Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Tabaski and Thanksgiving 2010


Our Tabaski Ram
Back home in Virginia, November, brings with it, a chill in the air, an earlier and prolonged evening, and the last of the leaves to fall from the trees.  Here in Senegal, however, it’s still hot, there’s been no time change, and the leaves on the few trees that are scattered about are as green as ever despite the fact that everything around them is dry and brown.  One thing that does feel the same about this time of year, though, is the holiday spirit.  Two months and 10 days after Korité, which this year happened to fall on November 17th, Muslims around the world celebrate, Eid el-Kebir, the Feast of Sacrifice, known in Senegal as Tabaski.  This holiday recognizes Ibrihima’s (Abraham’s) willingness to sacrifice his son Ishmael as an act of submission to God.  At the last minute, however, the Archangel Gabriel made a little switcheroo and replaced his son with a ram.  Lucky for baby Ishmael, apparently it was just the thought that counted.  In celebration of this miraculous event, Senegalese save up their money and purchase one (or many) rams, goats, or cows (depending on their wealth) and slaughter them in the name of Allah.  Families travel great distances and spend more money than they actually have to be together for this celebration.  Even my host mother, Khady, opens her doors to welcome her family of 30 who live next door even though the rest of the year she prefers they stay behind the wall that divides the two households.

Freshly ground pepper over onions
Peeling potatoes

Our ram waiting its fate.

The kiddos watching the sacrifice
Carrying the marinade

Transferring the meat to the cauldron
A feast to behold

Holiday preparations started the night before when Khady and I sat at an outdoor table in the courtyard and peeled and chopped 10 kilos of onions and 15 heads of garlic.  The next day, we continued with the food preparations: cooking, peeling, and mashing a sack of potatoes, pounding pepper, and making marinade with her nieces.  [NOTE:  THIS IS WHERE YOU SHOULD TURN YOUR HEAD AND SKIP DOWN TO THE NEXT SECTION IF YOU HAVE A WEAK STOMACH.]  Mid-morning, we were summoned next door, where our ram had joined three others, and watched as my uncles said a prayer and, in turn, laid each ram on it’s left side with it’s head facing Mecca, and slit it’s throat over a hole in the sand.  Sorry, sounds gruesome I know and it pretty much was.  Like sleeping dogs dreaming about chasing rabbits, the rams kicked their legs well after they should have stopped moving.  Ghastly noises came from their severed tracheae as their carotid arteries drained into a pool of blood, while, young children gathered round the perimeter to watch.  I hid behind my camera to document the event, hoping that peering through the 2” x 3” screen would make it a little less awful.  The men then very skillfully skinned and gutted the animals and brought the meat back over to our compound for cooking.  Khady and the girls hacked away at the large carcass sections with machetes to make manageable pieces for cooking.

[OKAY, IT’S SAFE TO COME BACK NOW.]  We marinated the mouton (French for sheep) in a blend of Dijon mustard, onion juice, vinegar, and pepper (both black and red); the onions were pulled out of the marinade and cooked to make a sauce.  After tossing the meat in the marinade, we put it in large cauldron to stew over a wood fire before grilling each piece over charcoal.  The meal was served on platters artfully arranged with a big heaping pile of meat in the center, surrounded by onion sauce and dollops of mashed potatoes, then peppered with green olives.  We ate in segregated groups of men, women, and children and used our hands and pieces of bread to feed ourselves.  At my platter, it was not uncommon to see two women tugging at either side of a big piece of meat to free it from it’s bone.  I have to say, tearing into freshly-killed meat like that felt a little barbaric.

After lunch, and I mean immediately after lunch, the food left on the platters was consolidated to one tray and a subgroup of people started eating once again, leaving nothing to spare.  Soon after that, one of my cousins tasked herself with picking meat from the bones of  some other pieces that had been stewing all day and another group of women started deep-fat frying innards.  It was a veritable meat-fest all day long.  Throughout the day, most people were wearing and showing off the new clothes they’d had made for the occasion and almost all of the women were sporting new hair extensions.  These are really big here in Senegal and come in all shapes and sizes.  To my surprise, in the late afternoon/early evening, people began changing into formal attire--I’m talking sequined ball gowns.  Neighbors came a-calling and little kids went house-to-house requesting small treats and money.  As my mom and her nieces sat around her salon de vivre (living room) all dressed up with no where to go, I recalled a now-infamous statement my grandmother once made on Thanksgiving morning several years ago when hours had been spent prepping for an outdoor brunch on a very cold Oregon morning.  After we ate, we were all huddled around a fire, wrapped up in our coats and scarves to keep warm when she looked up and exclaimed, “well, this is just stupid!”   Acknowledging this at some point in the day has become a holiday tradition in my family.

