Mud Hut Dreams

Mali: Land of Sand

Sun, 03 Jun 2007 20:52:43 GMT

The road to Timbuktu

Ah, Mali. Gate to the mighty Sahara, keeper of Tuareg culture, home to the largest mud structure in the world. I'm not exactly sure why I wanted to go to a country whose greatest claim to fame was that it held the largest mud structure in the world, but heck, that's got to be a lot of mud, right? Everything I'd heard of Mali made it sound so empty and desolate, I had to investigate and see what was really there--which mostly turned out to be a lot of emptiness and desolation. But also all that other fun desert stuff, like camels and Tuaregs and magical nights under desert stars and even a few cactii. So even though my friend Lisa and I had just finished two satisfying but gruelling years in Senegal being deprived of modern conveniences, only to go to a country even more (WAY MORE) lacking in everything, we had a really fantastic time. Well, until she almost died. But that's another story.

Both of us were a little hesitant about going to Mali, since the embassy had sent us warnings not to go near Timbuktu due to rebel activity and highway banditry, and of course the only reason we were going to Mali was to say we'd been to Timbuktu. The thought of spending 10 days in this unknown, dusty, poor desert country without even going to Timbuktu wasn't so appealing, so we thought, well what the hell. We'll go anyway. Our trip began in the Dakar (capital of Senegal) airport, where we met 3 other Western travelers, and after a brief chat we were all quite relieved to know we weren't the only idiots out there going to Mali in the hottest of the hot season when all guidebooks say DON'T GO. Did I mention we were in an airport? This is because, given our options, Lisa and I decided to splurge and fly to Bamako (capital of Mali). Option 1 was taking a bus: a 5 day nightmare that usually ended in disaster somewhere near the border. Option 2 was the train: some German friends we met went to the train station to ask at what time the train was arriving, and the woman said, "oh I have no idea," and they said "but it's a train," and she said, "well it depends on if the train derails or not today." So, we flew.

Interestingly enough, this was a Muslim airline flying from one Muslim country to an even more Muslim country, and they served pork on the plane. And NO ONE KNEW! Lisa and I watched with slack jaws as the very devout but unsuspecting Muslim passengers shoveled the pork quiche in their previously untainted mouths.

Anyway, two of the Westerners we met in Dakar were Canadian, and we all wanted to see the same things in Mali, so we kept traveling together, and that way we could sort of pretend we were Canadian, too. Bamako was about the size of my high school football stadium, so we left town the next day. For the horrific bus trip that ensued, see entry "Mali and the Bus of Doom." It ended with us stranded in a bus station at 4am, exhausted, miserable, hungry, cramped, a day late, frightened, and quite, quite sure that if all transportation in Mali was like that, there wasn't a chance in hell we were going all the way to Timbuktu. But as chance had it, there just happened to be a guy in the bus station who had a car and driver for rent, and after two hours of negotiating, the car was ours! And even better, it was a brand new Toyota Land Cruiser, possibly even the Eddie Bauer edition. The four of us piled in and took the smoothest ride of our lives to the fabled city of Timbuktu.

Salt caravan coming from the Sahara

I don't think I've emphasized just how difficult it is to get there if you don't have our luck. Once you get to Africa, and get to Mali, and get to Bamako, and get to the base town Mopti, taking hell-buses or train wrecks the whole way, then the true difficulty begins. Since Timbuktu is so remote (and frankly uninteresting), hardly any public cars go there. So you have to wait days just to get a seat in a packed, ancient Land Rover (the terrain is too rough for anything but a Land Rover). We met a couple girls who had waited two days on the side of the road, and another group of Peace Corps volunteers whose trip had taken 17 hours from Mopti (ours took 6). And of course, they drive like hellions, so your chances of surviving the trip are slim at best. Not to mention the reputed bandits and rebels the whole way. But, you do have options...you can take a camel (at least six days of excruciating pain and boredom) or a boat (three days of having to poop over the edge and sleep on a rice sack).

What was Timbuktu like? Hundreds of years ago it was famed as a city of gold, a center of great learning and knowledge, an oasis of greatness in the middle of the desert. Today it is...not quite so impressive. But we still had a wonderful time. Lisa and I had carried a bottle of champagne from Senegal to toast our arrival if we ever made it. After our champagne toast we tried to walk around town, but the heat was so intense, we made it about 10 feet outside of the hotel before having to turn around and sleep three hours under a fan. Timbuktu is small, the streets are all thick sand, the buildings are old and crumbling, but there are several ancient mosques and sites, and there's certainly a feel of being in the last place on Earth. It's also about the least touristy place on Earth. We thought there'd be tons of restaurants and hotels and travelers, but nope. Just a lot of sand. We only spent one night there, but that night we sat out under the stars at the Tuareg encampment near our hotel, drinking tea with the nomads and listening to their tales of crossing the Sahara on camel. The one and only employee at the hotel cooked us a delicious bread and meat-sauce dish, and we fell asleep very, very contented.

Djenne mud mosque

We made it back to Mopti in one piece, and continued with the Canadians to Djenne, home of the UNESCO World Heritage site, the giant mud mosque. It's what is sounds like: a huge mosque made entirely of mud and re-mudded every year. In fact, the whole town was made of mud, and it was so old and un-modern that I think Jesus would have looked out of place there. It was incredible. You know how you always wonder what it would be like to go back in time and see how people really lived? Well, go to Djenne.

A Dogon cliff village

Our next adventure was a three-day trek in Dogon country. Mali is pretty much the flattest, most desert-like country you could imagine, but there is one giant, thousand foot cliff that runs about two hundred miles across the country. The Dogon people have made their homes in the cliff, and live today much as Fred Flintstone. We visited many of these villages on our trek (trekking up cliffs in 140 degree weather is not advised in the guidebook), and it was a shock how primitively the people lived, even to us seasoned Peace Corps volunteers (and Canadians). I mean, I thought MY village was primitive! If you ever wondered what it would be like to live in the past, and are magically transported to Djenne, then wish to go even further into the past, and you might end up in something like modern-day Dogon country. It was absolutely fascinating. The people were warm and friendly, shared their millet beer with us, and always offered us smiles. Each night we camped out on the roof of a basic hostel, because it was too hot to sleep indoors. My favorite memory was touring a village and finding some children having a blast using a slick rock face as their playground slide. Here's one of the Canadians trying it out:

Thus ended our Mali adventure. Oh wait...the near death part. How could I forget. (rest of story to come...)

