Large events lately

Well, it may be needless to say, in observing my lack of posts, but I have been busy.  Everyday seems to be either completely full from waking to sleeping, or completely devoid of any plans.  It is a polarized lifestyle that I have really yet to become accustomed to.  In addition, the general fatigue and stress hampers my motivation (and general ability) to write anything coherent or worth posting.  For now, I will instead write about a couple recent events in my village.

It started with one voice, a heartbeat of singular pain. The cry broke the silence of the predawn morning, and almost simultaneously, the one voice was joined by all of the women in my family.  The collected wail of pain filled all sounds; it was otherworldy, disturbing.  The wailing gained volume and the voices trembled and cycloned to a sound that I had never heard before.  The other women in my village began to walk to my compound to add to the voice of grief. 

From my hut, I knew instantly what had happened.  The previous day, one of my host Mothers had gone to the hospital due to some complications with her abdomen.  I was told by one of my brothers that she was to return the next day.  She did not return as he had said.  In Senegal, health is not as predictable as it may be in the United States.  Many people refuse to go to the hospital until the absolute last moment.  Many try local “medicines” to alleviate their conditions.  For example, my sister currently has a very bad infection in her thumb from a cut.  Her thumb is swollen to twice its size and bright red.  I explained that she would need to go to the hospital to get a prescription for anti-biotics or at least a topical cream.  She refused and instead opened the cut over steaming water, squeezed her thumb and placed a mint leaf on it.  It hasn’t gotten any better.

In my compound, most of the village was gathering.  My brothers wept openly; yelling to the sky and sobbing in the sand.  One had to be restrained and forcibly moved back to his hut because of his grief.  One of my neighbors fell to the ground, rolling across the sand, her knees hitting rocks and logs.  Two others picked her up and carried her to lie down. 

I didn’t know what to do.  Even in America, there is not a specific thing to do when someone dies in a family.  I am part of my host family in spirit, but I did not live with this woman for everyday of my life like they did.

Later that day I was with the men from my village as they dug the grave.  The pickhead arced through the air, pointing towards the sky, the trees, and ending in the earth with a thump.  The brown and tan sandy soil was already removed, and the red ladderite clay was breaking into cake-like clumps.  The men formed a circle around the work and took turns wielding the pick.  Even in death, everyone from your village has a hand in your life.  Silence was the atmosphere except for the few comments about the movement of the soil out of the grave.  The solid thud of the pick punctuated the pall in the air brought my thoughts back to the events of the day.

When the work was done a rectangular hole remained, 2 meters by 1 meter.  The body will by washed with blessed water, and wrapped in white linen.  Once placed in the grave, branches will be placed over the hole and soil upon that.  Some day in the future, the branches will give way, and the body will be fully given back to the Earth. 

My host mother’s body arrived at exactly noon to the village, traveling in a metallic coffin in the back of a truck.  She was carried to a small shaded area in the back of the compound, where members of the family came to see the body, and one by one grief was felt by all despite the noonday sun.  The men took the body  to the gravesite.  A small prayer was said by the elders in a straight line.  The body was removed from the coffin, covered by a sheet to occlude it from sight.  Branches were laid over the entire grave and soil placed on top of that. 

It is very difficult to convey everything that happened that day.  Seeing the grief in my host family is something I won’t forget.  For a week, visitors arrived to pay their respects and stay with the family.

I walked into the large hut in my compound to try and talk to my village counterpart about starting a live fence.  Instead I sat in on the discussion of my sister’s dowry with the village elders.  She is to marry a man about 40 kilometers away.  When asked if we have similar meeting in America, I replied in the negative.  They then started listing off the money and clothing to be included in her dowry.  It is an interesting custom, similar to the bride’s parents paying for the wedding.  But, in some ways I really wonder how much my sister really knows this guy.  Maybe I am making assumptions, but in rural villages it is very common for people to get married without knowing each other that well.  Especially since my sister is 16 and the usually age difference between husband and wife is at least 9 years.  The treatment of women in Senegal is something that I have trouble accepting on a daily basis.

