Goodbye Dakar

While I am relieved to be returning to the US, and do need a break from this work, I am sad that this is my last trip to Senegal. I have come to enjoy Dakar, and probably will return some day for vacation. Here are a few “clips” of memories this time around.

Goree Island: I took an empty plastic bottle and walked along the beach, looking for sea glass to take home with me for my paintings. The water was extremely warm, possibly due to the horde of children splashing in the shallows, most of which probably urinated at some point during that process. I remembered that last time a bunch of children became excited by my project, and this time again I soon found that I had several small minions running along the shore, bringing me back handfuls of sea glass and the occasionally green or blue rock. “What about this one,” a boy asked, holding up a mottled beige pebble. “Well,” I began, intending to explain I only wanted glass, when he interrupted me. “Yes this one is great,” and threw it into the bottle. A little girl said to me, “He is always nice to girls.”

Fire in Sandaga Market: There was a terrible fire in Sandaga Market, one of the largest and busiest markets in downtown Dakar. It happened in a dilapidated, four story building full of tailors and fabrics, and it was still burning when I left. Though I saw fire trucks, they could not seem to succeed in putting out the fire properly, and it had burned for three entire days. My friend and I had gone to the market to buy fabric to bring home, only to find that a portion of the market had closed off. Smoke billowed from the charred building, but it must have been controlled because some people were venturing into the building. I saw one man come out carrying a sewing machine, burnt black. Luckily no lives were lost, but store owner were ruined—all of their fabric had been quickly consumed by the flames, and even their machinery was damaged.

The Green Rabbit: Remember the little boy with leukemia who colored in the rabbits that I drew
for him? I ran into him on Friday. I had gone around the cancer ward with my camera, taking family portraits for people. I saw a boy in the hallway, outside of the waiting room, and her grinned at me. The grin was unmistakable, yet the boy I was looking at was thinner and a lot darker; his hair was also different. I said his name. “Is it you?” “Yes, it is,” said a nurse. Apparently the chemotherapy makes some of the kids skin turn darker. I snapped his photo for him. I had tried my best to make people look nice, but some of the kids are really ill and looked so unhappy. However, when I gave them the photo, then they smiled. I wished that I could take a photo of them looking at their photos.

The Letter: A while ago, I wrote about a patient who was chasing after a former love. To conclude that story, she left a note. "I'm sorry I acted selfishly and I hope that I did not cause conflict for you. I hoped that you would find a nice girl, who appreciates you for who you are and how unique you are. The thought of you being lonely makes me very sad. You once said, 'the One is created.' Remember to value the person for who they are, and love them for that. You are a wonderful person who is easy to fall in love with, and I know you will do well. Thank you for loving me for so long, and for all that you taught me. I want you to be healthy and successful, but above all I want you to be happy--and you will be."

The Press Release: About fifteen local journalists came, which was not too bad considering we had to compete with the African Union Head of State meeting. We convinced the head of non-communicable diseases to come too, and she did a great job answering questions. I had been nervous, because the doctors told us that they were unhappy with our report, and no one wanted anything to do with it because they were afraid that the government would be angry with them—they thought we were too harsh in our criticism. I spent a lot of time explaining that it was not our intention to insult them, but that the problem was severe, and as a result we needed a report that conveyed the extent and gravity of the lack of care. The press and the general public however, were greatly supportive and seemed to appreciate our report—especially those who we worked with. Most government officials warmed up after we met with them, and have had a positive attitude towards making changes.

It saddens me that my contract ends, and I cannot continue to follow our advocacy here. At the same time, I am also exhausted, and do feel like I need a break from the emotional toll that this work takes.

Toys

I arrived in Senegal at 5:30 am, exhausted, but scheduled for meetings at the hospital. I didn't sleep at all on the plane, and by 10 am my limbs were trembling from exhaustion, physical and emotional. The first day in Senegal is always the hardest for me. I got bad news about a week ago; a two year old who I had been trying to help get relocated to the US for a bone marrow transplant had passed away.