Cincinnati

Mon, 14 May 2007 02:56:48 GMT

So, I haven't written in quite a while, but a lot's been happening. Never a dull moment when you're done with Peace Corps and bumming around Africa til your money runs out! Lots of good stories to tell, of Mali, and Timbuktu, and Morocco; you'll laugh, you'll cry, but at a later date cause I'm too tired to write it all tonight...

In today's news, it's my birthday! Yay. 25 years old. My grand plan was to triumphantly return home as the sun sets over the Asheville airport, poignantly arriving on both my birthday AND Mother's Day, and eat a delicious home cooked meal and entertain all with my tales of Africa. Instead, I am at the Marriott Inn next to the airport in Cincinnati. Surprise! Flight delays! It turns out I won't get home til tomorrow, just plain May 14th, not even ONE holiday, let alone TWO. However, I would like to take this opportunity to fully express how much I love America (in particular, its excellent customer service). Let me expand on this point by citing examples of the last two times my travel plans went wrong:

Exhibit One: MALI and the BUS OF DOOM

Now, I realize that there are always delays and cancellations and that's just a part of life, be you in West Africa or California...what's REALLY telling about how well a country is run is how it deals with its delays and cancellations. So, let me describe a horrific tale of pain and desperation that is the normal Malian bus experience. My friends and I reserved tickets in advance, but when we showed up, our bus was delayed twice, and then just canceled. No apologies. They even got angry at US. So we found another bus that was supposed to leave at 9am, and actually left at 2pm. The ride was supposed to take 7 hours, and it took 14. No apologies. In fact, around midnight the bus just 'decided' to switch destinations entirely, and instead of going to the town of Mopti we'd all bought tickets for, went to Burkina Faso! I mean, it's a completely different country!! So they kicked off everyone going to Mopti (which was, of course, everyone) on the side of the road in the pitch black darkness somewhere in the Sub-saharan wastelands. There were lots of men with guns just standing around. And it smelled strongly of bodily functions. The four of us Western travelers contemplated seting up camp for the night, but managed to flag down another bus and hitch a ride on to Mopti...got there at 4am, stranded in the sketchiest bus depot I've ever seen, down by the river.

Exhibit Two: America and the Complementary Overnight Bag

So compare above story with what happened to me tonight. I don't mean to sound whiny about Mali, I mean, I didn't really expect to find stellar customer service in Africa. I only mention it to illustrate how borderline-absurdly wonderous American business can be and how often we take it for granted. So, my flight was delayed, causing me to miss my connecting flight to North Carolina. The airline pilot came on the intercom about every 10 minutes to fully explain the situation, apologize profusely for the delay, and see if the flight staff could be of service in any way. Once I got to Cincinnati, not only did Delta get me a free night in a hotel suite complete with kitchen and whirlpool, a free shuttle there and back, and vouchers to buy as much Ben and Jerrys and Bacardi as I could handle, they gave me a complementary overnight bag, complete with (I've listed everything for all my friends still in Senegal who will never believe it): T shirt, toiletries bag, shaving cream, razors, french-milled soaps and the like, hairbrush, Qtips, laundry detergent, and the icing on the cake, an APOLOGY NOTE! And a CANDY WELCOME BAG! And free microwave popcorn for my microwave! WTF??! This is amazing to me. This is almost more than I think I deserve for just getting bumped on a flight. I really would have been happy with a comfy airport couch to spend the night on. But who'd turn down all that? I mean, if you can't spend your birthday with those you love, second best is to spend it lounging in your king-sized bed watching movies and getting toasted on Bacardi, courtesy of Delta!

More Pictures

Sat, 31 Mar 2007 13:50:28 GMT

Just a few more pictures of my last day and my Chiquita banana outfit...

Last Day

Sat, 31 Mar 2007 13:34:44 GMT

Ah, the end of an era. I am now officially moved out of my village. The last donkey cart has been loaded and set off into the sunset. On my final day, my friends Anne and Shannon (thank her for the photos) came with me. It was charmed from the start; our bus from Kaolack, usually crammed full of snotty children, vomiting babies, chickens pecking your feet, goats bleating in your ear, and two fat cheb mamas on either side of you, was shockingly and orderly filled with German tourists. The luggage had been stacked with precision care. Each tourist maintained their personal space and spoke in polite, indoor voices. I knew immediately this was one trip I wouldn't end up getting peed on.

So when we made it to my village, we were unusually refreshed and in good spirits. Children who usually taunted us from a safe distance were polite for the first time. We began the rounds, visiting every compound to say goodbye. The village had pooled money and bought me a "charming" (ahem) bubu and plastic flip flops and dressed me up to look like the Chiquita banana lady. I went around handing out kola nuts and candy. It was overall a big hit. Everyone pretended to be shocked I was leaving. They said nice things like I was destined to marry rich and have many children. My two best friends in the village who had moved away several months happened to be back visiting. My cat showed up after a long absence and I got to say goodbye. Ah, I begin to choke up thinking back on it. It was a touching goodbye. (I mean the whole village, not just the cat).

I'll just wrap things up by saying that in all the emotional hubub, we forgot to drink water in the 110 degree scorching sun, and after 5 straight hours in direct sunlight we returned to Kaolack, probably 90 percent dead. I honestly wasn't sure if I was going to make it. It took me 3 days to be able to fully move again. But I guess the good thing about a heat wave here is, I'M GOING HOME TO NORTH CAROLINA WEATHER!

Some pictures of my latest projects, the veggie garden mural and chalkboard, and the school garden well:

ar

The Good and the Bad

Thu, 08 Mar 2007 17:44:47 GMT

Let me start with the good news. I'm in Dakar for my Close of Service conference, which means basically I am finished!! Just a few babies to kiss, kola nuts to hand around, and I am outta here. My village has been talking for months about the going away party (dancing, check. drumming, check.) they are going to throw for me. Don't confuse this with generosity; they'll make me pay for everything. But the thought is there I suppose. I had been envisioning sneaking out at the crack of dawn before the chickens wake up and alert everyone to my presence, but I agree now it's best to have a real ceremony, and it will be nice to hear lots of speeches about how great I am. Not that I really am, but Senegalese are known for their over-the-top flattery. The volunteer before me was an older, retired woman who had lots of personal money and no grandchildren, so when she left she handed out bicycles. BICYCLES. This is what my villagers are assuming they'll get when I leave. However, I will be giving out nuts instead. I intend to get away with this by laughing it off, as everyone keeps talking about what a great sense of humor the Senegalese have. I don't know if they'll give me a going-away present. A volunteer who finished and left when I came to country was telling me that her family tried to give her a goat to take back to America and share with her family. She explained goats aren't allowed on a plane. Her villagers patiently explained that that's why you tie the goat on TOP of the airplane. I don't know what eventually happened to the goat.