Perhaps it is only fitting that the next event I wanted to record was the naming ceremony for my new nephew.  He was born about two weeks ago and will be named Farine after the brother that originally held my name.  It is a strange thing to say that I have a nephew, since I am an only child and will therefore never have a true biological nephew or niece.  Furthermore, to tell have people tell me repeatedly I have a tokara, or namesake, as if he was really named after me is an aspect of inclusion into an adopted family that I have not experienced before and perhaps may do so only in this country.  Family seems to be one of the most important parts of Senegalese life, and by including me, my host family is sharing one of the best parts of their culture.

The mother and my sister sit in front of the larger house in the compound.  The cherno, or religious leader stands among the seated older men, loudly saying prayers.  The men mutter “Amin” intermittently and as one voice, collectively sounding like a motorcycle.  15 feet away, a goat screams: it is today’s lunch.  A small pit is dug next to the goat.  A knife saws through its throat and the blood is caught in the pit.  The tail is pulled to tighten the muscles of the vascular system and the goat passes.  “Welcome Farine Balde!” is called out with the death of the goat by the butcher. 

The women have not stopped chattering in high pitch for the whole affair.  More prayers are said and the rumbling of the men are the bass line to the excited treble.  The sweet millet and rice dough is dolled out to everyone and kola nuts dispersed.  The ceremony over, everyone disperses to shady huts to wait for lunch.

I wonder if this culture and way of life will continue the way that it is.  Even at this moment a new ladderite, or hard packed soil, road is being constructed 50 meters from my village.  With roads come more transportation of both people and ideas.  Progress may inevitably do away with much of the culture that rural Senegal has.  I really wonder if the people in my village realize how much change can occur in the span of a few decades. 

Samba Diaba

So I have been living at my site in Saare Samba Diaba near Kolda for over a month now.  There is so much that I could tell, but at the same time there is so much that I don’t know if I could really distill down and convey to fully realize my experience.  I guess the important things to get out of the way first are that I am enjoying my time there and am excited to see where the next two years take me.  Samba Diaba is about 12 kilometers northwest of the main city of Kolda.  To get there I bike on a dirt/sand path that is used by everyone going to and from the villages in that direction.  The landscape is essentially flat and characterized by tall grasses that cover most of the area where trees most likely used to stand.  The trees are sparse in the grassy areas to make room for the peanut and cornfields for the surrounding villages.  In the distance multiple types of trees punctuate the horizon: palms with tall trunks, wide deciduous trees with feather-like leaves, and Baobab trees that look like they were first imagined by Dr. Seuss.  A note about the Baobabs: they have very wide rotund trunks that are hollow with short stubby branches and fruit that hang like Christmas ornaments.  Apparently, it is common belief that genies reside within the hollow portions of the trees.

The sunsets in Senegal never fail to be remarkable.  The combination of sparse but present cloud cover at day’s end make for a painter’s dream of colors and hues.  Deep reds fold into pale yellows over a sun that while still visible, is in a haze of light.  I speak of the sunsets so vividly, because that is the time that I typically will be biking back from town to my village.  The people along my path usually know me now, since I am the only American, or “White” person rather, that lives in that area.  They will call out my name and greet me as I pedal past, and I will shout my greetings into the wind behind me.

“Farin,” they will yell. 

Since Farin Balde is my Senegalese name.

And I will answer, “Nallu-don?” 

Which is the after-lunch greeting that essentially means, ‘Is there no evil this afternoon?’

As I round the bend to the outskirts of my village, I have a moment of reluctance to continue into it.  When I am in village, the weight of my responsibility and the highest expectations of the people I am to serve are ever-present in my mind.  Returning to village acutely reminds me of the reality of my undertaking.  When I was preparing for Peace Corps, and thinking about my career, I knew that I needed to choose a path that led me to helping people that sought help.  Now that I have a village of 460 people looking to me for new knowledge, American philosophy, and enrichment, the role of a Volunteer is more real than I could have imagined before coming to Senegal.

The moment of pause passes as soon as someone sees me and shouts, “Farin arti!”  Which means, Farin has returned!  I am always met with smiles and extensive greetings no matter how long I have been away.  My service is going to be so much more than just what projects I can bring to the people of my village.  My true legacy instead will be the relationships and experiences that I will have. 

