The Quiet American

Africa, Mother of Hurricanes

Most news accounts on Africa focus on the poverty, the violence, and the hunger. It is portrayed as a land where democracy is stiffled by corruption, and where governmental disasters brew. Now, it is also pinpointed as the breeding ground for the hurricanes that hit America and the caribbean so hard. Specfically, of course, West Africa. A recent Reuters article, highlights research currently taking place in Niger, Senegal, and Cape Verde, to discover exactly how the hurricanes form. Although this is a perfectly legitimate research program and atomospheric problem, it reminds me of the fear a couple of years ago about "Africanized" killer bees. Let's hope there will be some positive news about Africa again.

Back to School

As Carol just pointed out, school has started, and I need to, "get [my] name out there to share [my] stories with children eager to learn about the world and its people!" Actually, I did just that over the past week, starting with two sessions for a local teacher/family friend. Everyone talks about the third reason of Peace Corps, which is bringing back what we learned abroad, and it was somewhat fulfilling to begin. The class I visited was studying maps and geography, which gave me the perfect "in" to the lesson plan, but after brainstorming with my friend, I realized there are many subject areas where my experience could be used as a teaching tool ... The only thing that does not come to mind easily is math. We discussed topics such compare/contrast, something her class was starting to work with as a writing/critical thinking technique, and we could easily come up with things to talk about.

The kids were very focused and interested, something I was unsure I would get in a special ed class. I asked the teacher after our first session if the children were always so attentive, because they showed more interest in my experience than many of my own friends! I found it helped to keep things relevent to a child's experience - for instance, when they asked me how long it took to fly there, I told them that I watched three movies. That brought the message across more quickly than if I had told them 10 hours. For any RPCV's considering talking to classrooms, I would recommend keeping it relevant, as well as a few other things:

- Bring photos, they provide a great starting point for stories. If possible, make some large prints, so all the students can see the photo while you are talking.
- If you have any tangible things, bring those as well. But remember, don't bring something you wouldn't mind loosing. Save the masks for home.
- This is your chance to wear native clothes and jewelry!
- Ensure that you are age appropriate. This pertains to what they should be learning, and what will not be too much for them, or for their parents to hear upon the re-telling at home.
- Try to engage the students as much as possible; don't just get up there and speak; ask them questions.

While I didn't get to try translating Dr. Seuss into Pulaar this time, inchallah I will have more opportunities to share with classrooms, and find new ways to extend the experience. I highly recommend this to other RPCV's as well, especially those with a lot of free time and enthusiasm for their countries of service.

Worms and Apples

I am worm-free! Tuesday I went all the way to Stanford, to see a Parasitologist. The good doctor I went to was not Peace Corps pre-approved, but I, as well as my parents and parents doctor friends, feel better knowing that I saw someone who actually knows what Schistosomiasis is, even if I will have to pay for this later. The doctor proclaimed my first test to be a false positive, although it was not quite clear to me how I could have gotten such a high reading. Regardless, he said there was only a .5% chance I still had worms somewhere in my body; I was probably exposed, had a reaction, but did not get infected. He asked me all sorts of fun questions to determine my exposure to schisto, and there's a slight chance that worms could pop up in my system somewhere down the road.

To be on the safe side, I went ahead and took the $84 non-Peace Corps approved Biltricide, a medicine even my pharmacist had never seen. I assured her I knew what I was doing in taking it. Although it was not absolutely necessary to take the medicine, I didn't want to risk the .5% chance I really was infected. One note on biltiricide, which is the recognized treatment: it's a bitch to take. I am still in recovery from taking it yesterday, and most of my day consisted of lying on the couch attempting to watch HBO, and keeping myself from puking. Despite the days of discomfort, I would say it is worth it to be 100% worm-free. At least for now.

For any of you worried that I may have infected Lake Don Pedro, have no fear. During the process that led to my Stanford visit, I met with two family friends, Dr. Baker and Dr. Freeman, both of whom had seen schistosomiasis abroad. Dr. Baker assures me that there is only place in California that has the type of snails that can carry schisto, and that is down in SoCal. So swim free at Lake Don Pedro. Just don't think about the e.coli outbreak they had ten years ago at the swimming pond.

To celebrate my lack of worms, I did what every RPCV is waiting to do: I blew some of my readjustment allowance. Now, since I am unemployed, and writing that down on the medical forms made it seem more realistic, I should be saving every penny. There were two things I wanted to buy when I got home: a computer, and a bike. I'm using my mom's bike for now, so I bought myself a nice, shiny MacBook! It's a beauty, especially since I spent the past two years hunched over broken computers with jammed keypads, mice that didn't work, and lots of viruses. It feels good not to have to burden my computer with Anti-Virus software, because there are no viruses for my Apple to catch! I managed to swing a nice little discount on the computer, and if any RPCV's are wondering about that, contact me. It pays to be poor.

Seeing Salif Keita

Last Thursday I managed to catch a dose of Malian music, in the form of Salif Keita playing a free concert at the Santa Monica pier.  Everyone asked me how I managed to hear about his concert, and, unbelievably, it was while I was sitting at the homeland of celebrity and supermodel shopping, Fred Segal.  I felt entirely out of place there, and picked up an LA Weekly to look a little occupied, and just about dropped the paper when I heard about Keita's upcoming concert. 

