Dreaming of Boston

Last night I had a dream that I was back in Boston. I think this happens to me when I feel fatigued somewhere far away. Even though I love to travel, it's very different when I'm traveling for work instead of pleasure. When backpacking through Europe I shared a hotel room with 40 people, and woke up excited to explore the city. I had to deal with all the usual troubles--people charging me artificially inflated prices, heckling me with goods on the street, struggling with language issues, etc. Here however, it exhausts me. After a long day of interviewing people, I want to go home and lie down. I don't even know what to say anymore. Everyone has cancer, and statistically, about 80% of them are in advanced stages. I love my job, but I also think I've turned something off in my brain.

I've always said that I don't really have a "home," because I grew up in Boston, but my parents have since moved away from there, and most of my close friends have too. It's times like these however, that I realize how much I miss Boston. I have some fragmented memories of Taiwan and Philadelphia, but I moved to the Boston area when I was in kindergarten, and left when I was 22. I spent one year in San Francisco, constantly wanting to go back to the East Coast, and three years in New York just waiting for law school to be over. Even though I've had fun in other parts of the US, in Boston I never worried. After returning from a long trip, I'd often fall asleep in the car. I'd wake up because there is a large bump in the road as we turn towards our house, and I'd feel the car slow and roll up as we went over it--that's how I knew I was home. My house there was over 200 years old, and beautiful, done in the colonial style.

In my dream however, I wasn't at home--I had gone back to BU (Boston University), and was visiting all the places that I used to go to. I suppose college is a great time for everyone because you are old enough to have a lot of freedom, but young enough to not have any real responsibility. Whenever I'm feeling overwhelmed--whether in Tanzania, San Francisco, or New York, I dream of Boston. I guess Boston really is my home. It's where a great majority of my best memories were created, but it can never be the same since all the people that I love have left (except one friend). If I visit maybe it will feel empty. There is some strange new family living in my old house, and I probably can't access any of the dorms on campus now that I'm not a student anymore. Nevertheless, I think I need to visit. Although it will be pretty cold there, so maybe I'll wait...until April. 

Senegalese Hospitality

At the hospital, there is a 3 year old girl who is always happy. She likes to share her food with me; she'll take a piece of apple, lick it, then gnaw on it, then hand it to me. After her mom peels a clementine for her, she rolls it around in her hands and breaks off pieces, making sure to give a portion to me and my interpreter. I politely hold it in my fist because I had seen her put it in her mouth first, but then she comes and pries open my fingers to check if I have eaten it or not. Ultimately, I say that I'm extremely full and give it back to her, feeling slightly guilty because I know Senegalese people don't like it when you decline their offerings.

The people here are very hospitable. One doctor invited me to his house for dinner with his family, and several have taken us out to dinner during the past weeks, at quite expensive restaurants. It's not a question of means though. At the hospital, one patient who told me that she could barely afford to feed herself and her children, yet when she bought rice with chicken and onions (mostly onions) for lunch, she enthusiastically invited me to share her meal.

This past week has been more difficult because Senegal is completely out of oral morphine, and doctors have run out of their private supplies (usually donations obtained abroad). The shortage began about two months ago and now every pharmacy, hospital, and clinic is out--and new stock will not come until January, 2013. People are suffering, especially those in advanced stages. We do so much report writing for advocacy, when honestly, I think the best advocacy would be to abduct someone from the ministry and take them to a cancer ward that has run out of morphine.

Some photos of food.

Back to Dakar

I am going to head back to Dakar, and I feel like today is one of those days that I'm just annoyed with everything. Similar to those days where I look around and everything is fantastic, there are certain times when I travel and I feel fed up. No, I don't want to buy your painting. No, I don't want to visit your store. No, I'm not interested in whatever it is you are trying to sell me. In Dakar, there are a lot of unemployed people with nothing better to do than follow foreigners around the city, trying to get them to give you money. Sometimes, I'm tempted just to throw a dollar at them so that they'll leave me alone, but it's the principle of the matter--I don't want them to think that heckling people will earn rewards. On the streets of St. Louis there are bands of children wandering around. "Chinaaaaaaaaaa!!" They yell. And then, "Give me monnaaaaaaaay!!"

Some kids are actually cute and interested in learning more about me, since I suppose they don't see that many Asian people. Others however, can just be annoying. As I'm walking, one kid runs at me, slaps me on the arm like he'd hit a crocodile or some other dangerous creature, and runs away cackling like he's just completed a deadly mission. "China!" "Japan!" "Tubab!" Normally I ignore it, but some days I snap and I say, "You know there are a LOT of countries in Asia, and they're as different as Tanzania is from Senegal!"