That being said, I am still going to get things done.

When I arrive at my hut I feel an immediate comfort, since I like my hut.  That may seem simplistic, but it actually carries huge importance to me.  Being able to be comfortable where I was living was a huge question before arriving in village and “nesting”.  My hut is both small and large at the same time.  It is small in comparison to the amount of activities that I conduct there and especially in comparison to American standards of living.  However, it is large in comparison to standards in Senegal, where a hut of my size could easily be used by an entire family of five, without a thought of discomfort by the individuals.  But, I have to say my favorite thing about where I live is my backyard.  The entirety of my backyard, which is on the larger side of the spectrum of volunteers that live in villages, is bordered with trees.  There is even long green grass that is aesthetically pleasing.  My duus, or bathroom area is shaded by a large Moringa tree, which I will have to explain about later. All in all, being surrounded with plants is one thing that makes me the most content.  That probably comes from growing up in Western Washington State, known for evergreens.

Village life moves at a strolling pace.  Time is not valued monetarily as it sometimes is in Western society.  I wake up a little while after sunrise, since the energy and activity is up before I am.  The braying donkeys, crowing of roosters, and the pounding of the day’s grain by the women are my alarm clocks.  I will typically stay in my hut for an hour or so after waking to make myself a cup of coffee and listen to a bit of music, before starting the day in earnest.  Alone time is a luxury not often had during the middle of the day. 

I bend down and walk outside my door to all of my family already up.  The women are pounding and cooking rice for breakfast, the men are sitting and usually drinking tea, and the children are doing the same thing all children do when not direct by their parents: living impulse to impulse.  I take time, and greet all members of my family, extending formalized questions about their sleep and waking.  Then I sit with my brothers, and listen to their conversations, and try to understand when they ask me things. 

Breakfast arrives, which is always rice porridge, sweetened with sugar and sometimes enriched with fresh milk or yogurt.  The men get their bowls, and the women settle down to their own with the children.  After finishing, I begin the activities of my day that could range from working in the fields with my family or counterpart, or just walking around the village and talking to people.  My village is small enough where everyone knows me, and I am going to know all of them.  Lunch is an important meal to families, and is served around 2:00 in the afternoon.  You are always expected to come home for lunch, unless you tell someone that you are eating somewhere else. 

Lunch is almost always rice, with a savory peanut sauce on top.  The sauce is flavored with dried fish, tomato paste, and whatever else could be afforded that day.  Eating meat is rare, and usually I can’t compel myself to eat it due to the various parts of the cow that are included.  The afternoon is spent in the same way that the mornings are: with dependence upon the program for the day.

Come nighttime, the heat of the day is over, and everyone comes out to languish in the coolness of the air.  Groups form around different huts and people exchange news of the day, jokes, and in general just enjoy each others’ company.  I head to my hut around 9:00 to read and relax before sleeping.

An Official Volunteer

So a lot has happened in the past 10 weeks.  I would like to first apologize for not posting anything before this, but my schedule and the lack of Internet made writing very difficult.  Let me describe my recent training events.  So I had my final exams a couple of weeks ago in my technical areas, my language, medical, and safety and security.  After that, I went back to Samba Laobe for my last Community Based Training (CBT) stay. 

My last couple of days with the Kande family were nice, but short.  I was finally able to grasp and convey some meaning with the language and they seemed delighted to finally have mutual understanding.  The time went quickly, as all time has gone here.  Saying goodbye was sad, but it was nice to see how much they cared for me.  One of my language teachers even said that my host mom “refused to let me leave, and that she will be talking to Peace Corps to have me come back.” 

            After my last CBT stay and exams, we were allowed a couple of afternoons to relax and decompress.  I had not had free time like that before, and so it felt strange, but so nice to just be able to hang out with people.  Those days went quickly as well.  Soon, it was the morning of swearing-in, which was held at an agricultural center building in Thies.  The grounds were well kept, with cobblestone walkways, grass fields, and palm trees shading the area.  The swearing in was held in an elongated room adjacent to the courtyard, where local officials, Peace Corps Senegal officers, all of the trainees, and the invited host nationals sat in far rows.  The ceremony did not last long, or maybe it seemed that way to me because it was all in French.  I don’t speak French.  Eventually, all of the trainees stood, raised their hands and recited the Masonic vow to uphold the Constitution of the United States. 