So, the bad news. A friend and I were mugged a few weeks ago and my purse was stolen with money, camera, phone, etc. It wasn't the end of the world. But it does mean no more photos on the blog. I need a camera rather badly to take final picture of my village and pictures of my travels to Mali and Morocco, but I intend on being with other Americans most of this time and they've agreed to take photos and give me copies. I know I could have gotten mugged anywhere, but being so close to the end of my service, it sort of pushed me over the edge a little. Silver lining: my host family freaked out when I told them, cried their eyes out (Senegalese are like Chuck Norris. They never cry), and have been cooking me good food and giving me my space ever since. This mugging was actually the only down point to an otherwise fantastic softball EXTRAVAGANZA. Every year for a long weekend 25 softball teams from all over West Africa (mostly Americans, like embassy workers) gather at the American Club in Dakar for a social tournament. Social means beer on the field is ok and you can dress like pirates. There were Peace Corps teams from Senegal, Mauritania, Mali, and Gambia. There is also imported snack food like Doritos and Nerds. I ate about 200 hotdogs. My team, Kaolack Region, did the best of all PC Senegal teams and actually came in 4th overall. No thanks to me, of course, though I did get put in a few times when we were clearly loosing anyway. There was an awards banquet the last night, with raffled prizes. Now, for the whole weekend I practically hadn't seen a single Senegalese person, was eating FunDip, and speaking English. So I was a little shaken out of my false sense of home when at the raffle another PCV won "His Weight in Water." And everyone clapped like mad. Ummm...WHAT? This country is so dry and so poor that even diplomats get excited about the chance to get 150 lbs of free WATER? You had to drive to a warehouse in the suburbs just to pick it up!! What on earth would you DO with all that water?? It's only worth about 12 dollars anyway! In the end though the free Sushi Dinner prize was won by the man who owned the Sushi Dinner restaurant, so he traded for the water.

Well I believe I have my travel plans set, and it looks good. Really good. I'll finish in Senegal April 16th, fly to Bamako, Mali (more exotic to go overland, but that means 3 days in a schoolbus from 1930, sleeping on the side of the road, and getting peed on by goats strapped on top) and spend 10 days exploring the ancient cliff-dwelling Dogon country and Timbuktu. Of course, Mali is huge and basically roadless so once we get there, there'll still be plenty of horrific bus travel/traveling with livestock. Then, fly back to Dakar, and on to Morocco! This is the creme de la creme of the developing world. There's Pizza Hut. As well as beautiful mountains, desert, and beaches, delicious food, camel treks, Arabian spas, exotic music, and lots of things to buy. And it's cheap. I feel like it will be a nice transition to still be in Africa, but enjoy it.

More news to come in the next few days...

After Peace Corps!

Sat, 03 Feb 2007 15:58:34 GMT

I dread writing this entry. But I know I’m going to get asked a million times what I’m doing after Peace Corps, so here’s my best shot. With two months left, I feel as though I should have some sort of “plan.” And yet, not really.

My original goals for after my service were:
Be hired into a well-paying, rewarding job with a respected international conservation organization.
Get a Master’s in Environmental Management.

Now, my goals are:
get healthy.
get a car.

Actually, I do still have pretty substantial goals. I’ve just realized that applying for grad schools and/or respected jobs is not possible from a mud hut. Also, the more I think about it, the more I want to take advantage of this unhindered time in my life to visit family and friends, such as those who got married and to who’s wedding I did not go (Rachel. Allison.), get a whole new everything (my entire wardrobe is full of holes and mice pee stains, my computer broke before I even left, I never even had a car), and maybe eat a few truckloads of vegetables. So when I completely my service April 16th, I hopefully plan on traveling around West Africa for a few weeks, visiting my friend Jerome in France for a little while, coming home to WNC for the summer and getting a part-time job or taking pre-requisite grad school classes and visiting people on the weekends. After the two years I’ve had here, just sitting in a comfortable chair and eating a taco would make me ecstatic, let alone beginning my professional career. One of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned here is not to be in any rush. Focus on enjoying life, no matter what you are doing. Oh, don’t worry, I still have my exotic schemes…my latest plan is to sail around the world for 8 months getting paid to visit far-off lands and write about it. Don’t go thinking I can’t do it, didn’t I just spend 2 years the only white person in a remote African village! But actually, I am looking forward to settling down sometime in the next year, I’d like to start a master’s program in 2008. My work here has exposed me to a lot of different career fields, and what I’ve learned has drastically influenced what I want to do in life. Instead of sustainable development (unbelievable riddled with corruption, moral dilemmas, insecurity), I’ve found that the only interest of mine that’s held up under all the tests is nature conservation.
So, I’ve been doing as much research as I can when I get a chance to go to the internet cafe, but I’d also like you as you all for your input. Have you come across any relevant grad programs I should check out? Or heard of an interesting organization I should apply to? Or a nice part-time job for the summer? I appreciate your suggestions, you people in the “real” world, and I will see all of you before you know it!

Tabaski

Tue, 09 Jan 2007 12:53:37 GMT

It’s not a delicious hot sauce. It’s the biggest Muslim holiday of the year! And this year it weirdly fell on New Year’s Eve, making a doubly big holiday! To Senegalese Muslims, Tabaski means reliving the ancient story of God’s sparing Abraham from sacrificing his only son and benevolently replacing him with a ram, by buying and slaughtering a ram of their own. To me, Tabaski means getting sick from rancid ram meat. It’s a festive time though and a lot of fun, as well as a great photo op. I visited every family in my village to distribute kola nuts and wish them happy holidays, and witnessed about 50 ram slaughterings in exchange. I had to take a photo of each one. Thank God for digital cameras. As the tradition goes, each family must purchase a ram or be ostracized forever. However, rams run anywhere from $60 to $100! Your average peanut farmer does not have that kind of money. But the pressure for a ram is so great families sacrifice basic essentials such as medicine and abundant food to throw a huge Tabaski bash complete with new hair weaves and bubus. According to global Muslim traditions, one third of the meat is for the family, a third for friends, and a third for the poor. But wait a minute…they ARE the poor! Save maybe Sudanese refugees they’re about as poor as it gets. Who do they give the meat to? Each other? The same thing happened at Ramadan, when my villagers told me they were fasting in order to know what life is like for the poor of the world. I didn’t know how to break it to them that THEY were the poor of the world. They were who every other Muslim in the world fasts for. I really feel like Islam needs to lighten up a little on the charity rules; if you ARE the poor I really think it’s ok to just enjoy the few meager pleasures you can get.