So, that got me thinking about whether Tabaski really is very different than the holiday that we’re used to celebrating at this time of year?  Granted, Thanksgiving is not a religious holiday, but aside from the brief prayer said before the sacrifice (and don‘t most families say some sort of grace before carving into the turkey?), this didn’t feel very religious either.  Families and friends gather together to spend quality time with one another, love is expressed through the sharing of food, and we all put on our fancy clothes to remind ourselves that we can clean up every once in a while.  As Americans, we just tend to sweep the icky part under the carpet and let someone else do our slaughtering for us.  I went to college in Rockingham County, VA, which proclaims itself to be The Turkey Capital and recall watching the horrifying daily migration of semi-trucks loaded with commercially-raised live turkeys headed to the processing plant.  I won’t get on a soap box about eating locally vs. commercially grown foods, but even I, who already has strong feelings in that direction, had my eyes opened a bit as I watched my Senegalese family buy, feed, and care for their meal well in advance of bringing it to their table.  Slow food at its finest.

Click here to view a play-by-play (uncensored) album of my Tabaski experience  (Come on, be brave. There are a lot of great pictures in this album.)

A fancy Thanksgiving

Well, lucky for me, I also got to enjoy celebrating an American Thanksgiving here in Senegal.   About 60 Peace Corps volunteers and staff members joined the Ambassador at her residence for a delightfully civilized Thanksgiving feast.  This was my first trip into Dakar that wasn’t an organized event, so that in itself added to the festiveness of it all.  Everyone who came into town traveled individually or in small groups so the arrivals at the regional house were spread out over a couple of days.

I arrived from Thiès with my friend Jackie after we’d both attended a short French workshop earlier in the week.  She was able to show me the ropes on getting into and around Dakar.  Our journey was short (it took just under 2 hours from Thiès), but that included 1) pulling off the highway 6 times to lift the hood of the car to wiggle a few wires so the engine would start again,  2) waiting while the driver got a ticket for going the wrong way down the street, and 3) being yelled at by a street vendor for running over a shoe, luckily there was no foot in the shoe, but the vendor was irritated nonetheless.  Taking all of that into consideration, we made pretty good time and the driver took us directly to our destination--a hotel bar downtown that was serving 2-for-1 happy hour drinks…halleluiah, a real glass of red wine (well, 2 actually!)  I tried my best to ignore the fact that the wine was served cold, because it was served in a real wine glass, with a stem and everything--plus one does not turn down anything cold in this hellaciously hot country.  We met several other PCVs there and one of them had a friend visiting from home (NOTE TO FRIENDS & FAMILY:  This is a mighty fine idea for next year, so give it some thought.)  We dined in a neighboring hotel’s restaurant and had Thai Beef Salads…a nice change of pace from our current diet of rice and fish.

One artichoke = $7 US, aack!
The following day we all planned our side dishes for Thanksgiving dinner and, after a trip to the Peace Corps Headquarters for meeting, we descended up Casino, the French super-grocery store down the street from the office.  O--M--G!  It was glorious.  I’ve never been so dumbstruck in a grocery store before.  By American standards, I have to admit that this was really just an ordinary nice medium sized grocery store, along the lines of Kroger or Giant, but to our deprived eyes, it was like wandering into Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.  Everything was so bright and shiny.  There was a large deli case full of nothing but cheeses and there was a full size produce aisle with things other than carrots, cabbages, and manioc--green things, many many green things.  We spent over an hour in there just wandering up and down the aisles with our mouths gaped open.  A lot of what was offered was ridiculously priced, but it was nice just to know that it’s there, if ever I really want it.  In the end, I maintained restraint and bought only the few things I needed to cook a couple of meals at the Regional house while I was there and make my side dish for Thanksgiving.  I also splurged on a bottle of wine, some hair product, and face lotion.

