Marie-Suzanne Schools Mont Rolland

We had our doubts. At 4:30, when only a handful of people had shown up for the workshop which had been advertised to start at 3, and all of those people were Marie-Suzanne's cousins, siblings, aunts, and parents, we got worried.

But there's on time and then there's Senegalese time. By 5 pm, the second speaker had finally shown up, and as they began, teens from the village continued arriving. By the end, a standing room-only crowd scrambled to get their hands on the free condoms, female condoms, and cool necklaces designed to help women keep track of their cycles.


(Go here to see more photos from the day.)

Rappers performed songs written especially for the workshop (and one of which will appear on the rapper's next album) and village kids danced and sang for the crowd.

From my perspective, I was disappointed with the focus on abstinence from the speakers. Plus, the organization that donated condoms only sent one box of about 50-60. They told Theo (who handed them out) they didn't want to encourage young people to have sex (Gah.) It seems to me, with all the young girls getting pregnant, that ship has sailed.

But it opened the discussion, and inspired Marie-Suzanne, who is planning to organize round two for next year's festival.

Thanks again to everyone who contributed. Marie-Suzanne also sends her heartfelt thanks for your help.

You know you want to come on vacation with me...

... don't deny it.

Among my many, many (bad) reasons for not posting lately (or ever) is that I spent three weeks last month crossing the Sahara.

Theo and I flew to Casablanca and bit-by-bit, train by crowded (and sometimes less crowded) bush taxi, by bus, we made our way back to Dakar. Our own private Paris-Dakar Rally, if you will, with less speed and more cookies. Although maybe the people on the Rally like cookies. I do.

Anyway, we took a brief detour inland to the Atlas Mountains where we met up with the ever-fabulous Julia and her cool-chick friend Alden. On the way inland, we stopped in Ait Ben Haddou, home of a famous (or INfamous) Casbah, where Lawrence of Arabia was filmed (also Gladiator. Who knew?)

And there we did something NO ONE in the history of EVER has ever done.

Everything is Possible, Nothing is Simple

Sierra Leone has to be one of the most spectacularly beautiful places I've ever been. And one of the friendliest. People in Senegal are very friendly too, but sometimes it seems almost aggressive and maybe motivated by self-interest.

But Sierra Leone has a low key vibe that expresses itself in friendly helpfulness. Walking through the seemingly never-ending rain (Sierra Leone's rainy season is for real, not like Dakar's occasional drizzles) I can't count the number of times complete strangers shared their umbrellas with me.

And when I left my wallet in a taxi, I was utterly shocked, before I knew it was gone, to find the taxi driver honking in front of my hotel, waving it out the window for me. Considering he'd dropped me off at a nearby intersection and I'd never told him where I was staying, it was an especially impressive feat of good samaritanism.

Many of my fellow Dakar journalists began grumping about the flat, brown of our city, and how it compared to the lush, hilly city on the beach where we were staying.

And then we tried to leave.

For reasons no one has been able to explain to me, the airport in Freetown was built across a wide bay from the rest of the city. There are four ways to get there. A three-hour drive on bad roads, around the perimeter of the bay; an even longer, crowded, delayed ferry ride across the water; a short, but expensive, and not entirely safe helicopter ride; or a pretty expensive, not too long hovercraft ride.

We opted for the hovercraft.

But when three other journalists and I arrived 20 minutes before the airline had told us the hovercraft was scheduled to leave, we were greeted with unfortunate news: the hovercraft wasn't running that day. We learned later that the operators of the hovercraft decided to give their employees vacation during election weekend. Who cares about the people who might have to fly? They should have known to take the ferry.

But there's always a solution. Next to the hovercraft dock, there was a guy with a speedboat.

Well, more like a guy who works for a guy who owns a speedboat. But he said he could take us across, as long as we cleared it with his boss.

With the minutes ticking by, we were starting to feel stressed. The airline we were flying routinely overbooks their flight, and if you arrive late, you are guaranteed not to have a seat, even if you have reconfirmed. But things happen on their own time here, so when we called the speedboat owner, instead of discussing things on the phone, he just said he'd come on by.

"Where does he live?" we asked the speedboat driver of the speedboat owner.
"In town," he told us. 30 minutes away.

We tapped our toes and tried to seem patient.

Eventually Ivan showed up.

And so did Alan.