But anyway, nice as Tabaski was, I did get quite sick. I only had to glance at the blobs of undercooked meat floating in oil to know I was in for trouble. But it’s their Thanksgiving, it’s the one day of the year when everyone eats as much as they possibly can and generously offers food to everyone. To refuse to eat is just unheard of. So I tried to discretely nibble; that didn’t work. I finally gave up and forced food down. But it got worse! Turns out all 3 of my host moms had each cooked a meal; we had so far only eaten one. So I had to stay and equally stuff myself with the other two’s cooking. EVERY single time my family has cooked meat (blessedly few times) I’ve gotten violently ill. So has everyone else in the family. Oh for a nice grill.

It's still there.

Tue, 09 Jan 2007 10:57:39 GMT

Perhaps you are eagerly awaiting the results of my procedure to see if I will be horribly disfigured, or maybe even have some super cool lightening-bolt scar. Well…neither. Currently I (still) have a big mole on the side of my face, and here is why. Before surgery I raised several questions to the dermatologist, expressing my hesitation due to lack of information, and he then agreed yes, there was really no need to get the mole removed at all, and Dakar certainly wasn’t the place to have it done, and he certainly wasn’t the doctor to do it, since he admittedly wasn’t very talented at making subtle scars. WHAT??? Where was that answer a YEAR ago when I first raised questions about it?? Or a MONTH ago when he himself told me to let him remove it asap? If I hadn’t raised questions would he have just cut the thing out unnecessarily and left a huge scar? Clearly, after two years I still am at a total loss for how things work here. I am just baffled. But, I guess, hurray! Am really, really, really, relieved and glad there’s no health risk and everything’s fine. As long as I keep getting it monitored there may never be a need for removal.

And I forgot to mention the weirdest part of this whole ordeal. The ethnic Pulaars (desert herders) of which there are many in my village, have a scarification ritual performed to proposedly alleviate tension and negative spirits in the mind; everyone has it done. It consists of cutting small scars on either side of the eyes, exactly where my mole was! Coincidence…? When I tried to explain to the villagers why I was going to Dakar (the intricacies of melanoma are not exactly known or understood by rural Africans) they grew very confused, and then took it to mean I was undergoing the ritual, and were overjoyed! Yet, still slightly confused and troubled that I only intended to do it on one side of my face. They kept insisting that for the evil spirits to be cast out I had to get scars on both sides, and were quite exasperated that such a stupid American didn’t understand such a basic concept. YOU try explaining precautionary mole removal to a woman with a goiter the size of a melon on her neck.

Feeling like Yossarian

Sun, 07 Jan 2007 18:23:50 GMT

I just got to Dakar today, for quite a chunk of time, maybe 10 days. The reason? I have a mole on my face that has been "acting funny" and needs to be removed. I think. As I'm no doctor I really have no idea what needs to happen. For many months now this mole has been growing and now looks like a very red and angry old man. It also periodically crusts over and falls off. Literally, the whole thing falls off my face and then regrows, often accomanied by profuse amounts of blood and weird sensations. Naturally, I began to grow worried. I contacted our medical staff several times, and received such straight-forward answers as "oh god no, NEVER get it removed here," followed by "why don't you just get it removed here?" followed by "well what do YOU want to do?" I don't know! I'm not a doctor, it's not like choosing vanilla or rocky road, this is my health at stake! I can't just make a decision based on no information whatsoever. So I consulted with several knowledgable friends and people with mole experience, who urged me to get it removed as soon as possible. This seemed wise to me. However, that means getting it removed in Africa, where you are probably more likely to die from going to the hospital than from whatever ails you. When I queried the medical staff, I got a suspiciously familar jumble of responses; "oh it's fine to get it done here! No problem!" to "We strongly recommend you not have this procedure done in Dakar," to "well what do YOU think you should do?" So here's what I was left with, and mind you, no credentials whatsoever to help me decide; which is the greater risk, to wait 4 or 5 months and have it removed in the US, though it could be melanoma and in that case very serious, or to have it removed immediately under less than ideal circumstances? Potential skin cancer vs potential gangrenous infection/disfiguring scar? Vanilla or rocky road? Rocky road please, just hold the gangrene.

APPOLOGIES ARE IN ORDER

Thu, 28 Dec 2006 14:40:02 GMT

It would probably be wise of me to discontinue this blog since I’m sure in the preceding months you’ve all given me up for dead or running around crazy in the bush with a stick through my nose. But for those of you still loyal enough to check for updates, I am happy to say I am alive and healthy and my posting silence has not been due to any exotic diseases, just our computer being broken. So here I shall attempt to recreate a little picture of what has been going on lately. I’ll hurry before the computer breaks again.

PLAYING HOST

Not a lot of my friends have come to visit, which shouldn’t come as a surprise to me since I complained to them all at length about the heat, giardia, diahrea, intestinal worms, sandstorms, poisonous snakes, famine, unreliable transportation, flatness, extreme poverty, scorpions, spiders, rats, garbage fields, harassment, and general lack of good things to see here. However, either the other volunteers sugar-coated it, or conned their friends and family into coming, usually by euphemistically selling it as an “African adventure” instead of a “nice vacation.” A lot of these guests end up visiting my area and my village, since it is basically exactly what you always imagined an African village to look like. I’ve gotten many comments of the sort, “They ACTUALLY carry stuff on their heads? The women ACTUALLY wash their clothes by the river topless? That cow was ACTUALLY killed by a hyena? They REALLY don’t have cars/phones/TVs/shoes/McDonalds? Is that man REALLY…?” Yes, it’s all true. We hear all the time about how the world is getting smaller and cultures are homogenizing into one consumerism blob, but I will tell you this: not Africa. Life goes on in Ngekhokh much as it did thousands of years ago. I like to say they are at the “First Little Pig” stage of development, meaning their primary building material is straw, not yet sticks or ah, glorious brick. It is refreshing in a way to see a place that’s holding strong to its own culture and traditions and hasn’t become Westernized. Unfortunately that’s not out of cultural pride but just that they haven’t been given the opportunity.