We arrived back at the house just in time for a regional house costume party.  The invitation requested that we “come dressed as would have been appropriate at the first Thanksgiving ”.  We had some interesting interpretations to that theme and if I had to give out prizes they would have been to:

  • 1st  Prize - Small Pox -- a person covered in colorful hole punch reinforcers who spent the evening “spreading the disease”, targeting the Indians first, of course.
  • 2nd Prize - The Niña, The Pinta, and The Santa Maria -- 3 people decked out in African waxcloth duds patterned with tall ships….and yes, it took many people several hours to realize that they had arrived to dinner a couple of centuries too late.
  • 3rd Prize - A Center-Piece with accompanying candelabra  -- this 3-person costume centered around a bridesmaid‘s dress that arrived in a care package too late for the wedding.
  • Runners Up - to all the Pilgrims, Indians, and Turkeys because they were so creative in the construction of their costumes, and to the Macy’s Day Parade Charlie Brown Float, cause that was thinking outside the box!!

Small Pox scoping out the Indians

PCVs being as un-PC as we can be

The Niña, the Pinta, & the Santa Maria

Waddle she think of next?

Note the traced-hand turkey skirt

Centerpiece with Candelabras

A mighty fine pilgrim hat
A Macy's Parade Float
We make due with what we have..

The next day volunteer and staff kitchens around the city were all aflutter in preparation for our big meal with the ambassador.  I made Moroccan Carrots (see below for recipe), and we had a variety of other tasty vittles, including casseroles, roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes, cornbread, salads, pies, etc…  Although we’d all cleaned up well for our arrival to dinner, the pots and pans we transported the food in had been seen better days.  Luckily, the ambassador’s staff transferred everything to china serving platters and it all looked as lovely as it tasted.  Her Excellency, Madam Bernicat, not only opened her home and provided us with her good company for this event, but she also supplied three golden brown turkeys and an endless supply of chilled wine and freshly brewed coffee.  Ahhh, what an enjoyable evening.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart to all of you good tax-paying American citizens.  That was just the dose of home that I needed.

Making Pasta Salad

Finding our names on the Guest List

A beautifully set table.
Enjoying pre-dinner cocktails

The buffet

Plating up!

Her Excellency capturing a shot

Moroccan Carrots

1 lb. carrots, peeled and sliced
3 cloves garlic, minced
¼ cup olive oil
¼ cup white wine vinegar
½ tsp. cumin
¼ tsp cinnamon
½ tsp. cayenne
¼ tsp. salt
Chopped parsley and/or cilantro

1.  Cooked carrots until just fork tender (al dente).
2.  Mix remaining ingredients (minus the parsley/cilantro) and marinate the carrots in this mixture at room temperature for several hours.
3.  Stir in chopped parsley/cilantro just before serving.

This dish was passed down from my father’s boss Candace.  It’s easy to prepare and carry to a pot luck and is ALWAYS the hit of the party.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Settling in

Flower outside my window
Now that my agenda is not packed full of daily training courses and Peace Corps-sponsored activities, it’s all starting to feel a bit real.  The days seem longer and hotter and without other Toubabs around, I have to admit, it’s downright lonely at times.  My compound welcomes many neighbors and eco-village members throughout the day and we usually serve 8-10 people lunch, so it’s not that there aren’t people around; I’m just still struggling to communicate with them.  I spend a few hours a week at my tutor’s house conversing in French, but most people around me prefer to speak Wolof.  I know several PCVs who drew the line in the sand at the beginning of their service and refused to learn two languages while they were here, choosing to only communicate with people who would speak French to them.  This seems very tempting, but also pretty isolating, so it’s become clear that I need to commit to learning them both. Two other PCVs who live within a 2 hours drive will be joining me and a Peace Corps language teacher for a Wolof training session next week. Hopefully, that will strengthen my foundation and help me understand the people around me a bit more.

My pen pals at Peabody
That being said, I received my first letter from my French pen pal class in Charlottesville.  I’m participating the World Wise Schools Correspondence Match Program with my friend Maryline and her 6th - 8th  grade French classes at The Peabody School for Intellectually Advanced Children.  Thirteen kids wrote me a short description of themselves and each asked a question about the Senegalese people and their culture to which I’ll respond in my next letter back to them.  We’ve scheduled a Skype call later in the month so Khady and I can talk with them on-line.

