So, ya know how I mentioned that this is just the place where I live now?? SO much even more so now that cold season is here. There’s a freedom in cold season that comes from the ability to travel whenever you feel like it because you don’t constantly have to think about heat exhaustion, dehydration, or sunburn. In the last week I’ve walked to my road town three times (back twice), and today I took a detour to see the well my boyfriend is having dug in his new onion field. I see a man from my neighborhood who Always greets me with my last name phrase of respect (Points for him!) squatting on the edge of the well. They’re champion squatters (amazing balance and longevity), but it gives me that squiggly feeling in my stomach to see him like that, so despite his being a grown man I say before thinking “you should scoot back…” He chuckles a bit but my comment is otherwise ignored.  One of the workers asks me if I eat peanuts, and why. I laugh and tell him his question is silly. My gorgeous boyfriend shoots me a glowing smile, the kind that dimples the corners of his mouth and sparkles in his eyes. The worker adds, “I knew a guy that said if you eat a handful of peanuts every morning you can stay strong and vital 'til you’re a hundred years old.” “I dunno, you should try it. I mean, they’ve got protein so they build your muscles,” I feebly add… Yeah, I’m the one who’s here to teach about health… Caught up with some women from Fass on the path who had apparently gone to my village to get some bissap and peanuts (?? Something I don’t understand is going on there). When I got to Fass I was on “a mission to civilize” (Newsroom anyone? This is not, actually, a good idea) the rude children who call out “toubab” and then ask me for money. I called a couple of them out, asking if they greet everyone with a request for money. They said they did. So when a Senegalese man passed I encouraged them to ask him for money. They, of course, didn’t. In closing I told them “of course you don’t greet people that way. It’s rude. Don’t do it to me again.” Point of the story? If you’ve seen Newsroom, you probably know the result is you look (and feel) kind-of like a jerk/bully, and nothing changes in the behavior of the other person, but for just a moment you’ve made them feel small (which is, generally, a wretched thing to do to someone). ::sigh:: Well, onward. So, I got in a super cramped clanky windy bus-ish-thing and made it to town. I’m trying to live on the cheap right now, so I decided to get some street food. Got an accara sandwich, which is bean flower fritters with spicy onion sauce on a baguette. YUM! So, laden with my backpack, my Arabic newspaper wrapped sandwich and a large plastic bag of peanuts I’m taking to a friend’s husband’s house for her, I decide to get a coffee before I catch a cab to the apartment. It’s dark by now, but the streets are still bustling and lots of full cabs pass me before I can flag one down. It’s windy and cold, and I’m wearing three shirts, jeans, and finger-less mittens I found in our clothing exchange box (best.find.ever.), but I see Senegalese people in tee-shirts, ashy children in shorts, some wearing coats and scarves and hats… I get in the cab and offer the driver some coffee (sorry Virgos, but its rude not to, even with a complete stranger. And, sidenote, I actually take this very seriously. If someone is drinking coffee in front of me in a place where I cannot procure my own and does NOT offer me a drink… I take serious offence. If you’re going to consume something not easily available to everyone else, do it in private where no one can know about it. You save feelings on both sides.)… okay I offer the driver some coffee, he laughs with delight at my non-toubaby-ness and politely refuses. Friendly greetings and small talk ensue. When he lets me off at the apartment he thanks me. “No, you’re the one who gets thanks,” I reply. “Until next time, God willing,” he says, and I repeat “God willing.” And just as I’m about to close the door he sneaks in a “you’re really pretty.” I chortle and thank him, then go eat my sandwich. It’s really really good. But the cold has given me a serious case of chapped lips (chapped everything, really. Wish I had my camera to show you my feet…) and the kaani burns so bad I have to force myself to keep stuffing down the bean fritter goodness. 300 CFA, belly full.
Alright, well, I dunno. I had some energy to blog, so theres a little snapshot of an evening in the life.

Shouldn't I blog something retrospectively about Tabaski?
I'll upload pictures. Let me just say, it was awesome. Awesome outfits. Lots of meat and delicious yumminess. Fun dance party (?). Fun photo-shoots. LOTS of attaya.