As two of my colleagues negotiated with Alan, a third colleague and I negotiated with Ivan, not realizing what the others were doing. Alan had a speedboat. Ivan had a giant boat. Both were willing to take us, but Alan said his boat was ready to go and Ivan said he needed to wait for his captain.

Speedboat it was.

Thirty minutes later, as we sat on the boat and drifted in the shallow waters near shore waiting for the speedboat driver to show up with gas, and all the speedboat crew had disappeared, we began to get angry.

And so we started shouting for the drive. Four white chick journalists stuck on a boat with nowhere to go and a plane to catch.

The upshot: we got to the airport, even though nobody showed up with gas (the nearest gas station didn't have any, from what we understood).

And we got on the plane, unlike twenty or so others who had to cross the bay back to Freetown and wait until Tuesday. Even though one of our crew was NOT ON THE LIST of reconfirmed passengers. In Freetown at least. She was on the list in Dakar.

It pays to be pushy. And everything is possible, even if it's not simple.

The airline manager refused to back down, even though his list was wrong and her ticket was right. But after two hours of arguing, he agreed to put her on "standby". With a grin on his face, he issued the very special, only because he was so nice, entirely irregular "standby" ticket. That looked exactly like our boarding passes. And worked exactly like our boarding passes.

It's important to know when you've won a battle, and sometimes that requires letting the other person claim victory.

And so I'm back in Dakar.

After that ordeal, I may revise my plans to head straight back to Freetown for a vacation on the city's fantastic beaches. And I may hold off on pitching a travel story on why everyone should visit Sierra Leone (there's no war anymore, I swear!)

Besides, after what I discovered in my purse this morning, I'm not sure I could show my face in town again.

It seems I have stolen the cell phone of the speedboat driver.

Sierra Leone is one of the world's poorest countries. And I stole someone's phone.

I thought it was Selah's one of my friends on the boat. I asked her. She said yes. I threw it in my bag so she wouldn't forget it, and it was still there this morning.

But I saw her using her phone last night, and it was in her purse.

I'm not sure, but this might be one of the stupidest and meanest things I've ever done.

I'm working on a plan to send it back to him, with my apologies. Anyone know how reliable mail is between Senegal and Sierra Leone?

Err... Hi?

So I doubt anybody is still reading (because who would? I never post), but I figured I'd check in. Because I want to ask for something. (Figures.)

I actually started writing a post about a month ago. I got as far as saying, "I suck for not posting, but apologizing is uninteresting to read about, so here's a funny story:"

And then... It turned out I didn't HAVE a funny story.

Life here has become sadly (or comfortingly?) routine.

Although the next week I went on a reporting trip to Burkina Faso, where my new friend/colleague took me to get grilled chicken, promising me that the chicken would still be alive when we got there.

I told him he was kidding.

He said, "Okay."

He wasn't kidding.

So sometimes life can still surprise me.

But in the meantime, I'm writing to see if you all want to help my friend Marie-Suzanne do something really cool.

(FYI, if this looks familiar, I asked star bloggers A. Maria and Jeanne to post about this as well, since I don't really think anybody still comes to my blog...)

Anyway, I'll let Marie-Suzanne tell you about the project in her own words (which I translated from French):

My name is Marie-Suzanne Seck. I live in Mont Rolland, a village in the Thies region. I am twenty years old.

I have found that the girls in my village are not very aware of AIDS and early pregnancy. I want to do a workshop for this in August, because all the young people are there for a festival. I am writing to ask for help.

In my village, I know 15-year-old girls who have gotten pregnant. At fifteen, you have many boyfriends and you do not know which one got you pregnant. If you say to one that it was him, he will say it wasn’t me. If you say to another, he’ll say it wasn’t me. And then you will be obligated to raise the baby on your own. Sometimes the family understands, sometimes they don’t.

As for AIDS, I had the idea because we did an anti-AIDS workshop one time in Mont Rolland for that, and I thought to myself that we should organize many to help young people and speak to them about illnesses.

For the activities, I would like, first of all, that the young people discuss together. Afterwards, I want to have two skits, one for AIDS, one for youth pregancy. After that, we will pose questions, and if someone gets it right, we will give them a present (for example, a condom, or a ticket for a dance night that we are organizing that night). We will also have some singers. I have asked a friend to write two songs : one for AIDS, one for youth pregnancy.

The evening, I want to have a dance party for the young people to encourage them to come. It will be free for everyone who came for the day’s activities. If someone else would like to come, they will have to pay 500 CFA (about $1).