Since I’ve not begun any kind of structured, regularly-scheduled work yet, my days are filled with rather mundane things, like reading, cleaning my room, and drinking tea with the neighbors.  I did two weeks worth of laundry this week and got a big ol' blister on my thumb from wringing my clothes out--that was fun.  I also tried to electrocute myself.  I bought this water heater coil thing that plugs into the wall and heats up a cup of water.  I stuck it in my stainless steel French press coffee maker and then, like an idiot, after about 2 minutes stuck my finger in the water to see if it was hot.  I was thrown up against the wall with a powerful jolt and water (yes, it was hot) spilled everywhere. I thought to myself, "well that was just stupid", water--in metal container--with a submerged electrical device, duh! Of course I got shocked.  Not to be defeated, I got up, brushed and dried myself off, and tried again, this time using a durable plastic coffee cup.  When the water started to rumble, I stuck my finger in it again (yes, I really did) and BAM, against the wall I went a second time.  So clearly, I'm thinking, it wasn't the metal vessel that caused the problem, and a few more brain cells died.  I'm beginning to wonder what anyone here is actually going to learn from me.

Thankfully, now that November is here, there’s s finally a touch of coolness in the morning air (that lasts for about an hour or two), so I’ve started doing a 20-min yoga pod cast routine every morning.  That’s been really good for me, as I haven’t had much exercise since I arrived in Senegal and it helps clear my mind and ground me.  The day quickly warms up after that; it’s been well-over 100 degrees everyday since I arrived in Diourbel.  Several times a week, I take a mid-morning walk to the Post Office to see if anyone loves me (hint hint) and along the way, I usually treat myself to a hard-boiled egg that the bean sandwich lady at the train station sells.  After that, I wander aimless through the market trying very hard to embrace my new surroundings but am quickly turned off by all of the vendors who push their wares on me.  The market is not really a place for window-shopping.  You've got to know what you want, where to get it, and get in and out of there fast.

À la Gare (at the train station)
À la Poste (at the Post Office)

My host mother went to visit her sister in Saint Louis this week, so I got to experiment a bit with cooking.  I found some no-boil lasagna noodles in a Toubab store in Kaolak last week when I traveled there for a meeting and decided to try making lasagna in our solar oven.  This was no easy task and it ended up costing me about $20 in ingredients (which is a fortune here).  I have to say, it turned out pretty tasty.  I’d made an entire pan of it and only Ibou and I were around for dinner that night, so now I’m dealing with the leftovers, which is a little tricky because even though we have a refrigerator, the electricity goes out for hours on a daily basis.  The next night I made Salad Niçoise, which also cost a pretty penny, but was equally impressive.  Trying to eat like an American here is not cheap, nor is it easy.  Cooking in Senegal is like cooking while car camping.  You’ve got pots and pans at your disposal, but have to cook everything over a one-burner propane tank in the sandy courtyard, with limited prep station room (I used plastic chairs as my counter tops), and running water but no sink.  People are so in the habit of eating a shared communal platter and welcoming anyone who shows up at their door to eat with them that I was caught off-guard the second night I cooked when two work-mates of my Ibou’s appeared after I’d already plated up two lovely salads.  The invitation I extended for them to join us seemed a little insincere, which I guess it was.  Why hadn’t they shown up the night before when I had a pan full of lasagna?  I couldn't even pull that out for the fridge to heat it up them because our only oven is the solar oven and it was already past dark.. 

My prep station
Assembling the lasagna in the sand

The result of leaning over the saucepan
Falou helping me with the oven
The finished product.

My salad Niçoise

On Halloween, my Ancienne (the PCV whose site I took over) was here helping us with the Solar Oven Marketing workshop, so she and I went to the market in search of pumpkins or squash to carve.  Unfortunately, the squash that is served in Thiéboudienne this time of year is usually sold in individual pre-cut chunks and we couldn’t find a whole one, so we opted for a couple of watermelons and carved those instead.  We explained the concept of Halloween to the workshop participants and they all encouraged us to eat a lot that day, since holidays here are often centered around feasting.

Eco-villagers admiring the Jack-O-Melon

Khady convincing her niece not to be scared

Everyone here is gearing up for the next big holiday, Tabaski, known across the Muslim world as Eid al-Adha (“Festival of Sacrafice”).  According to my Cross Cultural Journal, “Tabaski commemorates the willingness of Ibrahim to sacrifice his son Ishmael in obedience to God.  At the last minute, God provided a ram to be sacrificed instead, in reward for Ibrahim’s commitment.  In commemoration of this event, Muslims around the world celebrate by slaughtering a ram (or goat, cow, etc. depending on the family’s wealth), dividing it into shares, and celebrating with family and friends.  Tabaski occurs approximately two months and ten days after Korite, the end of Ramaden.”