            After, there was a “Cocktail” hour, where everyone bustled for food at the tables.  One thing that stood out was how many of the Senegalese piled up the food to take home to their families.  I think of it rather comically, but some volunteers would have appreciated getting to eat something.  After that, the new volunteers took many pictures in their traditional Senegalese outfits and spoke short conversations with the host family members that were able to attend.  When the party had wound down, everyone piled into buses and went back to the training center. 

            We then got ready for our beach weekend trip, which I was helping organize. The whole group, or everyone that wanted to come, was to spend roughly two days at a house together on the beach.  The village we went to was just south of Dakar, called Toubab Dialow.  The house was owned by a man, now my friend, called Douda Fall.  It had crumbling blue paint over a white wash tint.  The house was large, by any standards and the grounds were large enough to accommodate people sleeping in tents.  The house was situated a small stairway above the beach and looked out onto the evening sunsets.

            The short days we spent there were punctuated by groups swimming in the lukewarm ocean, exploring food shops in the nearby village, and cooking of Thanksgiving dinner.  A small group of volunteers devoted the majority of the day to cooking a special Thanksgiving meal.  We brought to turkeys to slaughter, cook, and eat.  In addition, delicious side dishes were provided to make the meal more like home.

           Needless to say, the weekend went too quickly.  The morning after returning, we departed for our regions.  I am now in Kolda proper and readying myself to move to my village.

            Tomorrow I move to my permanent village.  I will hopefully be able to post again in a couple of weeks, but my plans so far have not gone well. 

Food and Fashion

So rather than trying to chronologically describe my experience so far I think it would be easier for me to just describe specific events and observations I have had since arrival.  The days here seem to blend together and so correct arrangement is neigh on impossible.

The Food:

I have to say that food is a big passion of mine.  Most of my disposable income usually goes to food, no matter where I am.  This is partially because food is a comfort to me, but also because it is a reflection of the experience that I am having.  I often think of food as a representation of the area and the people that live in it.  When I lived in Sonoma County, I ate very well.  Wine country attracts and encourages epicurean exploration and sophistication.  Most of what I ate and drank in wine country was an artistic expression of the land and those who work it, through food.  I came to understand there that the growing, caring for, preparation, and consumption of food is a temporal experience in an area that you are living.

            Moving to Africa, and specifically Senegal, I was excited to explore the food so that I could better understand the country and the host nationals that I would be living with for the next 27 months.  There are many aspects of Senegalese food that is completely different from anywhere else I have lived.

            I think that it is only fitting that I start at the beginning of making food in Senegal.  Because Senegal is a developing nation, the food selection is mostly determined by availability.  There is a stark difference between the food that is eaten in the larger cities and the food that is eaten in the villages.  The food that is eaten in the villages is a better representation of Senegalese food, in my opinion, because it reflects the true production of edibles.  Senegalese villages depend upon seasonality and subsistence crops for most, if not all of their diets.  The different months of the year determine what crops should be planted, which crops are being managed, and which crops need to be harvested.  This means that each season in Senegal brings a certain food, grain, or flavor with it.  In this way, the passage of time is marked and seasoned by the seasons themselves.  I am excited to see how this affects my taste and anticipation for certain foods and harvests. 

            Senegalese villages harvest, prepare, and store all of their own crops.  This can mean the drying of corn, the threshing of the rice, or the picking of peanuts, just to name a few.  From there, the meals are determined by what is available and fresh in the village.  Meals are typically cooked by the women of the households.  I love to cook, and so perhaps I may be able to convince my host family to let me cook at some point.  In Senegal, the culture is complicated.  I do not necessarily support rigid gender roles, but it is not my place to change everything about how people think of each other.  Instead, I can show them how I feel about different tasks, and how Americans view household duties.  I will go more into gender roles in Senegal at a different time.