It's hot here, and for the past two weeks I've been wearing long pants and covering my shoulders out of respect for local tradition--a local tradition that is fundamentally unfair. I've started arguing with the men who try to convince me that polygamy is a good thing. "How would you feel if you had to eat bread for the same day, the rest of your life?" One man asks me. "A man must have multiple woman, one cannot have only one."

"I agree," I say, "It would be very boring to eat only bread all the time. That's why women should have multiple husbands." If you're going to be a polygamous culture, at least be fair.

Of course, they're all horrified when I say that, and start muttering stuff in their native language. "No no," one says, "women don't want that. A woman should only have sex with her [one] husband."

Well fuck you and your sexist traditions. It's too hot here for pants so I'm wearing my shorts. Be offended!

Granted, I'm feeling braver because I know my male Senegalese friend will be accompanying me today since we are going to Dakar together. People leave you alone when you are walking with a man, because apparently, that woman has already been claimed.  

St. Louis

Tonight I'm missing a gigantic West African cross dressing street festivity because I'm too tired from work. Earlier this morning, the ambulance driver dropped me off at the gas station, instructing the station pumper to look after me and ensure I got on a vehicle to St. Louis. I waited for about two hours at the gas station, shaking hands with random people, and answering questions from various men. It seems that here in Senegal, all I do is talk about drugs and sex. Drugs of course, I have to talk about for my work, since access to medication is a big component of our project. I thought Senegal was a conservative, Muslim country, but it seems everyone I meet on the street wants to talk about sex.

"What would you say if your husband wanted to have sex five time in five days?"
"Have you and your husband waited for marriage before having sex?"
"Here we have a big party when a girl loses her virginity, do you celebrate that too?"
"Senegalese woman never want to have sex."
"African men are different from American men, we are too much for one woman to handle."

Given how much Senegalese men seem to focus on sex, you would think that Senegalese women wouldn't have to try hard at all, but at the market, the women tell me, "if you wear this dress, I promise, magic will happen in the bed room," or, "men love this color, it sets them on fire."

Especially towards the end of the week, I'm exhausted, and I don't want to talk at all--let alone use the brain power to conjur up polite answers, in French, about the love life I have with my fake husband.

As I sat by the gas station, the others sitting with me offered me yet another type of berry from a local tree. "It's like candy," they explained. Only it's not. It's really bitter. You're supposed to suck on it until only the seed remains (I suppose that's what they mean when they compared it to candy), and when I go to spit it out before the adequate amount of time, they all yell, "NO!" Apparently it cures all sorts of ailments. When the bus comes, they all jump up and run after it, yelling at it to stop, pushing me towards the right direction. People here are very nice to me, I suppose the least I could do is answer their awkward questions.

The bus is definitely worse than the sept-place. There are no aisles because there is a folding seat that comes down to fill that space. At any stop, a swarm of people selling bags of sugar, flip flops, baobab seeds, or boiled eggs surge onto the bus, leaning on top of me to try to stuff their goods in the faces of the passengers behind me. I'm luckily seated near the front, but there is no space and I have to keep my heavy backpack on my lap. The man next to me leans over and says, pointing to the man on my other side, "he is mentally ill." At first I think he is joking, but apparently the man is his younger brother, and every 3 months they have to go to Dakar to refill his prescription. "What are you talking about," the brother asks, suspiciously.

"Just that you are going to Dakar," I say, feeling nervous that I'm sitting next to someone who warrants a warning. The brother smiles happily, and then proceeds to fall asleep as soon as the bus starts moving. He's actually a great person to have seated next to me, because he sleeps with his hands folded in front of him, taking up very little space. And he's silent, unlike his brother, who wants to ask me about my fake husband.

We stop by an open field, and some of the men--the ones that can manage to climb over the seats and get to the door--go out to use the bathroom. After having waited at the gas station for so long, I really have to go too, so I step out. I inform the driver that I plan to go to the bathroom (so he doesn't leave without me), and apparently they think that's a riot. "You can use this bush," a man yells at me, after he zips up his pants. I don't particularly want to use a bush that someone else has literally just used, but there is no other foliage behind which to take cover. All the men are staring at me, but when you have to go you have to go--it would still be a few hours before we reached St. Louis. So I duck behind the bush, ignoring the fact that I could see some of them craning their necks to try to look, shove my bag in front of me to sort of hide myself, and pee as quickly as I can. Then I run back to the bus, to the laughter of the driver and some of my fellow passengers, who wink at me at though we've just shared a special moment.

