Hut Life

I have an identity crisis. I am no longer the person I was when I came to Senegal. Not that I have actually changed that much, in fact I like to think I have changed very little in these first four months. Aside from some unavoidable physical changes and cultural conformity that has aided my assimilation into my Senegalese life, I am still the same son I was in the airport when I hugged my parents the last time for two years (pending visits); I'm still the same friend who lit my final bonfire at my going away party back in August (pending me visiting); I'm still the same guy who enjoys a cold drink and a freshly made pair of jean sorts (this is very much not pending and has only intensified).  No, my identity change is in the way I am viewed and the life I live in my village.  In village I am Mohamadu Sylla, a 23 year old American who came to Senegal to learn Jaxanke (my language), and give gifts.  I try each day to become the professional I want people to perceive me as.  Greet the people, talk about work, do work, try not to go insane.  This is my life. Give advice: "don't burn your fields", "compost your waste", "Learning is good". This is my life. The separation between my "Western" life I left in America and briefly experience when I am with other volunteers and my "hut life" can at time be very stressful. Explaining America to a teenager who has never left his village is down right impossible. The difference between "studying" and "reading for fun" is a concept not well understood in village. I may not have changed much, but I have created a new persona. To better understand my new identity I have added some photos of my life in Senegal.  While a true representation is in the subtleties of my everyday events and interactions, these things are unfortunately not easily explained. I hope these pictures and captions adequately show the evolution of my new identity.

    "My Hut"

This is my hut, not too shabby I must say.  The metallic cylinder in the bottom left corner is my water filter.  Screen doors and bed nets help reduce the presence of mosquitoes, though Malaria is hardly unavoidable...

   "Safalou 1"

This is a view of my village, Safalou 1, from my backyard.  With a population of about 500 Safalou is a medium size village.  My town has a Koranic school, Boutique, bread maker, and Mosque. We have no running water( I pull water from a well every morning and every night), no electricity, and no sewage system.

"Compost"

The building block of healthy soil, compost is crucial to my garden here in Senegal. Layers of corn stalks, peanut stalks, wood ash and donkey poop have decomposed into a homogeneous pile of black gold.

 "My Bathroom"

May not look like much but it gets the job done.  I have exchanged hot running water, a toilet, toilet paper and a sink for night bucket baths under the milky way.  I know now that just because something is inconvenient does not mean it is worse.  

 "Counterpart"

This is my counterpart Djellano Sylla.  He is the town handy man, with his latest creation being my brand new bed.  I follow him to his garden and study his techniques.  What he lacks in tools and space, he more than makes up for in creativity and elbow grease. 

"Words"

I find most of my free time reading or listening to music. I use my hut as a portal back into "Western life".  Whether I am reading a tech manual, or listening to The Black Keys, this is a time of complete understanding, a direct contrast to the rest of my day spent spent speaking broken Jaxanke and trying to grasp my new life.

Installation

As our white Toyota 4X4 traveled down the red clay road I tried hard to process everything before me and everything behind me.  I had just spent the previous nine months being uncomfortably coddled, much like a baby that was never allowed sleep.  All decisions were made for us: travel plans, languages we would learn, our future permanent site, vaccinations (lots and lots of vaccinations), breakfast.   Pre-Service Training (PST), aka nine weeks living out of of suitcase, prepared me for this day, in that it made me never want to go through PST again. PST (I'll flesh PST out in a future update), was not hell, but it was hard and made me fantasize about the day I would no longer live in a room with seven other men, a room made unpleasant by certain odors that result from eight men in a room in Sub-Saharan Africa. With PST behind me, a life I had only lived for two months felt further and further behind me with each rotation of our knobby tires.

In front of me was the the life I would live for the next two years, a life I had anticipated since I started my Peace Corps application in April of 2010.  As our driver "Boubou" flew down the dirt road to my new home, each bump prodded at my nerves.  I knew that as we passed the town of Touba we were mere minutes from Safalou 1, the town which had requested and was granted a new Sustainable Agriculture volunteer, a volunteer for whom they had many questions and many expectations.  Having never been to Safalou, Boubou naturally missed the turn due to the hidden position of the town.  This was nothing a quick reversal couldn't fix, and with our ever so slight detour rectified Boubou turned right and maneuvered our land cruiser over the severely eroded drive into my new home.