Of all the children who I was close to and worked with when I was here in 2012, only one is still alive. She is three years old, from Ziguinchor. Her name is *Aminata. She is so cute, and has a different hair style every time I see her, even though her hair is super short. Sometimes she has it in tiny braids, other times in an afro, and other times her mom puts something in it so that it looks more straight. I took an immediate liking to her because she is so cheerful and she'd try to talk to me in wolof. Every time I saw her she would have this huge smile. She liked to feed me things, but I knew her hands were really dirty (because I saw what and where she played) so I wouldn't eat them. She would peel an orange really messily, pulling off chunks of the fruit while leaving some peel on, and shove a wedge of that into my own germ ridden hands. Or she'd get a slice of apple, put it in her mouth and eat part of it, and then share it with me. I'd always pretend to eat it, but then I'd hide it and put it back on her plate. Not sure if 3 year olds are smart enough to know that trick or not.

I wasn't expecting to see her, since I thought she goes to the clinic on Wednesday. She has abdominal lymphoma, so her stomach is always swollen; she kind of looks like a tiny pregnant person. I was walking through the hallway with my supervisor when she ran out. When I saw her, the first thought that came into my head was, "thank God she's still alive." She was wearing a traditional Senegalese dress, and she smiled at me.  I was so happy to see her, I almost picked her up and gave her a hug. Instead, I took out a big box of M&Ms which I was supposed to share with the entire ward and I handed the entire thing to her. I'm not sure if she knew it was food, because she kept rattling it like it was a toy, so I explained to her mom that it was a candy.

I am worried though, because Aminata's arms and legs have become so skinny, and her stomach looks bigger than before. So much skinnier than before. It scares me because I saw a dying child last time, and he looked like that--swollen belly, and emaciated arms and legs. That child was also 3 years old. I didn't know him, because when I arrived he had been on his death bed. He lives 20 hours away from Dakar, and before they hooked him up to the respirator he kept saying that he just wanted to go home. Kids don't like the hospital. It's boring, and they get pricked with needles, and have to eat medicine. The doctors were debating whether to allow him to go home. They were going to pay for a cab to take them, but they concluded that he could not make the journey alive--and also there would be no morphine for him when he got there. He was in the hospital with only his father because his mother had just had a baby. Since they concluded he couldn't go home, she took the 20 hour car/bus ride to Dakar so she could say goodbye to him.

I feel more sad in Senegal because it's right in front of me. The kids that I became attached to were all in the intensive care unit. By logic, I guess I knew that they were the more severe cases; that's why they were at the hospital more often, and that's why I got to talk to them more. During my first trip, I thought all of them would survive. I thought it was sad that they had cancer, but I had a lot of hope for them, and the cure rate is supposedly 60%. By now I realize that the 40% is probably comprised mostly of the kids in the intensive ward, my ward.
 
I was stressed because I didn't bring enough stuffed toys for everyone. I only brought six. And on my way to the hospital, the doorman at the hotel commented that he has a 7 month old daughter who is very sick, and has a problem with her arm and her jaw and is pretty much handicapped. So I gave one to him and only had 5 for the hospital. I decided to let Aminata choose one, and then put the rest in the psychologist's office. That way, all the kids could take turns playing with them. When I gave her the toy, she smiled, but then seemed tired. She didn't react like how a normal 3 year old child reacts. She normally stays only for a few hours, but today she has to stay the entire night. I don't know if she has gotten worse, and I don't really want to ask.

When the other parents walked in and saw that I gave something to Aminata, they began asking for toys for their own children. There is no privacy in the hospital because there is not enough space. I had to apologize and say that I couldn't because I didn't have enough for everyone. I had a certain number of toys for the people I knew--but they had all passed away. I felt bad because there were kids looking at me because they wanted a toy too. They have IVs in their arms, and they walk towards me, rolling their IV bag with them. I felt so awful, like a toy nazi who gave only to one and not the others. I tried to explain that I knew Fatima and she was special to me, which might have made it worse because that implies that the others aren't special. I should have just packed more toys, although I wouldn't have had room in my suitcase. In the end I said I'd put them in the psychologists office and they could all take turns playing with them.

Surgery and Recovery

I've done so much work on health care in Senegal, so here is a chance for me to write about health care in the US, specifically New York. Of course I thought it was pretty awesome, since all I've really seen are cancer wards in Dakar and geriatrics in Taiwan.