            The meals are usually cooked in a large pot on top of a three stone support over wood or charcoal.  For an entire family, usually one large pot can support a single meal.  The meals, when finished are cooled in large bowls.  From there the eldest woman in the compound divides up the food and accompaniments into smaller bowls for each group in the family.  Depending upon the dynamic of the household, the whole family could eat from the same large bowl, or the men could have their own bowl.  Either way, the whole family eats together and at the same time.  Meals are an important time for families to be together.  When you are in your village, you are supposed to be home for all meals.  Usually, everyone eats with their right hand from the bowl.  You are not supposed to reach across the bowl to grab from other people’s areas.  Looking down upon the family eating, the bowl looks like a metallic center of the sun with arms and bodies emanating as clockwise rays.

The Dress:

            The dress of Senegalese people is varied between traditional clothing styles and a large Western influence.  Most people in the villages wear the traditional styles, which for men is pants and a long top that can extend down to the knees.  The fabric is typically bought in market, and then you bring it to a tailor to make the complet, or outfit, from your measurements.  The men’s dress is usually a little more toned down than the women’s, with some detailing around the edges of the fabric.  Bright colors, sequins, and intricate detailing is more common with the women’s traditional dress.  A woman in Senegal will consider her dress in accordance with the activity she is performing.  If she is in house and her husband is not home, then the dress will be purely for utility.  If her husband is coming home, or she is traveling to the market, a Senegalese woman will wear her nicer complets to show her station.  Women will have a long wrap skirt to the ankles, with a form fitting top that bares some of her neckline.  Women’s complets always come with a wrap to place upon the head as well.  The material for all three items is the same, and will be bought in market and tailored as well. 

            As you get closer to the cities, a higher amount of Western influence is seen.  All markets have clothing shops, called fukkijai, where excess pieces from GoodWill and other organizations have donated clothing.  Being a Westerner is revered in Senegal, and so the nicer Western clothes are more expensive.  Many Senegalese will choose clothing that emanates Western style, since it is associated with wealth. 

            Senegalese like to look good.  How you dress in Senegal is a reflection of your respect for the activity that you are doing.  For example, even if it is over 90’ F, men and women will still be wearing full covering clothing that is in style.  Men will wear pants with button up shirts and women will wear full dress complets.

Post 3

            I find it hard to believe that I have been in Africa for over a month now.  In some ways, I still can’t believe that I am in Africa at all.  The differences in lifestyle, aesthetics, and people are stark.   But despite those differences, the hospitable nature of the Senegalese makes one feel so completely welcome that it is almost as if you have been living here your entire life.  Since I have adapted somewhat to my life here in Senegal, I cannot fully express all of the first impressions I had a month ago.  But, I will try to put it down on paper as best as I can, combined with my recent activities.

            So far, the Peace Corps training has been very full, but fun.  The days have been split by spending intense learning sessions at the Thies training center, and in our Community Based Training sites.  We have spent about a week and a half total in Thies, and about two and a half weeks in our communities.  The days in Thies start around 7:30 AM.  Class and training sessions concerning everything from how to respond to a security issue at our sites to how to create tree peppinieres (intense small nurseries) fill the day until around 6:30 PM.  The evenings are typically spent decompressing in some manner, sometimes just talking around the center, sometimes going out for a beer to the local pub.  I use pub liberally, since it is really the foyer of the owner’s house compound, with a freezer filled with local beer. 

            The other weeks have been spent at our first communities, living with host families.  I live with the Kande family in the Samba Laobe neighborhood of Mbour.  Samba Laobe could be characterized by concrete and corrugated aluminum family compounds distributed over a sandy landscape.  I have likened it to Tatooine, from Star Wars, due to both the waterless beach composition and the relentless heat.  The heat in Senegal is formidable, and is made more intense by a substantial amount of humidity.  I have not been cold since I arrived.  I sleep with my door open and on top of my sheets to facilitate any cooling effect of a chance breeze.

            Living with my host family has been an experience that no amount of my prose could possibly capture or fully convey to give an effect of comprehensiveness.  Living in Samba Laobe with my host family has been one of the toughest challenges I have lived through and one of the most rewarding.  The combination of the heat and the fact that my family speaks no English whatsoever has made my life both completely simplistic and incredibly complicated at the same time.  All of my communication has been reduced to single words and hand motions charades.  This makes my observations and attempts at adaptation all the more essential.  I try to live in the manner that they do; the cultural norms and habits being very different from my previous lifestyle and culture.