"I thank the Lord for the people I have found." -Sir Elton John
"Ain't never lived a year better spent in Love." -Mumford and Sons

I'm here for just over five more months. And I've been here long enough that this is finally just the place where I live. There are So still things I don't understand, things that shock and jar me, and much of the Wolof language that I still don't know. But by and large my ex perience is full of the comfortingly normal stuff of daily life. But that daily life is definately different than the one I had in America. I think there is a large amount of stuff that I no longer even notice as different. Like my shower being scooped out of a bucket and the daily routine of tucking in my mosquito net. I get cold enough to need a sweater and scarf at about 73 degrees. So, it has become a bit daunting to blog.

Cold season is back, which is LOVELY. Just unbelievably lovely. All the people in my village are finishing the work of their rainy season crops. The beans have all come in, the men are finishing the last work of the peanuts and the women are finishing the last of the bissap. We just celebrated Tamkharite, which is the Muslim New Year. Night time meal of millet with meat and vegetables. FIBER!!!!!!!!!!! Which means, also, that Tabaski was already about a month ago. Which is just unbelievable. ... ::sigh:: Three lovely days. Photo's on facebook.

And, now I have to run back to village before it gets any later! I'll try to come up with something more to say sometime soon.

Girls Camp!

Camp Geum Sa Bopp (Believe in Yourself) ended yesterday morning. I saw the girls back to village and then came immediately back to St. Louis to recuperate for 24 hours. It was an amazing (but exhausting) experience. We go through most of our lives Not paying attention to the FACT that women are still not given equal rights to men. I almost qualified that statement with “in some parts of the world,” but the fact is that even in America there is clear inequality in some contexts. It’s a difficult thing to face the reality of this inequality and associated hardship, more so when you feel incapable of doing anything about it. So, this past week was an emotionally charged oscillation between kin-tingling optimism and angry depression. But the knowledge that what we were doing must in some way add energy to the slow-changing situation here in Senegal kept us all pushing through the exhaustion.

Why do I say the situation here is already changing? I’ll give you, as an example, my very favorite moment from the week. It took place during one of the harder moments from the week, so let me explain. I was responsible for an activity to encourage the girls to look critically at gender roles. Tragically, critical thinking is not structurally encouraged here in the educational or social spheres. Education follows, pretty exclusively, a memorization and reproduction paradigm, and the culture is highly community focused, and people are expected to accept and conform to community standards without thinking for themselves about what seems right or wrong. This is an oversimplification, and I’m also casting it in a negative light when it has its advantages. However, for the purposes of the activity I led, it made things difficult. We started by doing an activity called “agree/disagree” where we read a series of statements to which the girls respond by taking a place in a line under signs that read “agree,” “somewhat agree,” “somewhat disagree,” and “disagree.” Responses encouraged conversation, at least between a few vocal people, about whether or not men and women had easier or harder lives and were more capable of working in business or not.

So, feeling optimistic, we split into small groups to continue discussing these issues and gender roles in general. Unfortunately, there was a misunderstanding between myself and one of the counterparts that led these discussions to be more school-type question-regurgitation-ish than critical thinking, open conversations. The girls were simply reproducing lists of traditional gender responsibilities and NOT talking about where these standards came from and how they were restrictive or supportive, reasonable or not, etc. In fact, when a friend of mine asked her group “where do these ideas about gender limitations come from?” Someone responded “God,” effectively ending all possible future explorations there. So when we asked two girls from each group to get up and summarize their group conversations, we were all freaking out a little. It seemed that rather than encouraging women’s freedom, we were enforcing traditional gender roles! We didn’t know what to do. We tried to ask them to talk about how they felt about the roles or what they thought about them, but it was like we hit a wall.

When the second group got up to read their list, I told them to skip over anything they had that had already been said, and to only say things that hadn’t already been covered. This group, with a wonderful young woman from my village leading the summary, skipped to question three, which was “Think about your grandmother, your mother, and yourself. How have gender roles changed over time?” What she said still gives me chills. She explained that her grandmother wasn’t allowed to speak in the home and was expected simply to do what she was told by the men of the house. That even her mother wasn’t allowed to make decisions about her own life, that she had to married to the man her family chose, and again had no voice in the home. But, she continued, her generation was the first to have a voice. They were allowed to speak their opinions in the home, to chose who they want to marry and reject those they don’t want. Silent all these years… … Okay, I will not cry in a public café… Saving grace. This activity was immediately followed by a talk with a Human Rights Jurist. She’s a Senegalese woman who has master’s degrees in human rights and international development. And there was nothing compromised in what she said.