On September 25th, I went in for surgery. I had to push back my plans to go to Africa due to a sudden and urgent medical issue with some ovarian cysts. While I had had cysts for some months, normally they would go away on their own. This time however, I had two abnormal cysts that grew significantly larger over time--one was a cyst with septations, the other was a dermoid. I began having more pain, and other symptoms like nausea and occasional vomiting. Smells on the street, especially in the morning, would make me dizzy. The week before I was supposed to fly to South Africa, I found out that the cysts had grown to 7.5 cm and 3 cm. Considering that I am a fairly small person (5'3" and 120 pounds), they were taking up a lot of space in my body and were in danger of causing my ovaries to twist--in which case I would lose my ovaries unless I got to an ER in time.

As a result, my doctor advised me to cancel my trip to South Africa and postpone my work in Senegal so we could remove the cysts. I was really sad because I have never been to South Africa before, and am always excited to add a new country to by blog. However, I have first hand knowledge of how bad hospitals in Senegal are, and could not risk having an emergency while in Dakar, or during the long flights.

My mother flew in to help me out. Before the surgery, I had to drink this awful beverage that cleans out the body by inducing massive diarrhea. It tasted so bad, even with the flavor packages. I guess my stomach is not so big, so I ended up feeling too full and being unable to drink it--the instructions said to drink a half gallon every hour and a half. However, I missed the part about not eating any solid food 4 hours before taking it, so I got a really bad stomach ache. I drank about 3/4 of it and then poured away the rest, while my mother squawked and swore that she too would throw her medication away later just to spite me and make me worry.

On the day of the surgery, some emergency happened at the hospital, so everything was moved back significantly. My surgery, which I thought would be at 12, was going to be moved to 9:00 pm. As we were in the waiting room, I started to feel dizzy because I hadn't been allowed to eat or drink anything since taking the diuretic at 6:00 pm the day before--there had been nothing in my system for almost 24 hours. Luckily, a girl who had a surgery for the 6:00 pm slot was willing to switch with me since my case was more severe than hers. I went in at 6:00.

I was a bit nervous since the room was cold, and there were bright lights over head. However, I lay down on the table and a large, friendly eastern European doctor grabbed my arm and jabbed a needle into it. "Now you fill nothing more," he announced. Sure enough, I passed out.

When I woke up, I was in the recovery room. I had a panic attack because I was in more pain than I had expected to be in, and was still really cold. The nurses wrapped me up in heated blankets, and allowed my mom and friend to come in and see me. The surgeon had made four incisions in my belly to remove both cysts. I ended up having two more panic attacks, which is strange for me since I've never had any. In general, my pulse is low, but my blood pressure dropped to the 40s and my heart rate was in the 50s, and I began thinking I was having an asthma attack. I ended up being perfectly fine.

I got excellent palliative care in the hospital, with fentanyl and oral opiates to take home. I think I am now in a place to better appreciate palliative care, even more than I did before, simply because I was in so much pain even with my medication, to go through the process without pain relief would have been gruesome.

Today I went to have my stitches taken out, and am recovering at home; my mom has been helping me out a lot. Will go to Senegal in late October!

A summary in pictures

I've been too busy to take photos, so as usual I've only taken out my iPhone to snap a picture when I'm sitting down to eat. Here are some clips of my week so far:

 Arrival at the airport; you descend on the tarmac and a bus takes you to the actual airport building.

Hotel room

 Dinner, steak with pesto sauce, at restaurant Farid

An appetizer at La Galette bakery--similar to a thin crepe filled with tuna.

 Breakfast at Eric Kayser

Thieboudienne at a restaurant in Mamelles (I forgot the name, but it's right next to the Clinique du Mamelles)

A Mark of Prayer

I have been drinking a lot of water here, and naturally it has come at different prices. When I first arrived, I paid 1000 for a bottle. Then 500. Now 350. The tap water here is not potable, and the way the sun draws out sweat makes me feel like my skin is as porous as a sponge. I drink two liters a day, and still sometimes my throat feels dry and scratchy.

