perceived reason to worship the white. I'm trés cool with my villagers being more skilled than me at their own livelihoods. But, still, WALKING?
To heads shaking in disbelief, I suited up for the journey. I opted for Tevas (thanks, Cindy!) instead of the papery flipflops everyone else wore, rubbed in sunblock-- which they'll never understand, put a spoon in my pocket, and filled up my battered nalgene. "That's all your water?!" my jaja asked.
"Yes?"
"Hadiatou! You need more than that! Don't you have a big bottle?" I brought the big bottle. They're often right and it's kind of nice to be fretted over anyway.
We went to Guinea. They were impressed with my ability to walk even more than with skipping stones. (Tell me how generation after generation have lived next to these rivers and no one skips stones!) The cotton fields are gorgeous. As we walked towards them, I had a feeling like I was walking on the board of CandyLand, reaching fields of poporn plants-- or more appropriately, cotton candy.
We crunched over corn husks to piles of cotton that looked remarkably like snow drifts. With fields of green in the distance, I felt like we were travelling through the seasons: autumn, winter, spring... I touched the cotton. It felt like cotton. "Do you know cotton?" a girl asked.
"Yes."
"Do they have it in your country?"
"Yes..."
"They have fields?"
"No... we buy it."
I pictured the cosmetics isle of Stop n' Shop and knew that from the next time I saw a bag of pristine carebear cloud balls to the last, I'd think of this moment.
I wanted to jump in the pile, but I was nervous due to the previously mentioned snake sightings. "No snake here!" they encouraged me. It felt like a warm cartoon cloud. I could've stayed all day, but then I remembered sorpians and jumped out.
Cotton blooms from pretty pink-purple flowers that dry out and turn into thorns. After an hour or so I could almost hear my fingers say, "Dont go near that thing!" I got the hang of it. Depending on its stage in growth, the flower will divide the cotton ball into little marshmallows, or it will be one big ball of insect bed. If you pinch your fingers around just so, (careful of the thorny part!) you can grab it all in just one go. But sometimes they're stubborn to leave and the wisps string out like magicians' scarves.
I thought about slavery. People who picked cotton here were captured and forced to pick cotton in other countries. What they had to remind them of home were balls of cotton and sore fingers. All day.
Selling cotton brings my family's only income. I think you must know a person is at the bottom of the chain if he or she picks cotton. We all use it; we need someone to do it, but who wants to? I wish all the pale kids with summer jobs at fast-food joints at home could be the ones. There's no shame, but it's definitely the bottom. My fellow pickers complimented my work. One said she'd love me as a co-wife. I couldn't say that what made me work hard was the knowledge that this wasn't my life. It made me happy and guilty and sad.
Senegalese and Guinean hills watched us from under a haze like a coating of dust on an unrealistically beautiful painting.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
All Creatures Great and Senegal
(Other titles: Wild Things; Woman vs. Wild; Where the Wild Things Are...)
12/3/08
Snake Peak:
I was standing with my bike outside Alexa's old cpompound, greeting her bengure and unknowingly standing a foot away from a snake coiled on a tree. "Hadiatou, come here!" They hissed about 5 times before I responded. I thought they just wanted me to sit with them so I was protesting, no, IO really should be getting home... then they pointed. I moved and hid behind neene Sow. Stick beating proceeded until thje serpent was no more. Then they just made fun of me. Fair enough!
Le Deuxieme Snake:
Mbodi no ga! A snake is here! What other words can get people moving so fast? At this point I'd reached the Dinde Felo disponsaire (Badji's) part of my journey and was awaiting Awesome Food. Then a kid comes in yelling that. I didn't even understand him but followed everyone else's lead and ran. I thopught it was for a medical emergency, actually, and maybe I could help! Wrong.
This snake was HUGE (green Mamba?) and WAY faster than I knew snakes could be-- like soccer ball-fast. I did not need top be told 5 times to move. In fact, I almost knocked over a small child in my haste to flee, 6 yards farther than everyone else. I wish I could say I'd been heroic and picked up the child or something, but he was fine. Everyone was running around, throwing rocks, weilding sticks. The sounds of their screams and the deaf guy's screams (I specify because his seemed more purely panicky and eerie) scared me the most. I don't know what it says about me that nothing puts more fear in me than other people's screams, but I don't care as long as I don't get nakiied by a snake.
In the end it was Hawa, maker of Amazing Food/ maid, who beat the snake the most and delivered its final blows. I watched in awe of her bravery as I cowered around the corner. She said she'd only killed 4 or 5. I wonder if she means This Year?