Clearly parts of the camp were pretty heavy. And we were regularly reminded that these beautiful young girls, full of so much promise, lived in the same world we all do, where far too many women become victims of abuse. Sometimes it seems to me that innocence is dead. Then I see the smiles on the girls as they sing songs and drum along, when they saw the ocean for the first time, when they were just sitting around talking together, and I know nothing can kill LOVE. And I know that because of this camp, for one week, these girls were given a boost. They were given a chance to lighten their loads, they were given encouragement and knowledge of how to pursue what they want in their lives, they were given a community where it’s normal to be strong and intelligent, they played and laughed and sang and danced.

Meanwhile, we volunteers got to learn some really fun new camp songs and bond both with the girls from our villages and with some amazing Senegalese women,  a couple of whom I’d like to take home with me just to be present in my village. True role models.

It’s a bittersweet ending, as camps always are. You wish you could all stay, but you know you have to go back to your daily lives. You hope the lessons learned and the energy created persist in the campers’ lives, and you just have to trust that it will have some impact.

Finally, I just want to say again, THANK YOU to all our donors. You guys made this possible, and at least for me, this has been the most meaningful thing I've done for the people of Khatete so far. Please know that your support, both financial and in spirit was greatly appreciated, and truly made a difference. THANK YOU! I can't say it enough.

Geming Sama Bopp in preparation for Camp Gem sa Bopp

Arriving at your favorite cafe in Saint Louis directly from village with your pants still wet from getting water from the well.... fabulous.

Okay! Just want to give you guys a little peek into the preparations for Camp Gem Sa Bopp (Camp Believe in Yourself), because I'm frickin' exhausted, but having a great time getting ready.  Joy of joys, this year I will be bringing three bright young women from my village to participate in the camp. And in order to make that possible, I had to test some serious boundaries of trust. First, my counterpart--who has yet to help me with a single project beyond brewing tea while I work--told me that she had to be invited in order for any of the families there to allow their children to go away with me for a week. I can absolutely understand her point, but she's not exactly the ideal camp counselor. See the lack of help working comment. Plus, we already have all the counselors we need, coming from other villages. And the directrice is a Wolof woman as well, so it's not like these girls are going to be with toubabs rekk. But, beautiful silver lining, my good friend's little sister is a college student, and helped me immensely in finding the girls who have now been invited to camp. She wrote me a list of names, then taught me about their grading system.

Over the course of three days, I went to each family, explained the camp and asked to see the girls' grades. Finally, I found the three candidates. One girl, the youngest of the three, had incredibly high scores, and her father was immediately happy to have his daughter participate. The mothers, however, mentioned briefly that a week was a long time to have one of the household workers absent. I held my ground and argued that the benefits to the entire household of sending a girl to this camp would, in the long run, far outweigh the damage of missing a week of chores. And hey, Papa agreed with me! Awesome.

Fortunately, the girl who helped me also had the highest scores in her class, and her mother and I get along really well. Her father passed away several months ago. It is with great pleasure that I was able to invite her to the camp, both because she's family friends and because of her help and automatic support in the process.

The third girl is the daughter of our village cheif. He is regularly absent from village, working in various other cities. She's the daughter of his first wife, who is a lovely woman and the sister of one of my best friends there. Plus one day she came to a tour with butt padded underwear on, extending her already sizeable bottom to ridiculous proportions. Plus at another tour she taught me to dance. Aaaanyway, we had to call the father to get his permission (sure, mutual parental concent is important, but this was clearly a "man gets the last word situation.) So, here is my best work moment so far in Peace Corps: On the phone for the 2nd time in one day because the first time he said "the problem is she won't be around to work in the feild," and then I ran out of credit. Ready to make the case, so much more so because of the BEAUTY of the barely restrained shaking in the mothers voice as she told me YES she wants her daughter to be able to go so she can have a good life, and here's what I needed to tell her husband to make sure he agrees.  So I spit it out, conscious of my slowed, extra clear articulation to mask MY internal quivering, and he says "It's no problem. When are you guys leaving?" And I turn to the girl as I pass the phone to the mother, and we just smile and laugh, and, man I almost did a happy dance.

