This is certainly a twist on the development model...
Africa leaders offered prize for ruling well
By Alan Cowell The New York Times
Mo Ibrahim, a Sudanese-born billionaire, announced the creation of a $5 million prize for the sub-Saharan African president who demonstrates the greatest commitment to democracy and good governance during their time in office.
http://www.iht.com/articles/2006/10/26/news/prize.php
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Must see/read news
Very exciting stuff from the world of microfinance. At least for me, I was giggling like a little girl...
Microlean Pioneer and His Bank Win Nobel Peace Prize
(this was a major inspiration to go into Peace Corps and Business Development)
and also
it's a must-see, great way to participate in one of the best grassroots development practices around.
Another great site for third-world development through entrepreneurship
All my best!
Meryl
Microlean Pioneer and His Bank Win Nobel Peace Prize
(this was a major inspiration to go into Peace Corps and Business Development)
and also
it's a must-see, great way to participate in one of the best grassroots development practices around.
Another great site for third-world development through entrepreneurship
All my best!
Meryl
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
laugh already!
Just to alternate from the bad news earlier in the week I have a couple funny stories to share…
First, I threw myself to the wolves today. There is always a kind of a power struggle here and age wins out, no matter what. In fact, the whole society is ordered this way. Good behavior is determined by the elders, people are accepted or rejected based on what the elder members of the community say, and it goes on and on. Every task is determined the same way, as a young person, you will be told how everything should be done—the laundry, the mopping, even how to cut an onion. This can be pretty annoying if you are university-educated foreigner who thinks she has a pretty good idea of how to cut an onion and doesn’t want to be pushed around. Worse yet is when the Wolofs around you decide after 30 seconds that you are physically incapable of cutting onions and refuse to let you try any more. But in the end, I decided to put myself to this test, knowing that if the gamble worked, the payoff would be enormous.
The test was “moyne” the act of mixing millet flour and water in a big calabash bowl to make tiny grains that will be made into couscous. Believe it or not, the process is pretty tricky and there is (of course) a specific technique to get the most perfect grains, not too dry, not too big, not too clumpy. It was awfully scary sitting in the middle of all the big-shot Wolof grandmothers and trying it, but I actually succeeded and the chorus of praise (WAAW Koumba! Waaw kaaye!) was definitely worth it. I knew that my acceptance was confirmed when I kept getting meat thrown in front of me at the bowl at lunch by an imposing grandmother with a very toothy smile.
The second story is courtesy of my neighbor Neil. The post here in Senegal is extremely expensive, but every once in a while we just have to mail something out. Neil wanted to mail a little music and a couple other things to a friend, but his package was going to cost him 8.000 cfa, which is just too much (about $16). The postman told him that if he could reduce the weight by 4 grams, the price would be cut in half. The two of them dissected the package, looking for something to throw out. Turning up nothing, the postman simply took the cd case, held the cover firmly, cracked it in half and threw out the piece not attached to the hinge. Problem solved.
First, I threw myself to the wolves today. There is always a kind of a power struggle here and age wins out, no matter what. In fact, the whole society is ordered this way. Good behavior is determined by the elders, people are accepted or rejected based on what the elder members of the community say, and it goes on and on. Every task is determined the same way, as a young person, you will be told how everything should be done—the laundry, the mopping, even how to cut an onion. This can be pretty annoying if you are university-educated foreigner who thinks she has a pretty good idea of how to cut an onion and doesn’t want to be pushed around. Worse yet is when the Wolofs around you decide after 30 seconds that you are physically incapable of cutting onions and refuse to let you try any more. But in the end, I decided to put myself to this test, knowing that if the gamble worked, the payoff would be enormous.
The test was “moyne” the act of mixing millet flour and water in a big calabash bowl to make tiny grains that will be made into couscous. Believe it or not, the process is pretty tricky and there is (of course) a specific technique to get the most perfect grains, not too dry, not too big, not too clumpy. It was awfully scary sitting in the middle of all the big-shot Wolof grandmothers and trying it, but I actually succeeded and the chorus of praise (WAAW Koumba! Waaw kaaye!) was definitely worth it. I knew that my acceptance was confirmed when I kept getting meat thrown in front of me at the bowl at lunch by an imposing grandmother with a very toothy smile.
The second story is courtesy of my neighbor Neil. The post here in Senegal is extremely expensive, but every once in a while we just have to mail something out. Neil wanted to mail a little music and a couple other things to a friend, but his package was going to cost him 8.000 cfa, which is just too much (about $16). The postman told him that if he could reduce the weight by 4 grams, the price would be cut in half. The two of them dissected the package, looking for something to throw out. Turning up nothing, the postman simply took the cd case, held the cover firmly, cracked it in half and threw out the piece not attached to the hinge. Problem solved.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
siigil ndigale
The tragic news is that my host dad, Massar Sarr, passed away two days ago. I was just getting into a car to return to Louga from Dakar when I got the news on my cell phone. Baay Massar was in his 60s and has been ill and bed-ridden for several years, but the news was nevertheless a shock. There is a definite sadness that hangs over the house in recent days, but it is encouraging to see everyone regroup in the family and gather with the community. I have been able to spend more time with my family members than usual during this time, as well as learn much more about how they deal with the death of a family member. You can see a photo of the late Massar Sarr with his first wife and several of his grandkids or grand-nieces and nephews. The other photo is Massar's brother with two visitors.