Suffice to say for all these reasons it DOES make for a fascinating visit. Above is an example of visitors experiencing the great “African Adventure”: public transportation. They weren’t smiling so much by the end of the ride but they certainly had a great story to tell! We also took a much more comfortable ride through the mangrove delta on a birdwatching trip.

Musings

Thu, 19 Oct 2006 17:56:44 GMT

Senegalese do not understand why we are here.

A wealthy, healthy white girl at the prime of her life, unmarried, childless, decides to abandon all her Western blessings to move to a shack in a backwater African village. They think I'm crazy, and when you put it that way, it sounds pretty crazy to me, too. Especially when I'm sitting in said shack thinking, "why on Earth AM I here?"

So, to make sense of why I'm there, as well as all the other American Peace Corps volunteers, they mostly think we're crazy or at best, eccentric. Their other explanation, is that we're spies. Many, many times people have told me they are well aware of the fact my program is a cover for the CIA. This is news to me, and I wish it were the case, as it would make my life much more interesting. I respond by reminding them that of all the places my spy organization might send me to discover the secrets behind the next fusion bomb, or plot to take over the world, Ngekhokh is probably not it. About the only undercover information I could get there is secret goat breeding tactics.

The other explanation we hear a lot is that we have been sent to Senegal to learn Wolof, a highly desired language in America, so that we may go home and make a lot of money teaching it there. A typical conversation:

Chiek: So, how many people in America speak Wolof? Like, half, right?
Megan, speechless: There are 300 million people in America. Maybe 50 have even heard of Wolof.
Chiek: So what about Serere (even more obscure language)?
Megan: Maybe 3.
Chiek, slyly, thinking he's got me: Well then, tell me, why is is that every American I've ever met speaks Wolof!

My other thought of the day: I LOVE Japan! It is my new obsession. This probably is due to the Japanese volunteers here. There are a few scattered Italians and French volunteers, mostly in big cities, usually here for only a few weeks, so Japan is the only country that operates a program very similar to the American Peace Corps. But, like most things Japanese, it's a lot better. Every time I meet one of them, they are so happy, and calm, and friendly, and LOVE working in Senegal. Now, give me any rational American, even the most open-minded, adaptable, patient one you can find, and they will want to punch someone here in about 5 minutes. Yet the Japanese volunteers manage to thrive and integrate. For a while, I entertained the idea of applying for the JET program to teach English in Japan for a year, and just go straight there when I finish in Senegal. It helped that the program provides free flights, lodging, and expenses, as well as a 30,000 dollar almost tax-free salary. But, you have to apply while in the USA, so I had to drop that idea. But I still get excited at the mere idea of Japan.

RAMADAN...or, How I Know My Village Isn't Muslim

Thu, 19 Oct 2006 17:32:39 GMT

Sure, they claim to be followers of the Islamic faith. But residents of Ngekhokh are, beyond doubt, animist. If you ask me, I think they’re into the whole Islam thing for the goat meat. How do I know this? A sampling:

1. They told me I could no longer sleep outside in the rainy season because the flying men and dwarves living in seasonal ponds would come get me.
2. They told me my cannery (large clay pot used for storing drinking water) was where angels came to drink, so I must always keep it full. I use it as a dirty laundry hamper.
3. During the holy month of Ramadan when everyone fasts dawn to dusk, I brought home a large bucket of curdled milk, a local delicacy (not really my thing), around noonish, and everyone immediately helped themselves to a glass. I said, “aren’t you supposed to be fasting…?”
4. When I asked my work counterpart if everyone in the village fasted faithfully, he just laughed and laughed and laughed.
5. Not one person in my compound has ever performed the prayer or said more than 5 words from the Koran, in a country where small boys can recite the entire Koran, in Arabic, without understanding a word

Ramadan is a special time in the village, however, much like Christmas season for us Christians. Last year, I decide to fast with my villagers several days to show solidarity with them. They laughed at me. So this year, I decided to be true to my religious background and not fast. They laughed at me. The general lesson I get from this country, reinforced on an almost daily basis, is “damned if you do, damned if you don’t.” Now, for one lunar month, all the Muslims and animists claiming to be Muslim do a pretty passable job not eating, drinking, smoking, having sex, or being unkind to each other from sunup til sundown, when, of course, all hell breaks loose and you can do whatever you want. Sundown’s actually kind of a fun time, it feels festive, and the food eaten is way better than the rest of the year. In fact, villagers consume about twice the amount of food they usually do (they eat “lunch” at sundown, and “dinner” a few hours later, plus lots of snacking, and “breakfast” before sunup). There’s several clauses in the fasting rules, one being you can eat and drink while travelling. I think this was originally for gruelling camel treks through the Sahara when if you didn’t eat, you died, not really hopping on a minibus to the next town over. But you should see those Senegalese eat while travelling!

People ask me all the time if I’m fasting, and for the longest time I said no, of course not, I’m Catholic (here, the word is synonymous with Christian). UNTIL, I found out that Senegalese Catholics not only fast exactly like Muslims do, from dusk til dawn, but do it for the ENTIRE 40 days of Lent, rather than just the meagre Muslim month! Well, I quickly changed my tune, saying I was Christian, but not Catholic. A few educated people then said, Ah, she’s Protestant! And I said, er…not exactly, I’m Episcopalian, which got a bunch of blank stares. I think they thought I was just avoiding the fasting thing.

DIGGING

Sat, 14 Oct 2006 15:47:09 GMT

This is what I came home to after the lush rolling hills and scenic vineyards of Southern France…

Though I will say, it’s nice to be back. The break did wonders for my morale. For the first time in months, I am healthy, clean, and so stuffed with delicious food I actually turned down a milkshake in Dakar. Suddenly things that used to bother me just don’t seem like such a big deal anymore.
And, very importantly, the beginning of October marked the start of a hectic work season that has been keeping me busier than I’ve ever been. Two main events: school starting, and the approval of the grant. Now, when I say “school started,” no doubt you are thinking Monday morning 8AM troupes of excited yet poor youngsters arrived armed with shiny new pencils and greeted by smiling teachers well rested after a long break. No. The first day of school was Sept. 9, and out of 6 teachers, one had bothered to come. One. And three students, out of 200. I went by the school every day to talk about EE to whoever might be hanging around, and found the classes still locked up, goats grazing in the schoolyard, and the school director with his feet up on a desk. He had called the other teachers to find out where they were, and all 5 were “sick.” Now, this being a land of plagues and pestilence, there’s a good chance they really were. There’s a better chance however, they were just waiting around until Korite, a huge Muslim holiday, at the end of the month. Or longer. A week later, one other teacher (who lives in the village) showed up, and a few male students, who cleared the courtyard of weeds. Still no actual teaching though, and that looks like it’ll be a LONG way off.