Lot's of work left to do. By writing the grant, I agreed to be in charge of all the money, which means reviewing all the budgets and buying things and writing checks and stuff. And then I agreed to be co-in-charge of a day of the camp, which means preparing events, writing a schedule, and then writing my own budget for them. And meanwhile, my program director is coming to my village on thursday to explain to my village that, yeah, she's telling you the truth when she says she's here to work along side you guys, not for you, and she can't write a grant for anything without you guys contributing. ... Long story about how they still don't get that... But man, I love them. And now, I finally feel like I've been able to do something substantial that will (inch'allah) actually help my village.

Camp starts Sunday, so stay tuned for camp stories and pictures! And once again, HUGE thank yous to all of you who donated!!! I can't tell you how excited these girls are and how excited we volunteers are!

Article superlative noun time-marker

I have a feeling this post is going to be rather disjointed. I listened to a pod-cast not long ago by an RPCV (Returned Peace Corps Volunteer) who, aged 50 or something, said she didn’t really begin to feel like she could process her Peace Corps experience for at least five years after finishing. … I can totally see that. So, meanwhile, I’ll offer the disjointed glimpses of thoughts and experiences I have, because, well, my mom keeps asking me to blog.  ( :-P)

I’ve been in Dakar for two weeks. Well, by the time I leave tomorrow, it’ll be one week, six days and about 16 hours. In the past 15 days I’ve been on Ciprofloxin, Zithromax, Ibuprofen, Acetaminophen, Paracetamol, Tramodol, and whatever they inject as a local anaesthetic for dental procedures. But, oh man, after my root canal yesterday, I am pain free and off all medicines!! Yay!!!! I cannot tell you how thrilled I was when they told me the root canal had been scheduled and how expectantly I was counting down the minutes 'til I got those injections…

The evening before the crazy (likely antibiotic and mold interaction induced) night that brought me here, I had one of the most beautiful experiences of my time here. As I’ve mentioned, I’ve been teaching at a center for Talibé in Saint-Louis once a week for a bit now. I can get a car between my road town and Saint-Louis for a dollar, but from there to my village is a three kilometer walk down a sand path. So, that Thursday, after finishing my afternoon class I got a car back to my road town. Just before the car pulled over, I heard a loud clap of what sounded like, but surely couldn’t be, thunder. I’d been dreaming of rain, but hadn’t expected it right then. I turned around and, sure enough, there rushing toward me in the great expanse of Sahelian sky was a solid wall of grey, encircled by a tubular halo of a cloud. I tested the wind (ya know, licked my finger), and it was actually pulling into the storm, which despite this fact was clearly advancing toward me. Three kilometers 'til a dry home, an hour 'til sunset, not a charette in site, I did what any good PC volunteer would do: I put my laptop in a plastic grocery sack and booked it.

The moment right before the storm hit I was less than half way back, and the sun was just , I dunno, five degrees above the horizon. The wind suddenly changed direction, blowing furiously away from the rain, the sun was cutting into the storm across the landscape, bathing everything in a golden red, accenting the smallest of ridges in the sand in the most beautiful contrast, mirroring that of the sky (gold-red on the west, dark grey in the east). Making the green of the silan leaves (wiry desert bush things) somehow more alive against the abysmal backdrop. And then the moment passed. All I could see was the torrential rain. I was soaked in seconds. It was strangely less dark inside the wall than it looked from a distance. And again, what could I do? Just keep walking. Enjoy the once in a life time experience of walking home through the first storm of rainy season. … Words fail, but it was a beauty I’ve not previously had the chance to experience so closely, accompanied by the energy of a nation’s hopes and expectations for a major cash crop season and that of my own desire for some cooling rain. Once in a lifetime.

So, then **** got weird. And after one of the worst nights of my life, I called the PC doctor and packed a bag to get to Dakar. Within a few days my stomach had healed and my stress levels dropped, enough so that I paid a little more attention to the growing pain in one of my teeth. Four appointments later, the responsible nerve has been slain, leaving me simply exhausted from the constant pain and sleepless nights. I’ll be back in Dakar in 11 days to get the tooth filled and possibly capped. But in the meantime, I’m off to Saint Louis first thing in the morning.