            I live with the chief of the village of Samba Laobe, which I am told, is a very good position to be in.  Two of his adult sons and their wives live with his wife and children.  I count the total inhabitants of my compound to be around 15.  Most of the family is children, ranging from the eldest son of 30, to the youngest toddler of about 1 and a half years old.  The children have been the most inclusive and active in my family life.  They constantly talk to me, crowd around whatever I am doing, whether it is reading, eating, or otherwise.  I think having an American living with them is just too exciting to ignore. 

            The family life here is of paramount importance to Senegalese culture and identity.  It is strange to spend time alone when at home.  All time is spent out in the courtyard of the compound.  Even if the activity is personal, such as reading, you are expected to sit with others.  It is an interesting dynamic that I appreciate, but it can be exhausting, when you come from American culture that highly values alone time. 

            Upon arrival to my home compound, my Neene (host Mom) was running towards me, clapping her hands and yelling my new Senegalese name: Usman Kande.  When staying with a family and not from Senegal, guests are given a Senegalese name that is the same as another member of the family.  My tokara (namesake), Usman, is the second son of my host father. 

I will not lie and tell you that this trip has been only easy and exciting so far.  Much of it has been difficult.  From my body adapting to the new schedule, food, climate, and stressors to the culture shock of Africa, Senegal, and Peace Corps.  There have been some lows so far.  One incident sticks out in my mind that happened during my first stay with my host family.  I still had yet to adapt to the climate, and was experiencing a combination of heat exhaustion and stress.  I started to run a fever and couldn’t eat a full meal for a couple of days.  Delirium and lethargy marked most hours of the day at a time when I just wanted to feel well so that I could enjoy the experience as much as possible.  My body just couldn’t keep up with my new changes, schedule, and lack of sleep.  But for every drop, there must be a rise.  I recovered after another couple of days, and am now feeling much more comfortable and back to normal. 

            The passage of time here in Senegal can accurately be described as long days, and short months.  The days seem to last forever, with the events of the morning seeming distant when evenings arrive.  But, a month has already flown by with break neck speed.  I feel that I have lived here much longer than one month, but still have an immeasurable amount to learn.  Through the difficulties that have come from the stark change in my life, I feel that I am supposed to be here.  I am glad for it, since I did not really feel that way in America.  Not to say that America is not my home, or always will be, but instead that this is a necessary next step in my life.  I know that it is still early to make such declarative statements about such a lengthy commitment, but things have been getting progressively better.  The first couple of weeks were difficult in so many ways.

           

 So I wanted to get something posted while I could.  The internet is tenuous here, at best.  I am planning on posting more soon.

            

Post 2, Departure

Hey guys this is a belated post from when I was still in New York before I flew to Africa.  I haven't had internet since then so I will hopefully post more soon to update you all on my last couple of weeks.

I am about to embark upon the great journey for which I have striven for many months.  Or at least, I think I am.  I guess it still hasn’t really hit me yet.  I just arrived in New York City and am staying on Long Island for about the next 24 hours.  Then, I take a red eye straight to Senegal.  With all of the preliminary traveling and excitement, I am still remarkably calm.  No waves of anticipation are washing over me.  I think the only thing I am truly feeling is hunger, since I haven’t had a real meal today.

I guess what I am trying to convey is that I am surprised at my lack of emotion, considering all of the preparations that I have made for the last 6 months, all of the goodbyes I have said over the past weeks, and the fact that I am going to be living in a different country for the next 2.5 years.  Perhaps it is because I know that I cannot predict how things will be for me in the upcoming months that I am at peace with my path.  I have been mentally prepared for being a Peace Corps volunteer for years.  The thought of moving to a completely different place and living a more basic and rewarding lifestyle completely appeals to me. 

I think I am quite ready for another adventure. 

A trip, a safari, an exploration, is an entity, different from all other journeys.  It has personality, temperament, individuality, uniqueness.  A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike.  And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless.  We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.