The snake's tail shuddered right before it completely died, as if it had a rattle it was trying to shake.
Dinosaur in the Douche:
Since the previous occurence, I'd been a little jumpy with critters. The mouse in my hut didn't help. When I went to my douche, (remember, this is what we call bathrooms/ holes in the ground) I thought I'd just... check. I shone my flashlight down. Sure enough, a reptillian coil. You've got to be kidding me. Three in one day? But no, I followed up the coil and saw it was a GIANT TAIL attached to sizeable lower legs. It looked like an alligator, logic told me in was a monitor lizard, and so I decided it was a dinosaur.
I made my way to my brothers, casually as can be. I picked the oldest, told him I had a question, and asked him to follow me. I really just wanted to know what it was-- it couldn't do anything from down there anyway. Instead we commenced in a multi-hour douche party.
Picture at least 5 boys holding flashlights standing around my dressed-up imam dad in my douche. They are trying to spear the doucheness monster with a homemade taped-up bamboo pole. The pointed end is getting covered in more and more fecal matter. When they bring it out, everyone has to scatter away so they don't come in contact with Hadiatou's feces. The dinosaur evades its point. I still have to pee.
It was so bizarre I remember wondering if I could possibly have ever been through a weirder experience. That might be it!
I left the boys to their potty-prodding to eat my 2nd dinner (we have food now.) When I went to bed, I implored they stop until morning, but the brother I initially approached said, "No, it's gpoing to die NOW;" I found this way more endearing than annoying so I left them to their shouting and held in my waste materials.
The "sagariwal" saga ended with quickly-travelling screams, stampeding feet, and the sounds of beating. I don't know how they got it out but it's not going anywhere now!
12/3/08
Snake Peak:
I was standing with my bike outside Alexa's old cpompound, greeting her bengure and unknowingly standing a foot away from a snake coiled on a tree. "Hadiatou, come here!" They hissed about 5 times before I responded. I thought they just wanted me to sit with them so I was protesting, no, IO really should be getting home... then they pointed. I moved and hid behind neene Sow. Stick beating proceeded until thje serpent was no more. Then they just made fun of me. Fair enough!
Le Deuxieme Snake:
Mbodi no ga! A snake is here! What other words can get people moving so fast? At this point I'd reached the Dinde Felo disponsaire (Badji's) part of my journey and was awaiting Awesome Food. Then a kid comes in yelling that. I didn't even understand him but followed everyone else's lead and ran. I thopught it was for a medical emergency, actually, and maybe I could help! Wrong.
This snake was HUGE (green Mamba?) and WAY faster than I knew snakes could be-- like soccer ball-fast. I did not need top be told 5 times to move. In fact, I almost knocked over a small child in my haste to flee, 6 yards farther than everyone else. I wish I could say I'd been heroic and picked up the child or something, but he was fine. Everyone was running around, throwing rocks, weilding sticks. The sounds of their screams and the deaf guy's screams (I specify because his seemed more purely panicky and eerie) scared me the most. I don't know what it says about me that nothing puts more fear in me than other people's screams, but I don't care as long as I don't get nakiied by a snake.
In the end it was Hawa, maker of Amazing Food/ maid, who beat the snake the most and delivered its final blows. I watched in awe of her bravery as I cowered around the corner. She said she'd only killed 4 or 5. I wonder if she means This Year?
The snake's tail shuddered right before it completely died, as if it had a rattle it was trying to shake.
Dinosaur in the Douche:
Since the previous occurence, I'd been a little jumpy with critters. The mouse in my hut didn't help. When I went to my douche, (remember, this is what we call bathrooms/ holes in the ground) I thought I'd just... check. I shone my flashlight down. Sure enough, a reptillian coil. You've got to be kidding me. Three in one day? But no, I followed up the coil and saw it was a GIANT TAIL attached to sizeable lower legs. It looked like an alligator, logic told me in was a monitor lizard, and so I decided it was a dinosaur.
I made my way to my brothers, casually as can be. I picked the oldest, told him I had a question, and asked him to follow me. I really just wanted to know what it was-- it couldn't do anything from down there anyway. Instead we commenced in a multi-hour douche party.
Picture at least 5 boys holding flashlights standing around my dressed-up imam dad in my douche. They are trying to spear the doucheness monster with a homemade taped-up bamboo pole. The pointed end is getting covered in more and more fecal matter. When they bring it out, everyone has to scatter away so they don't come in contact with Hadiatou's feces. The dinosaur evades its point. I still have to pee.