Last year I couldn’t help but notice that about 7 out of 10 school days there was no school, so I investigated. Turns out Senegal has one of the most liberal vacation policies, with teachers not only receiving over 4 months summer vacation, but several weeks during the school year. On top of this, they get 4 days each for every family wedding, funeral, or baptism, which is rather considerable when you remember your typical villager has about 20 siblings and hundreds of cousins. On top of that, they get one day off a month to collect their pay check; one day to attend non-mandatory conferences, one day to plan lessons, every Senegalese, Muslim, and Christian holiday regardless of religious affiliation, and as many sick days as required, which as mentioned, is about every other day. The few remaining days after all this vacation is deducted, is when teachers hold strikes. How does anything ever get done in this country??? The answer: it doesn't. I don't really blame the school system for being inefficient. What I will never understand, is why the hell a rural African society should have an urban European school model! It seems completely inappropriate and pointless, and clearly does not mesh with Senegalese culture.

I had much more success getting our two gardens going. Since we received the grant money (I say that loosely, as the money has yet to actually make it into the bank, and I’m just fronting my own money for now) my counterpart Laity and I have been swamped with work. We held a village-wide meeting that several people actually came to, to talk about the project plan and collect dues. We met several times with our well-digger Djibi, who refuses to use my real or Senegalese name but just refers to me as “the toubab (whitey),” and have visited many stores in different towns to find the cheapest supplies. At long last, after many setbacks, Djibi actually showed up on the day he said he would, and actually started digging our wells!! I wasn’t sure I would ever actually see the day come. So much can and does go wrong here. But we cleared land, measured the well diameter, and started the foundations of the two wells as of Thursday.

One well, at the primary school, looks very promising. The well at the womens’ group, however, well no one can really guess. From the start we all knew there was a high probability the watertable would be too salty to be of use. This is the problem with the existing well in the garden. However, out of 22 village wells, many very close to our new well site, only the current garden one is salty, leading us to hope it is an isolated problem. Run a geologic test you say? In fact, years ago a German NGO came in and did a test, found a spot with no chance of salt intrusion, villagers dug a well, and of course, that turned out to be the one well that’s too salty. So villagers are pretty untrusting of NGO surveys now. Not to mention the survey costs about 200 dollars, which is the price of digging a well anyway. So screw the survey, my villagers said, we’ll just give it a shot and pray to Allah.

Here we are pulling weeds to prepare the site:

And our well digger Djibi Ndiaye:

And me trying my hand at digging:

Health Update

Tue, 12 Sep 2006 16:52:46 GMT

ANOTHER worm has been gestating in my body, this time on the side of my bottom. Which is why I guess they tell us not to wear underwear in the rainy season. Flies lay eggs in your clothes drying on the line, and before you know it, you’re pulling a slimy worm out of a sore in your butt with tweezers.

Also, had a staph infection on my foot from wading through rice paddy water barefoot with open sores on my feet. I had a sly feeling I’d catch something from that. But there was no other way to get to the village! Probably got shistosomiasis, too, microscopic snails that live in fresh water and get in your skin, eventually making their way to your brain. It’s naturally assumed all volunteers get this, so we are not treated until the end of our service.

finished product

Fri, 11 Aug 2006 13:05:11 GMT

So I finally got around to taking pictures of the finished murals. Am hoping to start a new Ecological Zones of Senegal map mural in my village school once classes resume in October.

little friends

Fri, 11 Aug 2006 12:59:35 GMT

Today is a special day as it marks the end of my amoeba treatment. I am now (maybe) amoeba-free! What are amoebas you ask? Nasty little blobs that hide out in bad meat and little kids' unwashed hands that move into your stomach, lay eggs, and generally have a party. I also was diagnosed with amoebic cysts, which I believe are the larvae, meaning the original amoeba settlers have been camped out for some time. What are the symptoms of amoebas? I'll spare you the details. It's gastro-intestinal and not pleasant. BUT, I have new little friends to take the place vacated by the amoebas, worms. Found out yesterday I have pinworms too. What are the symptoms of pinworm? Again, better to spare you that...it's even more unpleasant. So am off one treatment and onto the next. Just makes me wonder what's next...giardia, dysentary, malaria. Just spare me the tapeworm.

Wonderland

Fri, 11 Aug 2006 12:19:39 GMT

My neighboring volunteer Shannon and I have been working with a water-front village in between our two sites. We’ve been there three times, and I just keep waiting for the bubble to burst. It seems to be the perfect village. In a land riddled with inefficient, often aggressive, lazy, unmotivated villages, Pethe (PEH-ch) stands out as a paragon of natural beauty, charming people, polite children, and successful development projects. On the banks of a river, surrounded by mangroves and friendly farmers tilling their fields, one feels as if entering some enchanted land. Pethe is the seat of the ancient Serere kingdom pre-dating Islam’s arrival in Senegal, and contains the burial place of their last great king. It’s surrounded by a ring of centuries-old baobab trees, and once a year in a great pagan fest, villagers celebrate this burial plot by dumping a millet cake on the grave. Here is a place where animism is still celebrated, and history is cherished. I am working with them on a number of projects, but the one that most excites me is producing a Serere story book. My work counterpart in the village is Chiek Waly Ndaw, who has already taken it upon himself to record dozens of old fables and folktales from the village elders and transcribe them into Serere. The next step is to translate them into French, and have his friend Ass (yes, that is his real name) illustrate them. Waly and Ass have already self-produced an illustrated poetry collection, with no help from Peace Corps, NGOs, or anyone, proving they are extremely capable. Amazing! Shannon and I hope to have this Serere story book produced somewhat professionally, in order to be able to distribute it to schools in the region. Many schools have small libraries, but the only books in them are French translations of European fairytales, which isn’t incredibly applicable to the life of a small village child. So now begins the long, arduous process of consulting NGOs and writing grant applications, looking for the best way to produce the book. This step can be challenging, as we are rarely allowed to leave our villages, and Ngekhokh is somewhat lacking in internet and telephone capabilities. Chiek Waly says he’s still on the drum telephone; Pethe drummers pound out a rythm on drums loud enough to be heard and answered by drummers in another village. A little archaic perhaps...but it’ll do until Google reaches backwater Senegal.
Our other main project is bringing tourism to Pethe. Villagers want to build a “campement,” a sort of small hotel. I doubt however, any tourist has ever set foot anywhere near Pethe, especially as there are no roads, signs, maps, means of communication, or information anywhere about the village. Also, aside from Peace Corps volunteers’ visiting friends and family, the quality of tourists coming to Senegal seems to be a little...lacking. 99% are fat, sunburnt old French people usually looking to stay at a cheap walled-in resort and cavort with beautiful young Senegalese women (and men). Very few would ever be interested in cultural or nature excursions. There is the occasional young European couple who comes here to rough it and experience the real Africa, though not nearly enough to support a hotel in Pethe. Instead, Shannon and I are trying to convince villagers a better idea would be to work with an exisiting tour agency based in a near-by town that would bring tourists on day-trip excursions to Pethe, to see the ancient burial site and experience a traditional village. From there, they could expand into a home-stay program we would advertize in larger tourist hubs, to recruit those few intrepid travellers. And of course, Peace Corps friends and family are more than welcome!