My hotel is located in a middle eastern neighborhood, so many shops sell middle eastern robes, ottomans, fez, and slippers. I was always curious about these carpets that look like they have been sewn onto long leather mats. My Senegalese friend explained that they were soft surfaces for praying. He pointed to a darker patch of skin on the top of his forehead. "You see this mark here? This is from praying on a hard floor."

I have never noticed the mark before, but now that he made me aware of it, I saw it on more and more people--a darker callous where they have repeatedly touched their head against the floor. In Senegal, it is actually a good thing to have, because it means you pray a lot. "So if someone has no mark, I guess they are not pious," I remarked.

"Or they pray on a soft surface."

Fabric

I wish I had taken a photo of the fabric stores, but I never bring my camera or anything of value when I go to the market. Pickpockets hide themselves well in the crowds, and taking a photo only shows that I have money, and vendors will try to rip me off. Granted, they will try to rip me off anyway, but flashing a camera or an iphone will just make them even more stubborn and difficult to bargain with.

Sandaga market sells everything, from cell phones and CDs, baby cribs and candy, shoes and clothing, and fabric in every color, texture, and style. There is one particularly annoying stretch that caters to tourists, where rickety wooden stalls are lined up directly next to each other. They sell carved statues, beaded necklaces, leather sandals, and mass produced paintings. Whenever a foreigner walks by, they jump up and follow, pleading, demanding, or persuading him/her to look at their goods. "Just for looking," they will say, "You don't have to buy." Or, "I give you good price because you are my friend."

Beyond the tourist section, random people will approach and begin a conversation, and unlike the shopkeepers who avoid leaving their stalls, these individuals may follow you for several blocks trying to convince you to go to their relative's or friend's store. After those experience, I always go with a Senegalese friend to avoid being ushered or mobbed by eager vendors. If I am with a Senegalese person, the people will address the person instead of me, and are more likely to leave because I am already with a local. I am really grateful to my friends who have gone to the market with me, since they have to endure the barrage of questions--"What does she want to buy?" "I have everything in my store." "Does she speak wolof?" "Does she speak French?"

Bargaining is much easier with a Senegalese friend, because they know what the price should be, and the seller knows that they know. At one stand, the seller immediately charged me double the price, and when my friend argued, he said, "okay, fine. I gave her the white people price, but since she is with you, here is the Senegalese price." As I was picking out my fabrics, he told him, "You are really stupid. Next time you bring a foreigner here, just keep quiet. I'll rip them off, and I'll give you a cut of the profits!"

I bought fabric, a type which they call "wax," from four different vendors, and now have a beautiful selection of fabrics to make clothing with, and to give as gifts to friends. Some have shiny, gold patterns printed on top, and they vary in quality. The cheaper ones are lighter, with noticeably less thread count, but are good to wear during hot summers. I did not bring enough cash with me, but I wanted to purchase some of the embroidered, bejweled, and sequined fabric--these are usually made of sheer material, and used as a shawl or a scarf to glam up an outfit. In some stores, bolts of such fabric are hung on the wall, glittering like curtains of stars.

If I have time, perhaps I will find a tailor here so I can make some pieces before going home.

Independence Day

I forgot that it was the 4th of July, since it is not celebrated here. Next weekend will be the beginning of Ramadan, which is supposedly a completely different Senegal since everyone is fasting. When I was here last time, I was walking around the city one day (instead of being in the hospital) when the call to prayer sounded--perhaps around 3:00 pm. The government official that I had been trying to speak with excused himself, grabbed a carpet that was rolled up in the corner, and headed outside. When I followed, I saw hundreds of people, mostly men, with carpets tucked under their arms--like ornate yoga mats. There were areas in front of the mosque where people lay down their carpets in rows and sat on their knees, heads bowed. My interpreter had forgotten his carpet, so he had to ask someone if he could share theirs. Still thinking along the lines of yoga, I had asked whether he would have enough space with two people on one mat, but clearly you don't need as much room to pray.