I have already reserved the hall and I have started to organize the details. But I don’t have enough money to do it all. I have compiled a budget, and in all, the workshop and party will cost about $200. I hope that you could help.

Thanks for your understanding.

We wrote that letter to send to local NGOs to ask for funding and help. One of them is going to provide logistical support and free condoms, but they aren't able to help financially.

But I think this is a fantastic project, so I thought I'd ask my friends in the computer for some help. If you would be willing to chip in $5 or $10, it would go a long way towards helping Marie-Suzanne reach her goal.

If you're interested, you can send money to me (naomims at the email run by g0ogle, and damn you spammers) through paypal.

And in the meantime... What's new?

Last

As in, there were no people running behind me. As in first, only the inverse.

But also, 2:23.

And (give or take), among top 10 female finishers. (As of Wednesday morning, I was the 9th woman to sign up. "20 kilometers is a little long for women," the secretary told me. I didn't remind her that it was 21.1)

What's in a number.

****

It's actually really hard being last. I knew I was running the right pace for me, and I knew that in another race there would have been plenty of other people around me.

I knew I couldn't run any faster, but that if I kept going, I'd finish.

But there was a tiny voice screaming inside my head: last? LAST? Run faster, you idiot.

Then I ran past a man collapsed on the side of the road. Less than five kilometers in.

Be the tortoise. Love the tortoise.

Theo met me at 7.5-kilometers on my bike, with a backpack full of provisions. I didn't expect to see him so early. I did expect him to say hello, and then jet off to a later part of the course.

But did I mention I was last? All alone? So when he just kept riding next to me, you'll forgive me for not complaining. I felt slightly ridiculous to have my own personal support crew, except also? It was awesome. And he was fantastic. He handed me my iPod (which I'd left at home, and which he'd gone back, on the bike, to get for me), and just hung out, being there.

Around 10 kilometers in, a guy in front of me pulled a blue t-shirt on over his lime-green-race-issued tank top and walked off the course.

And a few kilometers later, we saw another guy walking. "You can totally catch up to him," Theo said. "Not gonna be last," my inner voice cheered.

He ran for a bit when we caught up to him (Theo, far too nice for my own good, kept encouraging him to keep going. My inner voice: Idiot! We can beat him!). But eventually he also dropped out.

And so for the next 8 kilometers or so, I ran a few feet in front of the sag wagon, with ever supportive, but brutally honest Senegalese people cheering me on. "You're last but it's okay!"

So I kept going. And when I started to flag, Kari and Rick, my new roommates, appeared out of the blue with oranges.

Finally, with only a few kilometers left, I saw another man straggling. But I was starting to hurt too, and twice I almost caught up to him, only to have to start walking because of cramps (in my left ankle, of all places).

But, and here's where I admit that I was lying in the opening to this post, with less than a kilometer left, I caught up to him. We ran together for a little bit but somehow I found a final kick and I totally smoked him.

But I'm still claiming my title. Last for 20 km out of 21 is close enough.

(P.S. I have the best friends. Julia was there at the start, including buying a last minute bottle of cold water, after the start was delayed more than half an hour. And Naw was waiting at the finish line to cheer me on as well. Yet more people to add to the long list of people who have been incredibly generous with their time and support in my various attempts at athleticism. Thank you!)

(Also P.P.S. After rumors that the entire Reuters bureau, a fun bunch of guys, were going to run the race, only one showed up. We warmed up together, but he soon took off in front of me, and ran a fantastic first half-marathon. He finished in 1:59! Pretty impressive, no?)

Dead man walking

Here's what I was going to write, half an hour ago.

"Y'all, I'm NERVOUS.

For real, butterflies in my stomach, frenetic nervous energy, when will this be OVER already NERVOUS.

Last night, I was talking to two friends about all the various voodoo and alchemy I have planned for this afternoon. The important things, like what snacks I was packing for mile 8 and what breakfast I had planned.

And I played it off like I was only acting this way because I'm so undertrained, that since I couldn't count on fitness to carry me across 13 miles, I'd have to count on gummy worms.

But y'all know: I'm neurotic.

So don't tell me that pretzels are not the difference between utter failure (hot sun=sweat=dehydration=cramps) and a triumphant finish line photo (pretzels=salt=balanced electrolytes), unless it's because you're telling me that because in fact potato chips are the answer.

Oh god. Potato chips ARE the answer.

I'm doomed.