It was so bizarre I remember wondering if I could possibly have ever been through a weirder experience. That might be it!
I left the boys to their potty-prodding to eat my 2nd dinner (we have food now.) When I went to bed, I implored they stop until morning, but the brother I initially approached said, "No, it's gpoing to die NOW;" I found this way more endearing than annoying so I left them to their shouting and held in my waste materials.
The "sagariwal" saga ended with quickly-travelling screams, stampeding feet, and the sounds of beating. I don't know how they got it out but it's not going anywhere now!
Monday, December 1, 2008
World AIDS Day
we face the elders
as they drink orange
soda, all dressed up they
look funny to us
we try to take a
picture but it's blurry.
the speaker's
woofer pulses like a
looney toon, punching at
our ears in
multilingual fists.
the volume legitimizes
the event. if it weren't
at least a little
painful, it wouldn't be cool.
tiny fingers cramp, slipping
over the sign
Ensemble Nous Vaincrons Le SIDA.
Préservez Notre Avenir.
they stand trying on
aloof faces, yawning
and waiting
for their pictures to be taken.
no one mentions
how they're not in school.
it is hot, beyond hot, so
hot the molecules in
the air keep fainting
and the others fan them and
faint and they keep switching and
I'm waiting for a
moment they(re all down.
nevertheless a parade was
marched, a race was run, a
sheep was won. I shake my
head at the jeans and jackets
of the city kids who look
good when I want to
be naked at the bottom
of a river.
they sweat in a line so long it hurts to
take in, stretching like a snake
filled with poison.
kids swear they're 16, sneak
in; they want the free
t-shirt and baggie of
water abd too-loud
music and another
day gone. so be it
if to get that
they must learn
their results came back
positive.
as they drink orange
soda, all dressed up they
look funny to us
we try to take a
picture but it's blurry.
the speaker's
woofer pulses like a
looney toon, punching at
our ears in
multilingual fists.
the volume legitimizes
the event. if it weren't
at least a little
painful, it wouldn't be cool.
tiny fingers cramp, slipping
over the sign
Ensemble Nous Vaincrons Le SIDA.
Préservez Notre Avenir.
they stand trying on
aloof faces, yawning
and waiting
for their pictures to be taken.
no one mentions
how they're not in school.
it is hot, beyond hot, so
hot the molecules in
the air keep fainting
and the others fan them and
faint and they keep switching and
I'm waiting for a
moment they(re all down.
nevertheless a parade was
marched, a race was run, a
sheep was won. I shake my
head at the jeans and jackets
of the city kids who look
good when I want to
be naked at the bottom
of a river.
they sweat in a line so long it hurts to
take in, stretching like a snake
filled with poison.
kids swear they're 16, sneak
in; they want the free
t-shirt and baggie of
water abd too-loud
music and another
day gone. so be it
if to get that
they must learn
their results came back
positive.
Recent Events
-Finally used demonstration penises for a purpose other than frat house jokes. The members of our girls' club know how to correctly put on a condom! They also learned about HIV/AIDS and that other STDs exist. It was super awkward to explain, but I feel great that we did it!
-Mouse INSIDE mosquito net. Gross.
-Thanksgiving: Tasty the Turkey finally served his purpose. Inexplicably, we all got a little nostalgic about the ANNOYING-@¤*§ gobble calls that will no longer wake us up hours before dawn every morning (when in K-gou). So we still immitate him all the time. Also on the plates (or pot-lids as the case may be..) were chicken, duck (all self-butchered), stuffing, mashed potatoes, salad, gree-bean salad, bissap-spinach, squash... and desserts!
-Obtained INNER TUBES from the garage for floating down the Gambia. Brilliance.
-Mouse INSIDE mosquito net. Gross.
-Thanksgiving: Tasty the Turkey finally served his purpose. Inexplicably, we all got a little nostalgic about the ANNOYING-@¤*§ gobble calls that will no longer wake us up hours before dawn every morning (when in K-gou). So we still immitate him all the time. Also on the plates (or pot-lids as the case may be..) were chicken, duck (all self-butchered), stuffing, mashed potatoes, salad, gree-bean salad, bissap-spinach, squash... and desserts!
-Obtained INNER TUBES from the garage for floating down the Gambia. Brilliance.
Monday, November 24, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
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.
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