They drop me off at the gas station in St. Louis, where I take a cab to my hotel. "500," he says. I'm so used to being ripped off that I hear "5000," and I yell, "WHAT! It should be 1000!" He's a nice guy though, and still gives me the fare for 500.

I spend some time walking through the narrow alleys. St. Louis is small, an island like Manhattan that sits on the Senegal River. There are goats running around everywhere, munching on garbage and "bahhhing" at each other. It's like a throaty chorus everywhere I go. Down every street, there are groups of children playing soccer, barefoot in the sand. The streets here have seashells stuck in the cement. I come across a wall to which at least 10 sheep are leashed. Two women invite me to sit, and tell me about the Muslim New Year.

"It's a huuuuge party," one girl says.

"Yes," the other adds. "Tonight all of these sheep you see here are going to be KILLED." She really emphasizes the word killed.

"We cook them with cous cous!"

"And then men dress up in women's clothes, and women dress in men's clothes!"

They invite me to their house for this giant sheep slaughtering fest, and I would have liked to go, but I'm simply too tired from the long trip that I had. I have a balcony, so maybe I'll peek outside later. 

Senegalese Clothing

At home, I wear sweat pants to go to see the doctor. After all, their offices are full of germs, why would I wear my best clothes there? Here in Senegal, people get decked out for the most minor engagements. They pay a lot of attention to their appearance, and often expect others to do the same. Initially, I would do interviews in jeans and a light cotton shirt because we’re surrounded by people in scrubs. Since I’ve started dressing nicer however, I find that the process has been a lot smoother, It’s probably a sign of respect—if you don’t make an effort to look nice, it means that the person you are meeting with is not worth that time. Coco Chanel did say that she cannot understand when people (actually, I think she specified women, but let’s say people) do not bother to fix themselves up when going out the door because you never know when you will meet your destiny—and it’s always good to be prepared for destiny.

Well, I really hope that I don’t meet my destiny here, because I’ve never felt so unglamorous in my life. Senegalese women are elegant. Many are accustomed to carrying things on their heads, so even without a load, they walk with their necks elongated, chin raised, back erect, moving only their hips as they make their way down the street. I’ve tried to imitate them, but I don’t think it looks quite the same on me—I think I tend to look arrogant instead of graceful.

Today I went to a meeting, and felt like a moth among butterflies. Senegalese cloth makes me think of fruit and gemstones. The colors are so bright that you can taste them, although maybe I’m just too obsessed with food. The dresses come in mango yellow, papaya orange, watermelon pink, lime green. They also come in amethyst purple, ruby red, deep gold, and sapphire blue. Some are coated with a type of wax and beaten to a shine so that they look like silk. Both women and men wear a pearly white that is magically impervious to the dust that seems to cling to my clothes. It’s like I’ve gone to the world of Oz, where everyone wears flowing robes, bright headwear, and jewelry made of gold. Borders of sleeves are embroidered, and sparkling thread, or even glitter or sequins, are sewn into the fabric. There are an endless variety of color combinations, of eyelets, ruffles and lace. Frequently, women have a delicate scarf or shawl that matches their attire, which billows behind them as they walk. They look so cool that I feel a compulsive desire to go clothes shopping.

In Senegal, if you put on something shiny, people know that you mean business. Here I spend my time traipsing around hospitals, scuttling to keep up with doctors as they make their way around. I’m not used to the heat, and by the end of the day I’m a steaming mess. Something in the room doesn’t smell very good, and I have a sinking feeling that it’s me. It’s just SO hot here. The Senegalese however, do not break a sweat. They’re wearing twice the amount of clothing that I am, yet at most their forehead gets a bit shiny, giving them a pleasant looking glow. At the meeting, someone turns off the air conditioner, and I feel like I’ve been put in a jar and I’m running out of air—the heat just hangs so heavily. Tomorrow I will go to St. Louis.