Travels with Charley, John Steinbeck

Just over a month to go!

It has been just over a week since I quit my job to get ready to leave for my assignment in Senegal.  I typically hate to not be busy with employment, school, or both.  However, with the upcoming undertaking, I am relishing the time I set aside to prepare myself for my next adventure.  In approximately one month I will be leaving my hometown for 2.5 years to serve as a Peace Corps volunteer in Senegal.  My invitation materials describe my work there to be centered on agroforestry in a rural area of the Northern region of Senegal. 

            I have begun to notice facets of my life that will be wildly different when I move abroad; the food I will eat, the daily life, and the people I will see everyday.  Even small things like the taste of the water I will drink and the sounds of the birds in the nearby trees will be completely different.  There is something irresistibly exciting for me about how much my life will be unfathomably different in two months. 

            I guess I have gotten somewhat of a need for excitement through change as a result of my past few years.  During my senior year of college, I studied abroad in the tropical rainforests of Queensland, Australia.  It was there that I gained a love for sustainable forestry and a lifestyle of close, almost tribe-like, friendships.  For 6 months, I lived in a cabin in the rainforest, and saw the same 30 people all-day, everyday.  We spent that time learning about the local ecosystem, and how the people of Queensland depended upon the health of the flora and fauna. 

After college, I decided to go do something completely different than my major, just for kicks.  I moved to Sonoma County, California and starting working for a winery.  I worked 10 hours a day cleaning, crushing, and pressing grapes for artisan wines.  I became an epicure, and began to appreciate the relationship between the maker of food and wine and the land it came from.  The nuance of terroir reflected in the composition of delicious food was needless to say, decadent for a 22 year-old.  Even with my newly found love for all things gastronomy, I decided to leave again for something a little more inclined with my career passions. 

I took a job with the Forest Service, working near the gorgeous locale of Lake Tahoe.  I performed a medley of tasks for the Recreation, Lands, and Wilderness program of the Tahoe National Forest.  My days varied from running an outreach booth a local street fair, to cutting though downed logs over trails with a chainsaw, to surveying wilderness areas in a backpacking trip through the Sierra Nevada’s.  My days at Lake Tahoe were filled with beautiful locales, demanding physical work, and learning about the role of public agencies.  I gained an intimate appreciation for the work that public agencies do, and the wilderness character that they protect.  The locals in Tahoe demonstrated a fierce love for their outdoor public lands that are in the care of agencies like the Forest Service.  That caring translated to both good and bad interactions with the public.  One lesson I learned is that, in a public agency, you will never please everyone.  Instead, preserving and enforcing what is best for everyone must be the priority. 

I wanted to garner and pursue a career that embodied my passions, and the lessons that I had learned since high school.  I found the PCMI program at the University of Washington was the best next step for me.  And now we have come full circle.

Every time I tell someone that I am moving to Africa, I get a combination of the same responses:

“Are you excited? “

“Boy, I bet you will miss the food here!”

“Why would you do that?”

“Aren’t you scared of the crime?”

I have to say that observing the responses has been interesting to say the least.  The viewpoint of Americans on Africa is limited, mostly due to the fact that their only real interaction comes from news media, and movies.  I am really looking forward to one of travel’s greatest gifts: expansion of understanding of different cultures and people. 

            There is one area that pretty much everyone with whom I spoke asked about that was spot on though:

            “Are you going to miss your parents and friends?”

           

Out of all of the sacrifices that this adventure will must take, 2.5 years away from my loved ones is the dearest.  I know that they will be fine without me, since their lives will not be drastically changed by my absence, but it is their absence that I will notice the most.  2.5 years is a long time.  When I return, I will still have an image of my friends and family that I will have kept while I was away, but the reality is that they will have changed as much as I.  I am concerned about the reverse culture shock I will experience coming home and things being different than I left them.  That might be the greatest price for my adventure.

But it won’t stop me.  I know that I need my upcoming travels in order to be happy and content.  Traveling is an experience both inside and out: for as much as you experience outwardly, you grow inwardly.  I am looking forward to the person I will become. 

My next entries shouldn’t be as heavy….haha