I missed last week of English class, so am hoping to teach tomorrow and Friday before hurrying back to village (I brought my raincoat this time). Still, it’s a really weird feeling being gone this long so unexpectedly. And to have such a horrible memory of that last night in village… Funny how the past has no reality in the present, but it can leave a tangible mark on the body-mind. I literally get some flushes of body anxiety when I think about that last night. Let’s look at this rationally: I’ve lived in Khatete for over a year, almost all of it peaceful. I had one night of extreme body-mind stress, and a part of me actually just wants to never go back. But most of me really does. This afternoon I opened my logic-puzzles book to a page Djibi scribbled all over, and the memory of that sweet little trouble maker was a strong motivator. So, clearly I am going back. And I know that the stress memory will fade, be replaced by new sweet and stressful experiences (such is life.)

There are various aphorisms people use to express the bi-polarity of the Peace Corps experience. It is, after all, “the toughest job you’ll ever love.” A friend of mine says your good days in Peace Corps are like mountain-top amazing, but your bad days in Peace Corps are like lose your faith in humanity devastating. The bottom line is, this experience is just like normal life, full of highs and lows, but cranked by the fact of your near constant isolation and vulnerability. Now, I have to be clear. As you know I have valuable beautiful friendships with people in my village, BUT none of them will ever truly be able to understand the experience I’m having. The vulnerability is an interesting experience… I guess it comes from the inability to get to a doctor quickly, the inability to clearly express needs in crisis situations, the distance from life-long trusted sources of assistance, and the lack of generally “unnecessary” but inevitably comforting infrastructure (AC, refrigeration, running water, reliable electricity and phone service, grocery stores, pharmacies).

So, as a final note, I’d just like to express my gratitude to all the people in American who selflessly support us PCVs. We know that, just like our community members, most of you can’t really understand a lot of what we go through, but you listen patiently anyway. We know that we can be really self-obsessed and think what we’re going through is the hardest thing possible in the world, and that we are therefore the most awesomely hard-core amazing people ever, and you listen patiently anyway. And we know we can be so melodramatic, and weak, and needy (most of us won’t generally admit it, cause this is the hardest thing in the world, right), and you listen patiently anyway. And we talk about poop too much and too casually… Well, I just want to say how incredibly much we all need you. For me, it’s my mom and dad who are always there, always willing to listen, and always supportive. You guys, I think, probably have some idea how much I appreciate you in general, but here's one more specific SUPER THANK YOU!!!! I'm pretty sure you're the best parents ever in the history of the world. Despite my tendency toward susperlatives. Anyone else who actually reads this blog, anyone who’s ever sent me a package, anyone who listened to my stories while I was in America, anyone who has contributed to the girls camp grant, anyone who helped me get into and get ready for this mission, anyone who prays for me or holds me in the stillness, THANK YOU!!!!!!

Back in action

Just got out of a cab where yet again the driver told me “I want to go to America. There I’ll find a really pretty wife.” So I told him about all the male Peace Corps volunteers who I’ve heard talk about how unbelievable beautiful Senegalese women are. Now, as I think about it, we women are the same way. We PCV’s pretty much take it as a given that Senegalese men are uber-attractive. However, only a handful of Senegalese women have asked me for an American husband, and they never mention anything about why…  So, that’s all whatever.

Here’s a slightly more disturbing set of observances. I SO often hear Senegalese people talking about going to America so they can have money. I try to explain that there, just like here, it’s not easy to get a good paying job, and then all of your daily needs are way more expensive. I don’t think this message usually sinks in. I’m reading A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry right  now, and am currently deep in the story of a couple of village men who set out to the big city for the dream of making fast, easy money to bring back to this village lives. Of course, disillusionment and struggle follow. It makes me think about The Grapes of Wrath too. In which there was actually a planned conspiracy to create poverty to force people to a point of desperation at which they would accept extremely poor wages to create the illusion of alleviating some of that same desperation of poverty… Who are these people??? Who are the people who have so much money and participate in the creating of poverty?  Well, damn, man… I am one. Maybe not of the degree of evil of those bas****s who created the crop rushes of the dust bowl… you guys already know this point. Our everyday decisions to participate in a system that creates poverty without or out of eyesight perpetuates it. So, what are we to do? I DON’T KNOW! I may never know, so in the meantime….