I learned a Wolof proverb today: Boo xeye gis say mbokki yepp, amulo lii la geunal. A rough translation is : He who awakens in the morning and sees all of his relatives knows that bad news awaits. the significance is that in Senegal a family member might miss a big holiday or occasionally a baptism but no one would miss a funeral. And it seems to be true. The house has been full of people over the past few days and I have met so many relatives that I never have seen before.
The funeral ceremony is planned for Sunday. From what I can gather, there will be a part where men sing verses of the Koran for several hours in front of the house, and the local marabout will spend the day along with all the relatives and neighbors at the house. Up until then, the three remaining wives of my host dad lay in a room wearing white head scarves and surrounded by blankets made in the traditional weaving style of Senegal. Community members and friends come to the doorway of the room and kneel, offer their condolences and then drop coins or small bills into a basket in front of the women.
Even though each person only spends a few moments with the women, they stay outside and spend the day sitting and talking. I had an interesting conversation with a couple of the neighborhood men. One of them posed the question, “if you had lots and lots of money, what would you do?”
I spit out my very predictable answer “travel”
The other two men responded “build a mosque” and then “build a house for my family, build a franco-arab school and then build a mosque”
Chew on that one for a little while.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Ode to Underwear
We are roughly 20 days into Ramadan right now which means its pretty slow around here. You've probably noticed that I haven't written since then. I've actually been more busy with work recently since everything comes down during Ramadan and we can get more real work done.
I just got out of the shower and consequently, done washing my underwear by hand. I have to comment on the monotony and ridiculousness of this task. I can't set out underwear with the rest of my clothes to be washed-- we were told it was culturally insensitive. I never got the whole gist of it, but I'd hate to be stepping on toes. So every day I wash my underwear. I don't think I would want to set it out anyway seeing as how my clothes always come back as though they've seen the third world war. Bleach and mysterious hole-creating forces permeate my clothes, despite the hardest work of the girl who regularly does my laundry. So everything is literallly torn apart and even though I wash my own underwear I am starting to see holes take over. The laundry soap here I am convinced smells worse that actual dirty clothes smell and doesn't succeed in actually removing much dirt. Maybe it is my half-hearted sloshing around of soap and underwear in the water bucket, but every time I take my sun-stiffened underwear off the line I find myself cringing at the thought of having to put these on again in a few days. The real test comes when you have been a volunteer long enough to be willing to buy your underwear from the local goodwill-style clothes seller. I've wandered into that part of the market, been drawn to it (such is the allure of non-sun-stiffened undergarments) but I still haven't made the jump. This is perhaps my ultimate weakness as a volunteer. Bring on the plague of crickets (I count 6 on my computer screen right now). Bring on dysentery and giardia. bring on sheep intestines and fish heads. But something restrains me from making that last break from Toubab-ness, buying underwear of unknown origins. So this leads me now to the Ode to Mom, who has agreed to mail me new, never before hand-washed underwear.
In other news, our bull broke out of his pen today and wreaked havoc in the house. ever heard of the bull in the China shop? This is what happens when you keep the cows in the house.
And, tomorrow I will attempt to fast with the Senegalese. Wish me luck!
Miss you all!
I just got out of the shower and consequently, done washing my underwear by hand. I have to comment on the monotony and ridiculousness of this task. I can't set out underwear with the rest of my clothes to be washed-- we were told it was culturally insensitive. I never got the whole gist of it, but I'd hate to be stepping on toes. So every day I wash my underwear. I don't think I would want to set it out anyway seeing as how my clothes always come back as though they've seen the third world war. Bleach and mysterious hole-creating forces permeate my clothes, despite the hardest work of the girl who regularly does my laundry. So everything is literallly torn apart and even though I wash my own underwear I am starting to see holes take over. The laundry soap here I am convinced smells worse that actual dirty clothes smell and doesn't succeed in actually removing much dirt. Maybe it is my half-hearted sloshing around of soap and underwear in the water bucket, but every time I take my sun-stiffened underwear off the line I find myself cringing at the thought of having to put these on again in a few days. The real test comes when you have been a volunteer long enough to be willing to buy your underwear from the local goodwill-style clothes seller. I've wandered into that part of the market, been drawn to it (such is the allure of non-sun-stiffened undergarments) but I still haven't made the jump. This is perhaps my ultimate weakness as a volunteer. Bring on the plague of crickets (I count 6 on my computer screen right now). Bring on dysentery and giardia. bring on sheep intestines and fish heads. But something restrains me from making that last break from Toubab-ness, buying underwear of unknown origins. So this leads me now to the Ode to Mom, who has agreed to mail me new, never before hand-washed underwear.
In other news, our bull broke out of his pen today and wreaked havoc in the house. ever heard of the bull in the China shop? This is what happens when you keep the cows in the house.
And, tomorrow I will attempt to fast with the Senegalese. Wish me luck!
Miss you all!
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Development in Gardening
Check out a fantastic initiative started by some of our very own Senegal volunteers. A n NGO dedicated to caring for AIDS patients with self-sustaining gardening projects.
http://www.developmentingardening.org/DIG/HOME.html
http://www.developmentingardening.org/DIG/HOME.html
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