Ndioum

There is nothing in the district of Podor—there are huts made of sticks and pale yellow grass plopped sporadically across the desert. There is one health center for the entire district, and the regional hospital covers an unreasonably large geographical area. My ride comes to pick me up in the morning, and it’s an ambulance! Not just any ambulance—it’s a rioded up four by four ambulance with huge tires for the dirt terrain. I tell the driver that I feel guilty using an ambulance as my transport when he probably has more important things to attend to. “No problem,” he assures me cheerfully. I guess few people actually call the ambulance—they live so far away that it’s futile—plus, most cannot afford it, and many don’t have telephones. At the health center in Podor, they send emervency cases to the hospital in Ndioum, a bumpy 40-45 minute ride. I’ve luckily never ridden in an ambulance before, and I can’t help but enjoy myself because it’s one of the most comfortable vehicles that I’ve been in so far. The driver offers me something he called “tseep tseep”—that’s probably ot how it’s spelled. It’s a type of berry from a baobab tree. The fruit is grainy, bitter, and slightly sweet—with a gigantic pit in the middle. I really wanted to like it since it’s so exotic, but alas, I ended up spitting it out when the driver wasn’t looking. He meanwhile, eats them by the handful, spitting out pits like bullets. He offers me more, but I politely decline. The people here are so nice, and go out of their way to make me feel comfortable. At the hospital, everyone takes time to answer all my questions, despite the fact that they are overworked and underpaid. Doctors here have to take on so many different roles—they have to be doctors, but they also have to act as advocats, social workers, psychiatrists, pharmacists—same with the nurses. People just do what needs to be done.
The auberge that I’m staying at is owned by a little French man. He is happy and grouchy at the same time, laughing easily, but also expressing strong opinions about many things. We talk about Dakar, and he says, “I hate Dakar. It’s the worst capital city, it is the only capital city where there is nothing to see.” I mention that is has Goree Island and Lac Rose, but apparently they don’t count because they are not in the city center. I tell him that I want to go to St. Louis and he says, “I hate St. Louis. I’m never going there again in my life, it’s just terrible.” He hates public transportation, and often watches programs on TV about horrible things that happen all over the world. We talk about traditional healers and he throws his hands up and says, “they cause so many problems!!” Actually, he is right about that—traditional healers are the bane of modern doctors because they delay diagnosis. Doctors are frustrated when a child dies from a snake bite, or has to get his leg amputated from a fracture—problems easily treated in a hospital, but are aggravated  because people went to traditional healers instead. The marabous, as they are called, try to treat everything, from a fever to HIV, to cancer, to fistulas. They are far cheaper than the hospitals, and are also more familiar to the community. One doctor said that the marabous are the psychiatrists of the rural community—they offer comfort and hope. Where a doctor will say, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, maybe you can be cured,” a marabou will say, “you will be fine, I can cure you.” The latter message is far more confident and reassuring, and when it also comes at a cheaper price, the choice seems obvious to many.

Podor

As part of my project, I head to Podor to learn more about the availability of palliative care there. Lonely Planet advises people to spend the extra money for a "sept place" when travelling across the country. From the way they wrote about it, I was under the impression that sept places were the luxurious way of traveling--they take only 7 passengers, and are much faster and more comfortable than the rickety buses. Some of the buses, painted with bright colors, are called "rolling coffins" because they cause so many accidents. In reality, the buses are a super shitty way to travel, while the sept place is just a shitty way to travel. First of all, they are station wagons. They should only have 6 passengers because the back seat only has space for 2, but they cram 3 people in that space. There is no air conditioning, and as we drive through the arid heat of the Podor area, I feel like I'm in a microwave. Outside my window the grass is bleached white blond by the sun, and the "wind" that comes in through the window--open only at the front of the car--feels like it's coming from a hair dryer. As the car jumps and rumbles over the cracked road, swerving through pot holes, dust and sand billow in and cover me and my belongings in a coat of beige powder. I got stuck with the middle seat, so I have it coming at me from both directions, wedged between two fairly unhappy Senegalese people. We spend the entire ride with our thighs pressed against each others'. The seat comes up a bit, so that half of my butt is jammed on top of uncushioned metal, while the other half sinks into foam. There is a baby on the lap of the girl next to me. She's cute, but also spends a lot of the journey kicking me and grabbing my arms and face with her drool covered hands. Strangely, I'm actually in a good mood, and I offer to take care of the baby while the mother eats. The mother is a senior in high school, very kind, and one of the few people in the rural area that speaks French. I'm standing on the road side by a food stand in a small desert pit stop, with a baby that is obviously not mine balanced on my hip, while people try to sell me stuff in Poular; the passerbys stare at me with their mouths open because I look so out of place. When I see cute babies, I sometimes feel like I want one--NOW. But after holding this girl for 10 minutes, I begin to realize that she's a lot heavier than she looks--and it's neither the right time nor place, and probably won't be for some time. "Touba!" people yell. That means foreigner. "Come get your Touba," someone says when the driver comes back. By the time I arrive at the Auberge I'm exhausted. I cannot imagine how sick people, especially those in advanced stages of cancer, could withstand that journey--and many cannot afford a sept place and have to take the bus. I had left Dakar at 4 am, and arrived at Podor at 2 pm. After a quick visit to the local health center, I go back home and pass out. 