Today we interviewed the parents of the 14 year old girl who had passed away. She had been very religious as well, and spent a good portion of her time praying. Her mother let us listen to some prayers that she had sung and recorded on her cell phone while she had been alive. It was a hard interview to do, and I feel like this time, more than last time, there is such a heavy pressure to make changes. When agreeing to do the film, they had said that even though their daughter passed away, they considered it a good thing to continue fighting against the thing that killed her. They agreed to participate in the film because they want to improve access to health care in Senegal, which is our goal too. Sometimes--many times actually--I'm afraid that the work will not have any result. I think improvements have already been made since our presence here last fall, but I wonder to what extent. Our project is on palliative care, but palliative care is not enough. There is a balance however, on what we are able to demand from the government. If we demand too much, they do not listen at all. By demanding too little however, I feel like we let down all of the patients, and even the doctors, that we interviewed.

How can one improve cancer care with so little resources? Palliative care is easy--it is cheap, and the training to administer symptom relief is not so complicated. Oncology however, presents far more challenges. While it is a palliative care report, I hope that it will help raise awareness, not only for the desperate need for cancer treatment in Senegal, but also in developing nations as a whole. So little attention is given to non-communicable disease, despite the fact that the world's most deadly killer is not war, or famine, or HIV/AIDS--it's cancer. Of the foreign aid that is directed towards health in Africa, less than 3% goes towards non-communicable disease. Cancer in adults is tragic, but cancer in children is just obscene.

Senegal needs palliative care, but it also needs chemotherapy, radiotherapy, and other forms of curative treatment. I've been trying to schedule meetings with government officials to discuss our findings and recommendations, which has proved to be more difficult than I imagined. Our topic is not controversial, yet I think there is still trepidation when a human rights NGO "needs to talk." One simply hung up on me as soon as I said who I was. I've been trying to emphasize that we are not trying to villainize them, rather we want to collaborate on how to improve access to care--by suggesting what models to follow, how to allocate resources, and policy adjustments that make it easier for patients and hospitals to obtain medication.

Perhaps we will just have to spend the days sitting outside their office--or rather in front of their car so we can't get kicked out by security--until they listen to what we have to say. And even then, maybe our words will just fall on deaf ears. I hope it won't come to that.  

The Green Rabbit

I found the taxi sisters!

Last time I was in Senegal, I heard about a company called "taxi sisters," with only female taxi drivers. Their cars are well maintained, and it is a solution for women travelling alone who are worried about their safety, or simply want to avoid having someone hitting on them for the entire ride. When I asked the male taxi drivers waiting outside my hotel about them, they had told me that the company was not in existence. LIARS.

While walking to the hospital today, my cameraman made a comment, "oh, you don't see those taxis that often. They're called taxi sisters." And there they were--two bright yellow cars, slightly smaller than normal taxis, but relatively new looking. I ran over and took both of their phone numbers. Next time I have to travel alone at night, especially to somewhere unfamiliar, I will call them.

Today I met a really cute kid at the oncology ward. I was sitting in the room by myself, waiting for one of the health care workers, and he kept peering in. I waved at him a few times, then finally he entered and extended his hand, which I took and said formally, "enchanté." He's about 3 years old, and smiles all the time. I could not speak to him since I do not speak any of Senegal's native languages, but he has a box of crayons so I borrowed one to draw a picture for him. I drew a rabbit on a piece of paper, and then a flower, and gave it to him so he could draw something else. Instead, he took a green crayon, and painstakingly colored the rabbit in, making sure not to color anywhere outside of the lines.

We did some preliminary filming today, and I ate a lot of bread. Tomorrow we will work with an interpreter.

The 40 Percent

After managing to hold everything together during the five weeks that I had been in Senegal, I returned thinking this trip would be far easier since I would be doing multimedia and interviewing government officials instead of recording patient stories. I really wasn't expecting to hear bad news this time, which is huge denial considering the type of work involved.

My flight had been delayed due to some security issue, so I arrived two hours later than I had expected to. Apparently someone checked in a bunch of baggage but never boarded the flight, so they had to go through all the luggage and remove those pieces. I sat next to a guy who felt like telling me about the problems of his marriage, which I listened to politely for ten minutes before telling him I was going to sleep...and pretending to be asleep. At one point he tried to wake me up by saying, "wake up," but I pretended not to hear him. The weather was beautiful--hot like New York, but with a dry heat instead of the heavy humidity that hangs over Manhattan. It was nice that all the hotel staff still recognized me, and I went to my room determined not to take a nap so I could get used to the time difference sooner.