So, in anticipation of this big day, Khady bought two rams last week.  They’re tied up in our kitchen area (because someone thought that was hygienic!) just on the other side of my patio wall.  As one would expect of any animal-loving American, I’ve grown quite fond of them.  They’re tied with short ropes to poles that they keep wrapping themselves around, so I listen for their cries of “Hey, I just wrapped myself around the pole again” and go to their aid.  Aside from their short ropes, they’re treated well by the family.  They’re fed twice a day and are given regular baths.  Last night, I had vegetable scraps from my salad-making and tossed these into their feed tray (the wheelbarrow) thinking I was doing them a favor.  I think one of the rams got a piece of potato skin stuck in its throat as it coughed and make choking noises periodically throughout the night.  It would be just like me to unintentionally kill the Tabaski ram with a touch of kindness.  Thankfully, today, he seems a lot better.
This is our kitchen area.  Note the propane cook stove (red).

My new friends

My tutor's kid with his kid.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Dakar and Diourbel

Dakar - The Big City

Until I arrived in Senegal, all I knew about Dakar was that Ofeibea Quist-Arcton, NPR’s West African foreign correspondent reports from there and  signs off on all of her stories with a melodic pronunciation of the city’s name.  Aside from that and a quick turnaround at the Leopold Senghor International Airport before the crack of dawn the day we arrived, Dakar and all it had to offer was a big mystery to me.  It was reportedly, the land of plenty.  Whenever anyone asked “can you get X or Y in Senegal”, referring to some creature comfort from home that someone failed to bring with them, the answer was always “yes, you can get that in Dakar”  We’d also learned that getting in and out of Dakar was a traffic nightmare.  Situated just 70 km (44 miles) from Thiès, it often took our trainers 2-3 hours to commute.

October 4th was Dakar Day according to our training calendar.  Early that morning, we loaded up in Peace Corps buses and headed into the city.  On the outskirts of town, we stopped along the side of the road to transfer some passengers; those folks that had fallen ill (a weekly occurrence during our training period) were shuttled in another vehicle and sent directly to the Med Hut (the medical facility in the Peace Corps Senegal office) and several 3rd year Volunteers who are now living in Dakar jumped on board our buses to give us a guided tour of the city.  Their commentary went something like this,
  1.  “Don’t come to this section of town or you’ll surely get mugged.”
  2. “If you want to by a sheep or cow, this is the place to do it, but get here early for the good ones.”
  3. “On Saturdays, this street is lined with used clothing for sale; you can pick up ratty old clothes donated to a charitable organization in the US and sent over here in a shipping container, however if you have the patience to pick through it you might just find something really cool.”
  4. “This is the stadium where the big football (soccer) matches are held, but we’re not allowed attend them anymore because last year there was a huge riot and several volunteers had to be rescued from the crowd by the Gendarmerie (the National Guard) after trying to flee the attacking crowd in a taxi and running over and killing someone."
  5. “Here’s a cool club where we go out dancing the first Saturday of every month and stay up until all hours of the morning”.  
Oddly, all of this sage guidance was said with the same tone of voice, as if each statement carried equal importance.  Ahh, the perspective of youth.

Our guides were quick to point out Chez Ass

After the bus tour, we parked our vehicles within the US Embassy gates and split  up into groups to tour the downtown area.  The streets were bustling with modern cars, businessmen headed to appointments, and people enjoying food and drinks at sidewalk cafés.  Tall modern buildings lined the avenues and fountains sat inside traffic circles.  It was trés moderne and reminded me of European cities I’d visited in the past.  Having spent 7 weeks at this point in interior Senegalese towns and villages, it was hard to believe we were in the same country.

A bustling city street in Dakar

A fountain in the traffic circle

From there we drove along the Corniche, the wide boulevard that parallels the coastline, and were also warned to stay away from its wide sidewalks after dark to avoid running into bandits that prey on Westerners.  After passing the recently unveiled African Renaissance Monument, we soon arrived at Club Altantique, otherwise known as the American Club.  It’s a small country club of sorts that caters to American ex-pats and their families but waives the annual membership fee for us poor Peace Corps volunteers.  It has a pool, snack shack, volleyball court, bar, and themed dinner nights and serves as a nice oasis of familiarity where we can go when we’re in the area (without fear of bandits, muggers, or overpriced second-hand clothing).  The rest of the afternoon was spent attending debriefings from the Embassy’s security and legal departments and touring our Peace Corps office before we convoyed back to Thiès in time for dinner.