Taxi Sisters

There's a business in Senegal called "Taxi Sisters," which is a company composed of female taxi drivers. I tried to call their phone number, but it did not work--I guess my travel book is outdated. I figured it would probably be okay, but it not--I need to find that phone number. Since my supervisor, an enormous Dutch man with a beard, left on Saturday, I have had a lot more trouble with transportation.

First thing I learned: just because a man is married does not mean he won't aggressively hit on you. Apparently, the law here allows you to have up to four wives (although I haven't looked at the law, I've only heard this from people so it might be crap). Anyhow, people definitely do have multiple wives. My cab driver yesterday asked me if I would like to be his second wife. According to him, African men are very strong and are too much to handle for one woman alone. His wife asked him to go find another, and his goal is to have three wives.

I initially invented a fake boyfriend, but that is not enough to deter people. I promoted imaginary boyfriend to imaginary fiance, then finally I just started telling people that I'm married.

"If you don't let your husband have multiple wives," the cab driver warned, "he'll go around and 'gulu gulu' everywhere anyway. What are you going to do when he does that?"

"I'll kill him," I replied. My French is somewhat limited, so my range of responses are kept simple.

Of course, the cab driver thinks this is very funny, and says, "Oh okay, you will kill him, and then kill yourself?"

"Of course not," I say. "I'll kill him, hide his body, and then get remarried."

"Well don't let your husband come to Senegal," he says, "Because he will leave you for Senegalese women because they are much nicer."

I thought that guy was annoying, but he was not nearly as bad as the next guy. At the end of a long day of work I took a cab home, and agreed on a price of 3000 francs. We got lost, and it was nightfall. I was getting very scared. It was my fault that we go lost, but we were in the right neighborhood, only 5 minutes away from my hotel. However, it was by the beach, and no one else was there. The cab driver then said, "you have to pay me 7000 since we are lost, otherwise you can get out of the car." I had no choice but to agree, since I didn't want to be on the beach alone, with my laptop, and money that I had just changed. When we got to the hotel I told the doorman of my experience and asked him if he could find the taxi sister's phone number. Instead, he called the pervert from yesterday. I politely insisted that I wanted a female cab driver, and the guy from yesterday got offended and started asking me why I would not go with him. I was too exhausted to explain, especially in French, and still frazzled by the last cab ride, so I burst into tears and just said that I would feel more comfortable with a female driver because that was the only thing I could think of to say. I think men get very freaked out when women cry, so he backed away and left me alone.

I guess I'll have to find the phone number of the Taxi Sisters myself. So tired.

Lac Rose et Village des Tortues

Today I went to the pink lake and the village of the turtles--sounds like something out of a children's book.

Right outside Dakar and its suburbs, there is a sanctuary that is home for over 150 injured African turtles and tortoises. My mother loves turtles (actually, she's obsessed with turtles), so I figured I had to go. Since I didn't have a lot of time, and I was a bit nervous about taking buses myself, I hired a driver for the day to take me to the pink lake and the turtle village. To be honest, the turtle village was just okay. I prefer marine turtles to land turtles; in the sea turtles glide gracefully, while on the land, they're awkward and slow. Very, very slowly, they extend their wrinkly necks from their shells, open their mouths, and take a tiny bite of something green. Apparently, this is the season that all the turtles reproduce. First of all, it's noisy because the male turtle emits this high pitched, croaking grunt every two seconds, like clock work. Second of all, it's pitiful because the female turtle just continues eating her food, makes an attempt to escape every now and then, then gives up and continues munching on leaves. Thirdly, according to the guide, the entire process lasts for an hour. After bearing witness to this clumsy ritual of theirs, I can't help but feel like tortoises are pathetic animals.

After leaving the village, I went to the pink lake. I imagined that it would only be a shimmer, but indeed, the entire lake is a light, coppery red color. It did not come out well in photos, but under the sun, the water is very pink. The unique color is due to the fact that the lake has 10 times the salt content of the ocean. Along the shores, people collect salt and sell if for about $2 for every 25 kilos. Along the lake, the salt creates a white foam that the people call, fleur de sel (salt flowers). When the wind blows, bit of foam float into the air. From far away, it looks like snow! The salt dunes, made of little white crystals, are piled high on the shore. I took a brief swim, and found myself floating like a buoy in the salty water. Even if I pulled my knees up to my chest, it was impossible to sink. The guide warned me to avoid getting water in my eyes, but I didn't listen and spent about 20 minutes frantically rubbing my eyes because I'd gotten salt into them.