Few times in my life have I been vehicularly escorted to a destination.  Never in my life had I been Equestrinally escorted to my destination.  That was until out of the bush came two boys on horses came to lead the procession into town.  My reception was shrouded in uncertainty due to certain decisions made earlier that morning. Decision that stemmed from an itinerary that made no sense and seemed designed to waste time.  With a few adjustment, our course was significantly altered and I would now be installed first instead of last. This was a minor inconvenience, one I expected to burden my new village more than me.  Fortunately, though, they were made aware of my new ETA and planned accordingly. As the boys galloped toward town, a mob of women and children quickly formed at the first compound.

Immediately our car was surrounded.  Women and children greeted our car with drums and dancing.  My arrival took on a life of its own.  I felt truly welcomed and at easy knowing my new community knew how to cut loose.  I followed closely as we made our way to the village chiefs compound.  Yousapha, a Senegalese ag expert, gentle giant, and man deserving an entire post to himself, greeted the crowd for me. Through a translator he described my role as work partner and community member.  I was here to work with them; a teacher and student who would eat what they ate and live how they lived. In one fell swoop my party accompanied me in, experienced my reception and departed before I could fully grasp what had just happened.  Remembering what other Peace Corps volunteers had described as a memorable sight in their service, I hurried from my hut just in time to watch the white Peace Corps Land Cruiser roll out of my village. In like a lion out like a lamb.  In a matter  minutes the dancing subsided the drummers went back out to the fields and I sat in my hut, my new home, wondering what to do next.

On November 10th 2011, over one and half years after I started my Peace Corps application, I finally became an official volunteer.  Well, technically I was sworn in as a volunteer on November 5th, but dressing in traditional Senegalese attire and shaking the U.S. Ambassadors hand in his house after taking the oath of foreign service does not make you any more of volunteer than the previous weeks of training did. I was glad to finally earn the title of volunteer but I knew that the hardest part was ahead of me.  Sitting in my hut that first day gave me my first real taste of the life of a volunteer.  The umbilical cord was finally severed and I felt more professional.  At times I look back longingly to the structured days at the training site or the lack of expectations my family had at my first home stay in Mbour.  But I'm glad that from this point on I am the master of my own destiny.  It will be my choices that define the success of my service.  Instillation, while crucial, was only the beginning.  I have many more challenges ahead, ones that will test my patience and resolve.  But no matter how difficult projects become I know that my first step out of my hut and into my new life on the day of my installation will never be matched.

No longer a trainee, it's time to get to work.

          So this will be my first blog post since I touched down in Dakar just over two months ago.  The time has flown and all in all I think I have grown to a level of competency worthy of Peace Corps volunteer.  This journey has not been easy and there were times that I questioned my reasons for being here but as of today I am confident I can work here and be successful.  Along the way I have met a spectrum of interesting people and have had experiences in a litany of departments including food, culture, religion and gender roles unique to West Africa.  The following posts will hopefully be an informative introduction to the daily life of Peace Corps trainee and the trial and tribulation one goes through to officially be called a Volunteer.  I have chosen to fragment my first two months in Senegal into individual post devoted to a particular aspect of my daily life.  To many things have happened for me to coherently write a chronological account of my time as a trainee.  I think it is appropriate to start with my first impression of Senegal.  This wasn't the food or the transportation or the toilets or even the garbage that I walk over (and contribute to ) every where I go. No, my first impression of Senegal was the weather.