Nafi

Fri, 11 Aug 2006 12:07:57 GMT

This week brought a new addition to the Senghor household, Nafi. I get the feeling I am the only one in the family really excited by this news, however, since children cry and adults flee at the merest glance of her. My friend in Kaolack found her abandoned and crying in the backstreets of Kaolack, and knowing there’s always volunteers in the market for a cat, brought her to our regional house. Getting her back to the village was a challenge…public transportation is a tight squeeze at best, sandwiched between two huge “cheb (rice) mamas” who carry their hefty weight around like a prize and are usually accompanied by several babies or even grown children stuffed about their person in the back of a car. Bringing a kitten, Senegalese equivalent of rabid rat, into the picture makes no one happy. One might think that as Senegalese villagers are daily exposed to scorpions, snakes, hyenas, and spiders, they would be in some sense tough. Not true. They are just as terrified, if not more so, by these creatures as Americans. OK, I can understand scorpions. But kittens? Their animal phobia seems to extend to even the cute and cuddly.
Except for a few children who are still cowering in fear, my family seemed accepting and even excited by my new kitten. They all oohed and aahed the day I brought her, like they’d never seen a kitten before. Most of the children, especially, took a liking to her in the way most children universally do, and proceeded to marvel at how they could pick her up, pet her, and call her and have her respond. Now, at any given moment in Ngekhokh, dozens of wild kittens may be found wandering around the village. Why is it village children have not discovered yet the appeal of a little kitten? Put any little American girl in a village filled with kittens, puppies, baby goats, chicks, and horses, and she would go wild with affection. But my family’s kids seem to distinguish between “village” animals (dull) and “Mari’s” animals (clean and fun).
Of course, there had to be a naming ceremony. Adama, sagely, suggested I call the cat “Muus,” which in Wolof means “cat.” Lira dug a little deeper in her creativity and said I should call it “Bebe” because she was like my baby. All good suggestions, but I settled on Nafi, which is simply a girl’s name. Baba Jen, the chief, pointed out my stupidity my by saying if I was going to give her a person’s name, she had to have a last name, too. So here she is, officially Nafi Senghor.

Rainy season

Sun, 23 Jul 2006 10:55:23 GMT

Thanks for all the great responses to this blog! I'm still new at this so expect lots of changes for a few weeks.All comments ARE visible to anyone, so please keep that in mind when posting comments. Creating a 'web journal' like this is simple and requires no web design or programming knowledge. Go to livejournal.com if you are interested in setting up one for yourself. This is my hut... ...accidentally pink. The rainy season (nawet in Wolof) is upon us.A magical time of year when this... turns into this... The rainy season is a much-welcomed time of year for everyone. For village farmers it is the annual one-shot chance to earn a living and make it big in the millet world. A good harvest means new bu-bus, maybe a little more meat in the bowl, savings to go to America. A bad harvest means plain rice every day, irritable wives, malnurished children, and no chance of ever reaching America. Of course, it also means a lot of work. The average village male spends around 8 or 9 months of the year sitting under a neem tree and drinking sugary tea. The rainy season is the one time of year I see my villagers really active. And when they do get up and work, they work hard. John Deere has not yet reached Ngekhokh; just rusty plows and emaciated horses and short-handled hoes. From 7:30am to 7:30 pm (well, with a 5 hour 'siesta' break in the middle) men, women, children and babies disappear from the village, making it a virtual ghost town, into the fields. After the initial week or two of planting, I've noticed most men tend to settle back under the neem tree and let their wives, grandmas and 5 year old children take over for the rest of the growing season. And no one works on Monday, the day of rest. Not to be confused with Friday, the Muslim day of rest. Not to be confused with Sunday, the Catholic day of rest that is usually ALSO observed. Every morning and evening I take a stroll or jog through the fields, partly to greet the farmers, and partly to have some human contact, as the village empties out entirely. Villagers LOVE to ask me if I can hoe or plow. If I say no, they chuckle about how useless and stupid Americans are. If I say yes, they hand over their tools and ask me to demonstrate, then chuckle about how my hoeing form is completely off. Though each farmer only has a relatively small plot, the fields stretch for miles and miles. Occasionally a put-off villager appears at my door berating me for not returning their greeting while jogging in the fields...even though they were 4 fields over, behind a tree, and inaudible over my Ipod headphones (or "camera," as they insist it is. No amount of convincing will rob them of this notion. Eventually I am just going to hold up my Ipod like a camera and pretend to snap pictures). I like getting out in the fields everyday, to see the change the rains bring over the land. Two days after the first rain the desert is covered in a fine green haze, that gets fuller and more verdant with each subsequent rain. The environment goes from 'arid' to 'pastoral' to 'jungle' to 'swamp.' The cows and goats get fatter and fatter too, having something more than cardboard and tumbleweeds to munch on. The mosquitos, toads, and centipedes appear in apocalyptic swarps. Rains pour into my hut, through the new thatch roof that Aliou apparently did crap job constructing. It's a wild time of year, but the physical change and resulting beauty is well worth any hardships. This is the view out my back door during our first sandstorm, signaling the beginning of the rainy season. It's about 4pm.