This third photo is not my own--I pulled it from google to demonstrate what I saw, and what I wish my photo looked like!

I headed back to my new hotel, which is amazing. If anyone visits Dakar, they should stay at Lodge des Almadies. It's reasonably priced and very comfortable. The annoying this is they have a ridiculously expensive laundry service--it costs a dollar just to wash a pair of underwear! So, I washed a lot of my clothes myself in the sink--I probably could have billed the laundry to my company, but I felt ridiculous spending $10 on washing underwear alone. 

Île de Gorée

Goree Island is a 20 minute ferry ride from Dakar, and famous because it was one of the points of transit during the trans-Atlantic slave trade. The ferries run frequently and quite reliably. As we pulled into the harbor, there were children swimming by the dock, yelling at the passengers in Wolof as they disembarked. Apparently they are asking people to toss coins into the water. Sure enough, one man tossed a 100 franc piece into the sea, and with a mad splash three children dove to retrieve it. It's probably not so difficult to see the glint of metal, since the sunlight passes straight through the clear water.

The island was founded centuries ago by the Portuguese, then it was controlled by the Dutch, and finally the French. It's a wild and colorful place. The flowers have completely taken over, and no one seems to mind. Along the old, stone walls, twisting vines crawl from top to bottom, braiding with each other, forming a tapestry of multicolored blossoms. I cannot tell where one plant ends and another begins. They hang heavy on the buildings like thick locks of hair, bursting with yellows, whites, pinks, reds, oranges, purples and even blues. As we walk through the quiet alleys, made of cobblestone and sand, the petals on the ground look so thoughtfully strewn, as though someone took the time to lay them there to decorate the path for our arrival.

Goats and cats, both rather scraggly looking, roam freely. Goree is famous for artists, and the winding path on top of the castle is lined with stalls. Many of the artists use cloth with African prints in their work, something that I plan to try when I go home. Others paint with sand. I liked a lot of the paintings, but when I saw one work shop I decided I did not want to buy. The sand paintings are produced in an assembly line manner. One person does the sketch, another glues on the dark brown lines, and then they put on the light brown lines. I think the acrylic paintings probably have more character, but even so, a lot of them seem to be catering to a specific expectation. I did see a few that I probably would have bought, depending on the price, but I didn't think they would fit in my suitcase.

We visited one of the oldest stone mosques as well. The entire island is tiny, and you can walk it in its entirety in less than an hour.

The highlight of Goree is the House of Slaves. It's characteristic winding staircase is often photographed, even though signs deliberately say, "no photography." I took a picture too. The top floor was where the slave traders lived, in comfort and luxury. Meanwhile, the bottom floor has a series of horrid, tiny rooms with little slits for windows. There's a special room for "recalcitrant slaves" underneath the staircases, which have no windows. When slaves were sick, they would throw them out to the sharks. That disturbed me, not only because it's disgustingly inhumane, but also because I had no idea Senegalese waters were shark infested. I wonder what would have happened, had the tables been turned. If Africa had developed faster than Europe, would the Africans have sailed North and put all the white people in chains? It's hard to believe anyone can live without remorse in a house while just below them, men, women and children are cramped together in stifling heat, many of whom are sick and dying.

When we went back to Dakar, we visited the children's hospital, this time with a small gift for two of the patients that we interviewed. Most of the people in Senegal do not have a photo of themselves, let alone a camera. I had brought mine to the hospital so that I could photograph their facilities. Our interpreter asked one of the patients if they would like their photo taken, and they said yes very enthusiastically. I began to think about how much photographs mean to me. When I miss someone, I find a photograph of them so that I can look at their face. For me, pictures of people I love or care for are everywhere--on my phone, online, available with the click of a button. It's always hard to lose people who are important to you, but I think it's even harder when you can never see their face again. We took pictures of two of the children with their mothers, who were staying at the hospital with them, and printed out the photos at a Kodak store. I knew the kids would be happy, but I underestimated how happy. The seven year old child kept looking at the photo and looking up and smiling with his mouth wide open. I like him a lot because he loves art, and his mom has a thick pile of pictures from coloring books that he has completed. Pictures are such a small, cheap thing that it's easy to forget how powerful they are. Photos are the tangible preservation of a memory, and in them people are immortal.

I got my first, good night of sleep yesterday. Hoping to have another tonight!

Lagon I

Whenever I am abroad, there are always certain moments, or even days, when I suddenly feel enchanted by my surroundings. It's hard to describe the feeling. It's different from the excitement I feel when I see something cool, or the happiness that arises when I eat good food, or the satisfaction I get when my planning falls into place. These moments always take me by surprise, like an unexpected traveller's high that makes colors seem brighter, fragrances stronger, sounds more clear. The scene around me engraves itself deeply into my memory. For lack of a better word, it's magical.