WEATHER- "My face is on fire"
                      -Andrew Pochedly
As I walked off the plane onto the tarmac of Leopold Sedar Sengor International Airport, the first  comparison of Senegal I could create was to a wet sauna.  This sauna however had no door and could not be escaped.  I wanted to run back into the plane but I thought better of it and continued across the hot pavement and into the airport. The rest of my day was spent sweating and contemplating my decision to come to West Africa.  It was comforting however, to find solidarity with other trainees how shared in the my muggy misery.  Fortunately we landed on the Muslim holiday,Korite, which celebrates the end of Ramadan meaning that our Senegalese staff was unavailable and we would have the first day to relax after our long flight.  Day turned into night and it was finally time to put this day to rest and recharge our bodies for the first official day of training.  Sleep, however, did not come easy.  Even though my eight person room was equipped with a wonderful fan, once our mosquito nets came down the wafting of fresh air turned to a whisper turning my bed into a coffin.  I was however able to peacefully drift off to sleep, but as you learn in Africa and as I learned that night pleasant moments, while common, are often fleeting.
          If you have ever chopped hot pepper and accidently rubbed you're face you know what I experienced at 2 a.m. my first night in Senegal.  At first I thought my face was on fire, but having surveyed the room carefully I concluded that fire couldn't possibly the reason for this burning sensation.  Fumbling around this foreign compound that I had not adequately explored in my first day eventually brought me to a bathroom where I could wash my face and hopefully bring my skin temperature back to a more comfortable temperature.  The water, unfortunately, failed to quench my thirst for a more tolerable level of facial discomfort so I desperately searched for water coolers located strategically, or not, around the Peace Corps compound with water that could somehow end this annoying rash.  My hunt concluded at the dining hall and with me helplessly pouring cups of lukewarm water on my face desperately telling myself I was better.  Three cups of water and a soaked shirt later, I sulked back to my room defeated and confused.  I wasn't sure if this was normal, or if I had a legitimate ailment, but ultimately it didn't mater.  My face was on fire, I couldn't help myself and I was a million miles from home.
          Looking back I realize now that my face was not on fire and I was experiencing a similar discomfort to many other trainees.  The weather here is extreme and quite foreign to that of home but it is no reason to give up.  When I arrived in September, the wet/hot season was in full force and according to some this was the most miserable time of year.  Right now Senegal is entering the cold/dry season which is followed by the hot/dry season which usually begins in March. Hot/dry is followed by by the hot/wet season also known as the growing season. My work along with my comfort will change with the seasons.  Heat rash is apart of life and swapping stories of sweat box bed rooms has become enjoyable comic relief.  The shock has worn off and I am conquering the extreme heat one patch of shade after another.  The climate of Senegal is an important variable in my life; much of my work over the next two years will be at the whim of the weather.  Daily weather conditions, along with cultural factors will dictate the amount of work I can accomplish.  I look forward to these challenges and will always remember the night I thought my face was on fire.

One week left!

I officially have only one week left in the good ole US of A, and that honestly doesn't feel like nearly enough time. I figured that the last couple weeks would be the hardest and that certainly has been the case.  It feels like I have a million things things to do in preparation for two years in a new continent, including language and technical learning, packing, and in general just getting everything in order.  The truth is I wish I either had two months left or I was already in Senegal.  I hate packing, I have no money and I hate farewells.

This past weekend I had the opportunity to spend time with great friends while also discovering a new city, Boston.  I am glad that my last two American cities I will spend time in are Boston and Washington D.C.  Being able to get in touch with my inner patriot should help me as I embark on a adventure in a foreign land.  I think too often we forget our roots and the sacrifices that were made that enable people like myself and fellow Americans to do what we choose to do, including serving in the Peace Crops.

Admittedly, I am equally anxious as I am excited to start my service. I know how difficult the beginning of training and actual service is, but I am confident I can accomplish my goal to be an effective volunteer and valued member of the region I will work in. As this is my first blog post I will end on an optimistic note, one that will hopefully set the tone for my upcoming service.  I know that some people may question my choice to serve for two years in Africa and are generally concerned for me.  I genuinely appreciate your concern and understand your skepticism.  I will remember your words of advice and heed your concerns.  Looking two years in the past takes me to the beginning of my senior year at Ohio State, a time that flew by and hardly feels longer than a year.  I expect my next two years will do the same, not just for me but for my friends and family I am leaving. So keep doing what your doing and occasionally think of me from time to time, and remember that  two years isn't really that long.  When I come back I may have a new outlook but I will be the same person as when I left.

America, it has truly been a pleasure, but in the words of the mediocre band REO Speedwagon, It's time for me to fly.

Peace,

Andy Pochedly