And if Senegal were just a NORMAL country, with a normal race-time start, I'd be done by now, instead of sitting around my house wondering how Theo is going to manage to keep cold my sports drink and if he'll ever manage to find me, considering the race route appears to be a squiggly line on plain white paper.

And also why they are making me wear a lime green singlet? Are they kidding? Does everyone else know that it doesn't matter, and I'll be the only fool in chartreuse?"

Except I wasn't going to write that because I was feeling just a *tiny bit* ridiculous, and lots of people I know in Dakar read this blog, and they might not realize yet just how ridiculous I am.

So instead, I trolled around on the internet, reading my favorite running blogs, and I came across this post.

And... I dunno. Somehow it just reminded me why I started all of this, way back when, and how glad I am that I did.

It's not going to undo the weeks of skipped runs, but well... I'll still be out there running today.

That's all. And that's enough.

A Doom Deferred

After months of (not-)training in preparation for tomorrow's half-marathon, my (entirely self-imposed) sentence has been commuted for another week.

Thursday was the Grand Magal, one of Senegal's biggest holidays. It commemorates the return from exile of Cheikh Amadou Bamba, the founder of Senegal's most powerful Sufi Islam brotherhood, and what feels like ALL of the country heads out to Touba, the brotherhood's holy city, to celebrate in a feast and frenzy of hospitality and chanting.

All of which meant that, this weekend, things still aren't quite back to normal, so the Powers That Be decided to wait a week for the marathon.

Although I'm pleased to have an extra week of (not-)training, I'm starting to get worried about the temperature factor. It's getting hot, y'all, and the 4 pm race start isn't going to do much to help me out.

Eh, I'll survive. Probably.

***

It's been kind of a long time since I've posted here, huh.

It's not for lack of stories.

There was the time my guardian/super thought I was a... woman of ill repute? And tried to take advantage of my services?

See, I moved last month, but my new roommates didn't arrive until the first of this month.

Which was fine, though it did mean that I was a single girl, living on my own in a big fancy apartment. And, well, you KNOW what white girls are like (have you seen the movies?) Plus, several of my friends came to visit. One of them was Theo, of course, but the other two also happened to be guys. And they came separately, and hung out with me ALL ALONE, with the DOOR CLOSED. Honestly, who could blame the guy for thinking we were UP TO NO GOOD.

So the night before my new roommates moved in (they had dropped by some stuff earlier that afternoon), the guardian knocked on my door.

He had always seemed very friendly and helpful. He helped me when I was moving my stuff in and explained where the trash went and stuff. Plus, he only speaks Wolof, and was very good at managing to explain things in words I understand, and also at deciphering meaning from the words I managed to string together.

Overall, I was of the opinion: Zal, generally good guy.

So when he knocked and told me he had something he wanted to talk to me about, I figured it was something house related. As he continued talking, I began to suspect it was something else, but I didn't really understand the words he was using (remember: all Wolof) and I didn't want to jump to conclusions.

At some point, he gestured inside, and I thought he was talking about my armoire that had been delivered earlier that day. He seemed to indicate that it would be easier to explain if I let him in.

It did in fact become a lot clearer at that point.

He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, LOCKED IT, and started walking to my bedroom.

Yeah. Baaxul. (Bad.)

I quickly chased him back out and, properly chastened, he backtracked quickly and told me he wasn't going to do anything, and (and this was the one phrase he knew in French): I respect you a lot.

Wonder if he knows what that means?

In any case, he apologized the next day, and Theo gave him a stern talking to. Anyway, I'm much more respectable now, given that I have two roommates. Of course, they are living in sin, but he doesn't have to know that.

And I keep the door locked.

***

In perhaps less dramatic news, my candle quest continues.

After the mixed success of my Hannukah menorah, I decided to go for broke and make Shabbat candlesticks.

A few months ago, Theo bought me candles. I'd taken him to a Shabbat dinner at a friends house, where I explained that it was our Sabbath, and that every Friday, among other things, we should light candles.

He was all, "But you never do."

"Right. Well, no, not here. But I used to. And in my family when I was growing up, we had Shabbat dinner every Friday night."

To which he not unreasonably responded, "so why don't you do it here? We have candles in Senegal."

Theo, in general, is pro-religion. Also he's seen that when I do manage to celebrate holidays here or participate in some Jewish community, it makes me happy.

So every Friday (when he's not reminding me to call my grandmother) he asks me if I've lit candles and said the kiddush. And one day, he came over with two boxes of candles, saying that if I had them in the house, maybe I'd remember to light them.