Along the Corniche--brave soul or potential bandit?

A pool to enjoy when I'm in Dakar

Controversial boondoggle and the gaudiest statue in the world

Our second trip to Dakar, was less than 2 weeks later for our grand swearing in event at the Ambassador’s residence.  They pulled out the red carpet for this fête, escorting us into the city with a three cycle motorcade with flashing lights.  At one point, the Gendarmerie diverted our convey to other side of the divided highway  where we completely usurped a lane of oncoming traffic.  Our Ambassador, Marcia Bernicat (an African American woman - yeah!) resides across the street from Dakar’s Club Med.  She opened her home to us, some local dignitaries, and news agencies that came to see us be inducted.  After a formal ceremony full of speeches, pomp, and circumstance, we enjoyed fresh juices and appetizers on the patio.  From there we headed back to the Peace Corps office to finalize some paperwork and get our bank cards, then stopped by Club Atlantique for quick dip in the pool and a beer (or two) before hitting the road again.  Truth be told, I look forward to a day in Dakar without an agenda.

The Ambassador's residence

All spruced up for our induction

Her Excellence Marcia Bernicat welcomes a few new volunteers.
A patio reception
We arrived back in Thiès to find out that the moment we swore in as official volunteers, our figurative umbilical cord had been cut.  No longer were we Peace Corps trainees, attached to the womb of our training center and reliant on it for all of our physical needs.  The dining hall was closed, we had access to our monthly stipends, and we were expected to feed ourselves. So we did what any group of formerly cooped up, highly dependent people would do, went out to the nicest restaurants in town and all blew a week’s worth of  living allowance in just one night.  No regrets. A plate of Osso Buco and a half carafe of red wine was a well-deserved treat after 10 weeks of intensive training, and boy did it taste good.

Farewell to friends

That last weekend at the training center was filled with good-byes.  Departures started on Saturday afternoon, with groups of newly appointed volunteers leaving for their permanent sites.  I was one of the last to leave and headed to Diourbel on Monday afternoon with three Peace Corps officials who drove me around and  introduced me to the local authorities before dropping me and all of my belongings off at my new home.  My host Mom and Dad and several members of the Eco-Village where I’ll be living greeted us with fresh-baked millet cake and cold sodas.  They’d baked the cake in a solar oven on the roof.  Making, selling, and training women’s groups on the use of solar ovens is one of the many sustainable ventures in which the Eco-Village is involved.  We’ve got a handful of these on our rooftop and in my first week here we’ve cooked, beef stew, Ceebu yaap (a traditional rice and beef dishs), baked fish, roasted peanuts, Nyebe (spicy beans), and more millet cake.  It feels good to make use of the extreme sun and heat that plagues us all day.  The temperature in this centrally located city reaches 100 degrees F daily this time of year.

Solar oven on roof

Roasting peanuts

A rooftop view of my neighbor's compound
The entrance to Baol Environnement (my new home)

This weekend, the Eco-Village will be sponsoring a solar oven workshop and I’ll participate in my first training experience, co-teaching marketing and accounting classes to the women’s group so they can promote and manage their own solar oven businesses.  I also plan to work with my counterpart (who’s also my host Dad and president of the Eco-Village) on a Feasibility Study for a Volunteer House that the city of Diourbel wants to open that will serve as a work/meeting place and resource center for volunteers from many different countries and non-government organizations (NGOs) that come to Diourbel.  This idea has been in place for some time, but it’s lacking the organizational structure for it to actually happen.  I attended an all-day meeting regarding this venture the third day I was here and it was painfully clear that they need some help on this project.  That’s what I’m here for, right?  So, one week at site, and I’ve already identified some work.  Not bad considering that I’m supposed to be focusing on settling into my community and not looking for work until after my In-Service Training in December.  I’d probably go stir crazy if I waited that long. 

I’m also doing a lot of reading for a seminar our Country Director is hosting on Development Theory and Practice.  About 25 volunteers are participating.  We have an extensive reading list and will meet a handful of times (via teleconference and in-person) over the next 4 months to discuss the factors leading up to the current economic status of the world’s poorest countries, what attempts at aid have failed and why, and what new approaches to development might prove more effective.  So far, the reading has been interesting and having the opportunity to learn more about the big picture of the poverty that surrounds me helps make some sense of it all, even if it’s still daunting.