I called one of the mothers whose child had passed away, to schedule a time to talk about the short film clip that we would be producing to accompany our advocacy. Her child had been sick for several months, and he remained at the hospital while doctors tried to "discover" whatever "bizarre" disease he had--they thought it was a new disease. It turned out he had a cancerous tumors growing on his bones, and passed away in excruciating pain, during a morphine shortage. I wasn't sure how to ask a person like her whether she wants to be in our film or not. On one hand, her testimony is so important in conveying the severity of the problem, and also associates a human face with the words that we write. On the other, I imagine myself asking her to describe, for the camera, how her 5 year old died in horrendous conditions, and I feel sick.

I finally did it by telling her that I didn't want to make her do anything that she was uncomfortable with--that we wanted to use her son's story because it would help prevent the same fate from happening to other children in the future--and that I understood if it was too painful for her to do. In the end, she said she wanted to help our cause as much as possible, but did not want to speak on film for several reasons. One, many of her friends and family did not know her son had cancer--she is a very private person, and definitely would not want them to hear the news by seeing it on TV. Two, she does not like being filmed. Most importantly however, she said that the death was in the past, and she did not want to relive it again. "It might help other children, but my son is gone. It is every parent's hope to watch their child grow, and I will never see that."

We continued to sit and talk, and she showed me and my cameraman photos of her time at the hospital, and gave me updates on the other patients. It turned out that pretty much all of the inpatients that shared the side of the hospital with her had passed away. That wing, with a total of 8 beds, was reserved for more serious cases. Throughout my five weeks, people went in and out every few weeks or so, but I got to know them better because they were there every day for significant periods of time. If I had free time, sometimes I would fan one of them, for the heat and also to keep away the flies, or play with them. I knew that some of the kids in that ward would die, but I guess I always kept a naive hope that the ones that I became close to would be among the supposed 60% who do survive.

I had become quite close to one girl, a 14 year old who had been sick for some time, recovered, and then relapsed. When I interviewed her, I asked her what was the biggest help she had received from the hospital, and she had said, "it's when they tell me not to lose hope. That maybe, one day I can be cured." Along those lines, I guess I also thought positively. I showed her photos from my travels, and she had said, "Every place is so beautiful. Except for Senegal." I had come to believe that this girl was getting better; I would ask her about her future plans, and which university she might want to attend, what country she might travel to. Before I left, I gave her a watercolor set and watercolor paper. This time, I had brought a stuffed toy as a gift.

I had been planning to ask her if I could interview her as an example of a more positive story of treatment that worked. When I asked the mother of the boy who had bone cancer about her, she said, "she's in very bad condition, suffering a lot; you should go visit." We made a phone call, to another patient who was at the hospital, and found out that this girl had died last Tuesday. I really wish I had gone to Senegal earlier--one week ago, and I would have at least seen her. 

Mission Impossible Completed!

I have always had terrible luck with housing, and in New York, one of the most expensive places for renters in the world, the experience has been horrific.

This time last year, I had moved 3 times in about one month--from I-House to Brooklyn, from Brooklyn back to upper west, and then to another place in upper west because the former had been infested with bed bugs. I've stayed around Harlem for the past year, and am ready to move farther down town, but the broker's fees make me cringe. New York City is one of the few places where renters pay the broker's fee, simply because there are too few good apartments. My brother will be paying about $550 for a studio in Philadelphia, near his school. A studio in Manhattan is around $1550. If you are lucky, you can find a studio for $1000, but there will usually be something wrong with it--like it doesn't have an oven, doesn't have a window, is in a dank basement, or doesn't have a bathroom (these are all examples of my experiences). And even then, there's a broker's fee on top.