When I first arrived in Dakar, I was not particularly impressed because it looks like a city that's barely being held together on its hinges. As you walk around, make shift fences are built with a patchwork of tin roofing, unfinished buildings have become strewn with garbage, and the sidewalks are crumbling or missing entire chunks. Slowly however, I've grown to enjoy the city. It's a bit damaged, unpredictable, and different from what I am accustomed to. Dakar, and certain other cities in developing countries, have a resiliency in them that one cannot help but admire. The same features that irked me upon my arrival are now familiar--they are like wrinkles and marks on the city's face that are inevitably a part of its character. In about a week however, I'll probably find something that makes me frustrated with it again.

Tonight, I went to the most romantic and beautiful restaurant I have ever been to in my life. One of the doctors we have been working with took us there, it's where he an his wife go for their anniversary every year (and they've been married for 35 years). It's a place called Lagon I, and it's situated right on top of the beach. As you walk through the dark green palm trees and descend the stone steps, lined and dimly lit with pale blue christmas lights, you come to a private stretch of soft sand. The restaurant is built on a dock, and the interior is decorated to look like a boat. An enormous aquarium looms over the entrance, where a man made pool has been built to collect the sea water at high tide. Dogs and cats (the owner's pets) roam freely inside, and there is a long, open air patio that hangs far over the sea. As you sit outside, you can feel the perfect amount of a breeze and listen to the ocean. In this area, the waves are forceful. They roar as they roll in, and whisper as they slide out. The rhythm slowly draws away the stress from the day, and for a brief amount of time I feel like I belong in the city. Like I've arrived at home, even though I'm far away.
  

Dakar Part 3

I spend most of the day working so for now, the only photos will be of restaurants. Maybe I'll get a chance to go to Goree Island over the weekend, but we'll see.

I did my first series of patient interviews today! We had a really great translator help us with Wolof (and sometimes French too). People here express a lot of appreciation and thank you for helping their country. I'm trying to think how Taiwanese people would respond if some foreigners came into their country for the purpose of reforming the health system. Somehow, I don't think they'd be as friendly about it. Americans would probably be even worse. Even here though, I think there is a lot of disillusionment, and justifiably so. They've had several organizations come to ask questions, and no change has actually happened. Unfortunately, change happens slowly in democracies. When you have a system that supposedly takes the people's opinion into account, there is bureaucracy and delay. It's frustrating, and even more so when there is no transparency.

Now if I were dictator of the world...there'd be global health care. I'd increase taxes on cigarettes, legalize marijuana, tax that too, and since I'm dictator of the entire world we don't need national armies, so all the funding that goes into that would be available as well. Imagine how many hospitals the budget for the US army alone could build. Free chemotherapy for everyone! 

But I digress. 

We were going to go to a Senegalese restaurant, but it was closed so we went to a Lebanese one instead. I know I've already talked about how good the food is, but I have to say it again. Oh my god. The food is so good here. If French food and soul food had a steamy affair, the love child would be Senegalese food. Actually, I haven't been eating traditional Senegalese food. The vegetables are slow cooked with butter and spices, and the meat is always tender and well seasoned (except for white meat chicken, that's been mediocre some times). I almost had street food today. Our interpreter bought this epic looking sandwich with grilled cubes of beef (from a skewer), onions, and french fries in it, with ketchup all over. I wanted to buy one too, but he advised that I wait until next week, when my stomach is more acclimated. 

After doing the interviews however, it's uncomfortable to realize how much I spend on food. I guess if you get bogged down on things like that it will be really hard to work in the human rights industry. I swing from getting extremely emotional about my work to being completely detached. 10,000 Senegalese Francs, or $20, buys one treatment of dialysis. It also buys lamb on rice, stewed with chunks of more lamb, and this crispy dessert that looks like a nest with a cloud of cream on top, sprinkled with pistachios. The restaurant we went to, Farid, is tricky. Instead of asking you if you want dessert, they bring out this tray of magnificence and ask if you would want anything from it. Of course, there are no prices on the tray and everything makes you want to pick it up with your bare hands and stuff it into your mouth. If I ever open a restaurant, I'm using this tactic too. 

Dakar Part 2

Dakar seems to have more signs of poverty than Arusha. We walked by an area littered with human feces, and on almost every other street, there is a barefooted beggar sleeping on the ground.