I have an amazing and exciting new work opportunity here in Senegal. From here 'til who knows when, I’ll be coming in to Saint-Louis every Wednesday morning to work at a center for Talibé*. This is a start-up center created by a British SIDA volunteer who is leaving this week. The rent is payed through the year (Inshallah) by a private donor, the materials and snacks through the year (for three afternoons a week) have been fundraised by a few volunteers, all of whom are leaving, there are a couple semi-permanent Senegalese volunteers at the center, and two other PCV’s are also volunteering their time for various services from installing a garden to helping with administration and teaching. I’m taking over the English classes there, teaching one on Wednesday afternoon and one on Thursday morning before going back to village Thursday afternoons. My initial reaction was sort-of, what is the point of teaching these kids English? And I think that’s a valid question.  But I’ll leave it for now. The fact is, most children in Senegal have the opportunity to get at least an elementary education. Talibe’s don’t. They get a koranic education at the daaras* in which they live. Only. I got to sit in on an English class yesterday, and, frankly, it was beautiful. The kids are actually young men aged 16-22, they’re lively and highly engaged in their learning. One of them lives in the center and helps teach the class. He knows a little more than the others because he has received more one-on-one tutoring because he’s around. He and another talibe also take charge of most of the maintenance of the center, helping the younger kids and cleaning the facilities regularly, and well as managing some of the other materials at the center such as the first aid kit. All I can say is it was an amazing experience just to go hang out there for a couple hours, and I’m incredibly excited to be able to work there.

Since it’s a new center, the future is entirely uncertain. Funding? Staffing? Stability? All unsure. But I’m happy to jump in and do what I can. I’m already thinking I’ll ask the students if they’d be interested in a basic math class on top of the English classes. The St. Louis PCVs who know more about the NGO world here are looking into ways to link the center into pre-existing organizations to have more stable funding. There’s a small library, they do occasion craft activities, and like I said there’s a small first aid kit. As you all know, my village is a relatively patron place. I mean, it’s NOTHING like the infrastructural comfort of American middle-class life. Relative to that, my village is a place of hard living. But as you know, the babies get enough to eat, there are women on birth control, there is money coming in from that age-old-dream of going to the city for work to get money back to the village… (So, sometimes I guess that does work…). The life of a talibe is an entirely different beast. These children come from all over Senegal and other West African countries, given by their families, or in some cases trafficked, to live in a daara, under the direction of a Marabou (a Senegalese Muslim leader). In some cases families who can’t support all their children give as a talibe, sometimes it’s seen as a religious duty, or as a way for a child to at least get a religious education. Conditions vary for these kids, but can be absolutely atrocious. Think sleeping on the dirt with no sheets, no clean clothes, and spending hours a day in the street begging. No ready access to medical care, no guaranteed nutrition, and frequently suffer abuse within their daaras. I must mitigate this harsh reality with a note about the culture here. Part of the Islam discipline requires giving to those who have less, and talibe often get their daily meals through the donations of other Senegalese.

That’s all the background on this I can manage right now. The fact is, these kids could use any help they can get so they can not only have healthier lives, but maybe for a few hours a week, get to have a childhood. More on this to come.

Meanwhile, just so you know, village life is still happening. I’ve been away a lot since I’ve been back from America, because of a back problem and lots of meetings. However, there are good things happening there. Some really uncomfortable really honest conversations about what it means to be a PCV and what kind of work I can really do. Mostly covering stuff I thought I’d already mentioned, but now my language is up to the task of really making things clear. That’s been really hard at times. But really rewarding just because I feel like honest exchange between people is so much more valuable than… not having it… Anyway, there are some good things. A lot of the Moringa tree’s we planted before I left are dead, but two of the neighborhoods surprised me and have beautiful little pepiñeers ready to be transplanted, like, tomorrow. There is also a woman who wants me to help here pepiñeer more trees to reinforce the life-fencing of her house.