Living with roommates will be somewhat cheaper--although still close to $1000 per room, unless you have more than 3 other roommates and one bathroom...or you're willing to be a "special type of roommate." In the past, I have had awful roommate experiences; not awful as in someone doesn't do the dishes, but awful as in one was a kleptomaniac and a pathological liar who got kicked out of our program, and another one was a heroin addict who got arrested for knife point robbery (who also might have stolen some of my items). Both of whom were from wealthy families and really did not need to be stealing anything from anyone (except maybe the drug addict since his parents had cut him off). Anyhow, the last experience really made me decide that I wanted to live alone. No more roommate drama.

I dreaded beginning the apartment search again--with talking to pushy (and sometimes rude) brokers, with searching online and weeding through the scams and spam postings, and with arranging appointments to view places. At least this time around I didn't have to meet random crazy roommates, like that old guy who had a wall of photos of all of the young women (he only rented to young women) who had ever lived with him, as well as a refrigerator taped full of R rated photos, or the hair dresser who spent 20 minutes complaining about how he had to break up with his girlfriend because she was a drug addict (and might come around the place looking for revenge).

This time however, I fell into a lucky spell, and succeeded on my second try. I had been looking at a studio in Brooklyn Heights, which was rented before I could visit it, and then came across a posting in Lincoln Square--for a little of $1,100! It's small, but good enough for my purposes, in a wonderful neighborhood, on the top floor, and it's rent controlled. No laundry or elevator in the building, but there is a laundromat next door, and I guess I'll just get good exercise. I called the broker multiple times, and didn't sleep well the night before because I was anxious about trying to reach the broker again in the morning. Sure enough, I kept calling, and finally he picked up. I booked his first appointment, and gathered my check book and all my materials (proof that I make more than 40 times the salary with pay stubs and letter of employment, last year's tax return forms) and ran downtown (since I'm at 125th, Lincoln Square is downtown for me even though it's technically upper west).

When I arrived, an older guy was already there, with his older girlfriend (or wife? It wasn't clear). He had gotten an appointment for 2 pm, but had decided to barge in on my appointment because, in his words, "if you want to get something in New York, you have to be aggressive." The broker let us both in to see it, and I said that I wanted it. He did too, of course. We both filled out an application, and the landlord would pick one of us. I was really upset--since he is older, I assumed he probably makes more money than I do, so the landlord would pick him. I ended up calling the broker, and shamelessly begging him to put in a good word for me--I basically said something along the lines of, "I always pay my rent on time, I'm really clean, quiet, and I try to help children with cancer for a living!" Shameless, I know...but I wanted my apartment search to be over so badly!

In the end, the broker said he pushed the landlord to pick me because it was my appointment time, and the other guy seemed "pushy." I'm so happy, that words cannot describe the elation that I feel. The best way to put it is to compare it with my dog, who gets so excited when we come home that she starts shaking and she kind of looks like she's having a seizure. If I were a dog, I would be having a joy seizure from signing that lease.

It's excellent timing too, since I am going to Senegal tonight, so I don't have to worry about it while I am there. This time, I will be filming for our advocacy project, doing follow up interviews, and meeting with government officials.

Akumal, Mexico

I came to Akumal for a work retreat. It's my second time in this area, but I was happy to return because it's currently freezing in New York. Meanwhile, Akumal is warm, sunny, and green. Our department rented a villa on the beach, with an infinity pool and lots of hammocks. I haven't gone to explore the area since we've been working--and also because I don't have a car--but I walked to the small town nearby.

Having been in Senegal for 5 weeks, my Spanish is a bit rusty. I tried talking to our chef in Spanish, but kept saying things in French. I stopped myself and said, "wow, my Spanish is so bad." Then he said, "I was thinking that but didn't want to say it." After a bit of practice though, it started coming back.

In town, I tried the one ice cream store, which has unique flavors like maple bacon brittle and habanero chocolate. The maple bacon brittle didn't have a lot of bacon in it, so I was slightly disappointed.

The beach by our villa is essentially a broad reef, so when the waves come over it, they break quickly, one after another. It looks like a series of white staircases rolling towards the shore. The sun here is stronger than in Dakar, and the water is warmer. After only 10 minutes, I started to get a tan. Sadly, once I get back to New York, I won't be able to show off my tan since I'll have to wear sweaters and pants due to the cold. In the mean time however, it's great to lie in the sun.