But the only candle-holders I had were empty bottles of beer, and somehow, that didn't seem right.

I decided to get something made. This time I decided to skip the flammable materials, and try for something, you know, inflammable. HA! Ba dum bum! (Okay, that was cheap. What can I say. Look at that S-Car Go!)

One of the crafts I enjoy here is when people make things out of found objects or scavenged trash. They can get pretty creative, and not too long ago, I bought myself this:



In this case, they've taken useful things (a teapot for attaya, fanta cans) and turned them into something whole-ly useless (a model of a traditional instrument). But you know... It's pretty.

So when I bought it, I asked the man to make me a pair of candlesticks out of tin cans. He told me to come back in two weeks. I was very excited and telling lots of people about my soon-to-arrive treasure.

I won't swear I knew exactly what I had in mind, but, well...

It wasn't this:



They put cans in a box. I could that. And y'all know. I'm no artist.

The worst part was that I hated them so much, I was embarrassed to bargain. I just wanted to walk away, but somehow I found myself paying far too much to bring these... treasures home.

I was hoping that when I got them into my apartment, I'd be more inspired, but... Not so much.

And they looked even worse when I put the candles on them.

So I took the only solace possible: I complained to lots of people. It helped.

But when I complained to Theo, he said, "I had this idea."

And two days later, he showed up at my house with this:



Isn't it great? He made it out of copper pipes.

Who knew? Date a plumber, and there are all sorts of perks.

Doomsday awaits

It's 11 pm on a Friday night, and I'm at home.

Orchestra Baobab is playing at a club downtown. It doesn't even start for another hour. I could get up right now and go and I'd be early.

And Youssou Ndour, who is probably Senegal's most famous musician, and who plays here every weekend he's not on tour, and who, after nearly a year of living here I STILL haven't seen, won't hit the stage for another three hours at least.

And yet?

I'm staying home.

There's something very wrong with this picture. And also? Terribly right.

Because tomorrow, I'm waking up and I'm going to run 10 miles. Or so. (I would give a lot for a mile marker somewhere or other...)

Ah, runner-girl-with-no-life-Naomi, I actually miss being you.

Today, I called the discount running store where I've bought all my running shoes and I ordered a new pair. And you know what the best part was? The woman on the phone was not even a tiny bit fazed that I was calling her from Senegal to ask her to mail (to my parents in NY, who are coming to visit) the exact right brand, model and size shoe.

I'm only kicking myself that I didn't think to ask her to put some chocolate Powergels (with caffeine!) in the box.

March 11th is the Dakar Half Marathon. I've been telling people for MONTHS that I was going to run it.

And I meant it. Except for the part where I did any training. I've been riding my new bike. Which is awesome, by the way: bright yellow (like a taxi!) and a great way to get around. But ten and twenty minute rides do not an IronGirl make.

I've also been running. Sporadically. Up until about two weeks ago, I ran about 3 miles at most, maybe three times a week. (In the alternate reality universe in which three times a week means, oh, I don't know, once in a blue moon?)

Most of me knew that was going to be a problem. I could see myself clearly: I was the potbellied forty-five-year-old former high school football star trying to recapture his former glory. The one who plays a pick-up game with the current football stars. The one who ends up having knee surgery.

And I'm not trying to say that you can't be in the best shape of your life at forty-five. Because forty-five is young and I plan to be both very hot and very fit when I'm forty-five. Even if I (continue to) have a potbelly.

But the former football star in my story? Not fit. Out of shape.

Which is, funnily, enough, something that I am also. Out of shape.

But.

That girl. The one whose voice, BY THE WAY, isn't loud enough to get me into my running shoes? Is plenty loud enough to be all, "13 miles? What's the worst that can happen? You can always walk a little."

The worst that can happen, indeed.

And so I march toward my doom.

But the strange thing? I think I might actually be able to pull this off. I'll tell you, the fear of utterly failing in front of new(-ish) friends can really get you out the door. The craziest part is, it's not that bad.

On Thursday, I ran for 80 minutes. It was pretty great, actually. I wasn't breaking any landspeed records, but I wasn't collapsed in a heap either.

It helped that it wasn't hot. It helped A LOT.

And it helped that I hadn't eaten white rice in the preceding 24-hours. (I'll just leave it at that.)

At the end, I was kind of convinced that, if I keep this up, I might just live through this disaster.

I mean, really, 13 miles? What's the worst that can happen. Right?

right?