While I was in Senegal, I came to be pretty biased against actual Senegalese music, especially the mbalax style popularized by Yousou Ndour and Vivian.  Mbalax is essentially African Pop Music, with a lot of Tam Tams and the same beats thrown over and over, and lots of silly dancing.  The opening (American) act for the Salif Keita concert turned out to be some sort of fan of Mbalax dancing, and had two girls copying the moves throughout her show, and a band comprised partly of Senegalese.  Malian music, in my eyes, is more grounded in tradition, and plain not so cheesy.  Last years Vanity Fair music issue featured Youssou Ndour, the father of Senegalese Pop, Babaa Maal, who plays a mix of traditional Pulaar and the same Pop, and, of course Salif Keita, and now I had the chance to see him live, in America, for free, when I never managed to see him play in Africa.

My friends and I came very close to seeing Babaa Maal play in Bakel not long after I arrived in my village.  He had a small tour of Senegal running straight through the Fouta (Northern Senegal) to Kidira.  My first trip away from my village to Bakel, we managed to pick up tickets to Babaa Maal for 4 bucks, but never made it.  We used the tickets instead to bribe our bus drivers, and thanks to missing out on the concert, we had free baggage between Bakel and Tamba for the rest of our time out there.

Since I blew my one chance to see a well-known act in Africa, I jumped at the chance to see one back in America.  I arrived at the pier so early, no one even recognized the name Salif Keita.  After killing some time by walking around the beach, I settled in for the night, an hour before even the opening act.  Slowly people trickled in, and amongst the beach crowd, I started to see something I hadn't for over a month: diskettetes! (Senegalese slang for young women who dress up in tight clothing).  Girls wearing outfits I KNEW had to come from West Africa, and the sounds of Wow, Wow, Wow (Yes in Wolof).  It seemed that more African-Americans were wearing traditional dress than the Africans themselves; the people in the skintight outfits were shouting in Wolof and French, and the people in grand boubous were speaking in English.  I even managed to spot a boubou made entirely out of denim, worn by a man who definately did not look as if he were straight from Senegal.  While I wanted to reach out and start speaking the few words of Wolof I knew (sweet, good, crazy, etc), or try a little Pulaar, I also wondered what my place was.  I clearly did not belong due to my white-ness, but I felt more at home seeing and hearing bits of W. Africa, than I did with the shorts-wearing, fancy bottled-water-carrying, folded-seat, baby-stroller crowd. 

Luckily, once Salif started singing,the divisions were not quite so apparent, and honestly, the entire crowd was so mesmorized that I did not have time to wonder about where I fit in.  I heard people say that his concert was the best concert they had ever been to, which is a pretty big thing to say in LA, the land of entertainment.  The only dissapointment music-wise I had was that the concert ended after three hours, when I was used to hearing music continue all night long in Africa. 

This was the other dissapoint.  Trying to see Salif at the end of the concert.  Either the record company or he required that one had to purchase his new album there in order to see him in person.  I wanted him to sign something for my village, and I was pushed away from his visiting area by his crew of bodyguards.  That was just a friendly reminder that I'm not in Africa anymore. 

While I was attempting to get my audience with Salif, I ran into a group of Malian RPCV's.  When I told them I returned a month ago, they all said they were sorry, because coming home is the worst part of the Peace Corps.  I asked one girl if things ever got any better, and she said not really, and she's been home for over a year.  As she put it, "I'm on the fringe of society."  Until, of course, another concert rolls around and we can fit in again for a few hours.

Revenge of the Dirt People

Two weeks ago was my family's annual houseboat trip (photos are posted here) at Lake Don Pedro, California.  Good times were had by all, and I was glad to have returned to America in time to attend.  My bruises from dueling kayaks and falling of my skis have finally begun to fade, but my memories have not.  Like most trips, of course, it is not the best times that remain fresh, but the disaster at the end, which I like to call, "Revenge of the Dirt People".

We created a bit of false rivalry with the "dirt people", or people who camp in the dirt, and it got tossed around a lot as a term during the trip.  For example, "Those dirt people won't shut up and go to bed."  Well, the dirt people (we think) got their revenge in the end, after being called that all weekend.

When it came time to leave, my brother discovered that someone had drained all the gas out of his Explorer.  He picked up his friend and I, along with our wave runners, and we drove to the Houseboat Mini-Mart, hoping to find gas and fix the problem.  As soon as Steve started to pump gas, it went right through the car, and fell onto the ground.  Whoever stole all the gas managed to cut the gas line while doing it.  At that moment, we realized our trip home got much longer.  Luckily, my parents saw us, and a tow truck showed up, although this was after a lot of waiting.  Luckily as well, the Mini-Mart had ice cream and a shady place to sit. 

Once home, my brother borrowed my grandfather's Buick to return to Davis, and had the Explorer sent straight to the shop.  The Buick is, of course, the infamous Buick that blew out a tire during my first driving experience in two years.  But it was his only option.  The car pulled through, and got him back safely to Davis.  Five days and $140 later, the shop fixed the Explorer, and Steve came back to pick it up, and to return the Buick.  Steve called me on his way home, and asked, "In all your time driving, has the Check Engine light come on?"  Immediately after his call, the car was dead.  A few hours later, I got another call; the tow truck had died.

We will never know who was desperate enough to steal the gas that was in Steve's car.  I rest a little easier turning into a joke, and blaming it on the revenge of the dirt people.  I bet, or at least hope, that the people who stole the gas never imagined the frustrations their actions would cause.  It just is bewildering to me, because as poor as the people in Africa were, I never experienced gas theft, an ultimate act of desperation.  It took a return to good old California.  Coincidentally, Modesto has the highest auto theft rate in the country.