Unlike in Arusha, Dakar's history of colonization has left a conspicuous mark. Long, French style baguettes are sold from carts every morning, and the restaurant scene uses butter, butter, and more butter. Everything I order is soaked in butter (and delicious). The food is very fresh, and so far I haven't had a meal that I did not enjoy. Actually, the food is amazing.

In the city, most people speak both French and Wolof, and use a mixture of both languages when they speak to each other. 

Yesterday, we visited the only children's oncology ward in all of Senegal, at Le Dantec Hospital. WHO estimates that there are about 600-800 new cases of cancer in children each year in Senegal. However, Le Dantec only gets about 120 new patients each year. That means hundreds of children with cancer are left without any sort of medical treatment. They're so small and so thin, walking around with needles in their arms, or curled up in the waiting room looking exhausted. Others actually appear to have good energy, and are smiling and playing, showing off their trinkets and toys. I find my work very interesting, but also emotionally draining.

Today, I spent most of my time speaking in French. I'm always pleasantly surprised at how much easier a language comes to you when you are completely surrounded by it. It's also helpful that the people here speak very clearly. We went to the Almadies today, which is at the most western point in all of West Africa. There, the streets are clean, well maintained, and have fewer indications of the difficult lifestyles that most Senegalese have to live. As expected, it seems most of the expats live in that area too (or at least, that's where I saw the most expats). The new American Embassy is there and it's enormous, with shiny lettering. There's also a very Soviet/Maoist monument with a man holding a child who is pointing up towards the sky, with a woman behind him, poised like they're about to make an epic climb.

Note however, these are just my first impressions. I haven't had a lot of time to see the city since we usually have meetings all day (and into the evening).

Arrival in Dakar, Senegal

It has been two years since I visited a developing country, or anywhere that wasn't a big city, so I was really excited for the opportunity to go to Senegal. The first thing that struck me was how quickly it seemed we landed. When flying into New York or San Francisco, the city looms beneath you as soon as you transcend the clouds, and even though the plan is moving at hundreds of kilometers per hour, I feel as though we move in slow motion towards it. First the neighborhoods become larger, then you can make out the windows, and finally the black specks become cars, and then there is a brief expanse of flat, open land as you zoom into the runway. In Senegal, the buildings are not large, so by the time I saw the painted, yellow structures and the red dirt roads, it only took a minute for so for the plane to hit the runway. Dakar's airport probably has only one or two runways. It has one baggage carousel, and we descended the plane by staircase instead of walking to the gates. People had always told me Dakar was a big city, but I guess they meant big for an African city. While it's quite large compared to Arusha, it's small compared to Quito, tiny when compared to Taipei, and miniscule when compared to New York City.

It's not too hot when I stepped off the plane, but it was muggy. Within a few minutes, I noticed the dryness in my mouth, the feeling of dirt on my tongue. As in Arusha, Dakar has a lot of fine, powdery, tan colored dirt. Even while walking on the concrete I develop a very natural looking tan. Our hotel, which costs about 70 dollars per night, is clean but run down--it is comparable to the $5 hostels that I stayed in while I was in Ecuador. I was warned that Dakar can be a very expensive city for travellers--luckily I am here for work, otherwise I definitely could not afford to stay for so long.

I am visiting Senegal for 5 weeks in order to work on health and human rights issues. Thus, the bulk of my time will be spent touring hospitals and clinics, speaking with doctors, patients and family members, and doing research on regulation of medicine. As a result, I'll probably see a side of Senegal that most foreigners do not see...and hopefully won't catch anything in the process. I'm recovering from pneumonia so my immune system is not at its best state.

Our project focuses on palliative care, which is care for non-curable diseases. Much of palliative care centers on pain management. People in the last stages of cancer, HIV/AIDS, and other life limiting diseases such as sickle cell anemia and diabetes, develop excruciating pain which can only be managed with opiates. Unfortunately, the developing world consumes only 6% of the world's supply of morphine. Many African countries have no resources for palliative care at all. It's especially saddening for children--in developed countries, about 80% of childhood cancers are cured, while in Africa, that number is only 3-5%. The work that we are doing here will hopefully help prompt development of national palliative care strategies in West Africa.

Today, we met with a urologist who is very knowledgeable about cancer and palliative care. He was kind of enough to drive us around the city and show us the major hospitals and clinics, and even took us out to lunch. I'm so excited for my project, but also completely exhausted right now. The flight I took to get here was an overnight flight, and there was a lot of turbulence, aggravated by the noisy presence of 4 children who incessently screamed messages to each other from across their rows. I'll try my best to stay up until 9 pm tonight, so I can get scheduled to Senegalese time.