Social life there is fine. Sometimes it’s absolutely blissful just to take a ten minute break in a day to sit with a friend whose house I’m passing on some mission and just talk about nothing. My host brother seems more and more to understand the struggles I’ve faced in trying to get PC projects happening there, and that I’m not just a walking ATM. The kids are as magical as ever. My boyfriend is as wonderful as ever. And I just feel strong and confident and so much more comfortable than I did last year at this time. Possibly just because I know that hot season will not actually kill me (Inshallah), and will end eventually, giving way once again to the absolute bliss of cold season. In the mean time, I get to again appreciate the indescribable amazingness of iced chai on a hot afternoon.

Three Recipes for Magic

1. Village air-conditioning:

When it gets to be 110 degrees and even the wind is hot, the shade is hot, it feels like HOT is the only thing that exists. Still, last years 8 months of hot, I’ve become a functional melter. So today between the hours of 1 and 3:30 I was doing laundry. Not necessarily the best timing, but it was necessary to squeeze it in between a political party (safe in village, just a lot of dancing and music) and transplanting my baby trees/watering my baby veggies. However, by the time I was done I felt a touch on the verge of minor heat exhaustion. By 4:15 I was glad for the warmth of laying on my stomach while the rest of me was cooled by my village air-conditioning system. It’s a really basic, but truly magical system.

Step One: Submerge two pagnes (wrap-skirts) in water bucket, brought to a windy location (yes, it even works in hot wind!) or in front of you fan (thank GOD for electricity.)

Step Two: Wring out one pagne and lay it on the ground. Wring out the other and wear it.

Step Three: Lay down, use your water cup to pour water on your shirt, arms, face, wherever.

Step Four: Chiiillllll out. Periodically, as you dry, re-wet your clothing.

MAGICAL!

2: Mocha Hazelnut Tea Latte

This is totally doable in America too, but exquisitely enjoyable on a hot day in village. See, when I wake up from a nap I often find myself fuzzy, out of it, not sure how to kick myself back into the day. This absolutely does the trick. And the pleasure (in this context at least) is enough to make you blush…

Step one: Pour loose-leaf Mocha Hazelnut Tea given to you by your awesome friend who cleared out her stash to go home to the land of lattes into a kettle. You want more than enough tea for a decent cup, with just enough water to let it swim. Cook for like, 10 minutes, adding water as it boils out to prevent drying, and swishing it all around periodically.

Step two: Mix two tablespoons dried milk and one teaspoon sugar in just enough luke-warm water to create a paste.

Wait.

Step thee: Pour your tea concentrate into the milk-sugar mixture. Mix well. Fill the glass with ice water, and one small chunk of ice.

ENJOY!

Note: I’m already on my second cup today, because I ended up splitting the 1^st one with a the three-year-old Djibi. His first drink was a tiny sip and his reaction was like shock mixed with interest mixed with confusion. What is this new amazing boisson? After about 10 seconds of staring at the cup he asked me for another drink, and chugged about a third of it. Anyway, that’s just a rationalization. I’m straight nosing (noo-sing, to nos is to have fun by eating your money).

3. Read “I AM THAT: Talks with Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj” slowly, deliberately, openly, and play with his suggestions.

That’s the whole recipe for that one. So, it’s this book my brother found and gave to my dad for Christmas, and my dad just sent me a copy. Interestingly enough, the friend who gave me the tea had a copy of this book in her room, but at that particular time, it wasn’t yet time for me to read it. Apparently. Cause I didn’t.

So, why is this a recipe for magic? Well… what can even be said? Those other two things are all playful thought-y stuff. This one is playful non-thoughty stuff, which makes it particularly repugnant for me to try to talk about it in this form. I’ll talk about my experience with it instead. There’s a thought to call it a kick-in-the-pants reminder… of the simple, freeing truth that you are already free. Nothing to do, nowhere to go-o-oh-oh-oh. It does seem, in retrospect, suddenly much easier to access and focus on that buzzing clear silent space that seems like a blanket interwoven into the fiber of all. And on that note, it’s time for my evening sit.

P.S. I’ll be IN American in less than six weeks!!!!!! Ohhhh kay. That makes me happy J Can’t wait to see everyone, to just sit around with you all on couches. And to eat American food! And Chinese food, and Indian food and Mexican food and Thai food and … well, yeah. Love, Love, Love, Jess.