Attaya

Tue, 18 Jul 2006 18:57:04 GMT

Attaya, my cat of one year, recently passed away while I was out of the village for a few days. I came home and greeted my family and Aliou told me the news, that she had been attacked by a dog and they had tried to take care of her for a few days, but she died from the wounds. My family was very understanding and comforting about this, which is a little odd, most Senegalese hate cats (my villagers have been known to eat the odd cat or two), and some of my volunteer friends have been laughed at when their cat died. "Attaya" is a Wolof word, meaning "tea". Making tea is a ceremony that is performed several times a day and is a large part of Senegalese culture. My family never really understood the concept of naming a cat, especially after a food instead of giving it a people name, so they called her "Warga", meaning "tea leaves". Could never convince them otherwise... She was pretty wild when I caught her last year, and never entirely grew to be tame. She seemed to prefer catching mice and lizards to eating the cat food I bought her. But she loved using my mosquito net like a hammock, and followed me around as I went from compound to compound. It's such a comfort to have a cat in the village, and it's hard there without her. Maybe in a few weeks I'll start looking for a new kitten, but now am just sad she's gone.

mural painting

Tue, 18 Jul 2006 12:04:23 GMT

My latest EE project has been a series of wildlife murals. In Ngekhokh I work with an elementary school, and the buildings are quite drab. Since the school is the first thing you see upon entering the village, I thought paintings would really brighten up the area and give villagers and visitors a good feeling upon arrival, while providing a message about protecting local wildlife. However, I had a conflict with an NGO working in my area. Even though I'd worked for months on it and told the school director my plans and had a date set to start painting, he invited the NGO to come and paint murals on our school buildings instead (without bothering to mention anything to me). I'm not really sure why he did this, this sort of thing seems to happen a lot. Generally villagers put more importance on NGOs than PCVs, since they bring in money and big projects, so I think he was just trying to please the NGO. Anyway, I spoke with the high school in Foundiougne, and they were very excited to have the murals painted there instead.

It was quite a process, from coceptualization, researching local flora and fauna, design and layout, finding sample pictures, making full-scale templates of all the animals on screen, making sure the mural message was understandable, purchasing supplies, and preparing the site. My fellow PCVs near Foundiougne, Shannon and Peter, helped me sand down the old paint on the outside of the buildings, and mark out the dimensions. Shannon helped paint some of the backgrounds, and I did the animals, plants, detail work, lettering...the painting alone took 4 days. But they turned out
quite nice, and students and staff remarked on what a visual difference it made in the school, and have asked me to paint another mural on their entranceway. The EE club director and science teacher were very happy to see my work and want to work together on more activities after summer break. Was a great experience, usually our projects are on-going and can drag out, so it was a nice break to do something with a concrete beginning and end. Haven't taken pictures of the final products, but this is one almost finished:

family tree

Tue, 18 Jul 2006 11:42:39 GMT

This is my first real entry, am excited to have this means of sharing my experience with everyone. If you have any suggestions or comments please let me know (click on 'leave a comment' below). And I'll take this opportunity to just give a little essential info...

Postal address: Megan Hansen, BP 17, Foundiougne, SENEGAL

Senegalese names: Nogay (in Demyst), Aminata Fall (in Thies), Marie Senghor (in Ngekhokh)

Dates of Peace Corps Service: Pre-Service Training 17 Mar 2005-13 May 2005, Volunteer Service 13 May 2005-13 May 2007 (or a little earlier)

Geographics of site: Village of NGEKHOKH, community of Foundiougne, region of Fatick (or Kaolack, according to PC regions)

Correct ways to spell Ngekhokh: Ngecokh, Ngequokh, Ngekokh, Ngekkokh. Pronounced: In-GEK-ock

This week I did something I should have done Day 1 in my village, make a family tree. There are dozens of children running wild and living in our compound, some belong to my family, some are distant visiting relatives, some are neighbors' kids, some are random village children. And who knows what kid goes with what mom! The nature of "family" is so different in Senegal, with legal and common polygamy, and many generations living in one household. There are a total of 31 family members in our house! That doesn't include the 4 teachers boarding with us. Lira even had a little trouble listing her own children in order, and getting ages was hopeless. I asked her daughter Koumba how old she was, and she guessed "maybe 12, maybe 13," and her sister Salane said "no, you were born before after Alpha, so probably 11." My grandfather, the village chief, claims to be 82, which seems about right, though I am sure he just picked that number out of a hat.

Here's a rough description of the family tree:

Baba Jen Senghor + Sagar Diane (pictured above)

Their son Aliou, married to Adama, their children:
Samba, M, 19
Marie, F, 17
Ndiaye, F, 15
Mariama, F, 13
Modou, M, 12
Moussa, M, 11
Ami, F, 7

Their other son Abdoulaye, and first wife Lira, and their children:
Salane, F, 16
Alpha, M, 13
Anta, M, 11
Jenaba, F, 6
Mame Nene, F, 5
Ibrahima, M, 4
Mame Sagar, F, 3
One in the oven

Aboudlaye's other wife, Mbayang, and their children:
Koumba, F, 12
Fatou, F, 10
Nogay, F, 1

Kenn Sarr, boarder/relative, and his wife Mariama, their children:
Aliou, M
Mada, M

Whew! What a list. Think I'm leaving some out. But, here's some interesting family facts:
There are 4 women named Marie living in my house. 3 (including me) are named Marie Senghor
Baba Jen Senghor, village chief, literally translates to "Papa Fish"

Meg

"oh god!" you're thinking, "not another blog!"

Tue, 18 Jul 2006 10:53:28 GMT

I know, I know. I was a little disappointed too I jumped on the blog bandwagon. But, after 16 months of poor letter writing, it is the least I can do for those of you who seem interested to hear what on Earth I do all day, here in this remote African village. So, "inshalla", this will enable me to keep up better, show you some photos of my village and friends, and have a lasting record of my days here in Senegal.

Please be aware that this journal is in no way affiliated with the actual Peace Corps. It is intended only to document my own thoughts and experiences as a Peace Corps volunteer. The opinions expressed here are my own and do not reflect those of the Peace Corps. To get more information on the Peace Corps, please visit their website at www.peacecorps.gov.

And here is the picture of me holding a cute little black baby you all expected to see on this site