Lac Rose

Last weekend 5 Peace Corps volunteers from remote areas of Mauritania stayed with us while they were in town for a Peace Corps event. Although potentially a circus with such a full house, I enjoyed their company and was amused by their appreciation for electricity and running water. They were such easy-to-please houseguests; just about over the moon when I sprinkled parmesan cheese over pasta for our dinner. The night they arrived, I had left work exhausted and was skeptical that I felt up to the task of being the welcome wagon. However, the moment they walked in I was greeted with huge smiles as they chattered away in familiar American accents. I found their gratefulness and enthusiasm infectious and my bad mood disappeared. As the weekend went on, I sort of felt like a summer camp counselor again since the age difference between them and me was spot-on, and I loved hearing their adventurous stories.

I also took my first day trip out of Dakar with my apartment-mate, a Senegalese co-worker, and our neighbor, an entrepreneur from Texas who keeps an apartment here and comes to Senegal a few times a year for business. I don’t know why it surprised me, but the group dynamic was unexpectedly terrific and everyone’s “up for anything” disposition made for a relaxing day.



We drove to the aptly-named Lac Rose and marveled at the pink water (the water really is pink in the shallow areas close to the shore). Further along the shore, sitting next to mounds of salt from the lake, was a machine for salt iodization. We got out of the car to take a peek and were immediately surrounded by folks selling jewelry and painted cards depicting the lake. Their determination and persistence to make a sale is admirable, if not plain annoying, pushing a necklace into my hand and saying, “It’s pretty! It’s not expensive! It’s made here!” One can’t just flat-out refuse with, “No, thanks” (which is insulting) but instead responds, “It is very nice, but I’m okay.” It’s even better if you can make a joke while declining the transaction.



After we left Lac Rose, we drove another hour through rural areas, past mango trees beginning to bloom and elephant-like baobab trees (we stopped and climbed one!), to a small town (past Mbour, towards Kaolack) along the water. We enjoyed a very nice lunch at a resort where a friend of my co-worker works. We sat outside on the deck overlooking an estuary and spotted egrets and blue herons among the mangroves and brightly-colored exotic native birds perched in the lush tropical trees under which the restaurant was built. We all ordered yassa poulet – chicken with onion sauce, a favorite Senegalese dish – and were surprised with not one, but two desserts – individual chocolate lava cakes and a scoop of vanilla ice cream. It was completely over the top but I chalked it up to being a vacation day and happily dug in. For a moment, I didn’t believe this was Africa.

Afterwards, we followed a horse-drawn carriage as we drove across a manmade bridge, just wide enough for one car, to visit our hostess’s family in the neighboring village. We picked manioc leaves and dug up manioc root – similar to a potato but more flavorful than potatoes available here, and flakier when sliced and fried. I likened it to substituting fried plantains for French fries – just a side dish but when well done, the difference between an average meal and something special.



For me, it was like being in the villages that I had visited in Mali ... only not as remote, but still pretty much off the tourist path. Once again I experienced exceptionally kind hospitality and appreciated the tranquility of the rural area. I felt rejuvenated after the change of scenery and a day spent in good company.

Lights Out

Since my French is really quite basic, I’m often left in the dark at times when things are lost in translation. Last night a little misunderstanding left me - literally - in the dark. At first I paid no attention to the early afternoon power cut since it happens frequently and usually lasts only for short intervals. I kept waiting the electricity to turn on again yesterday afternoon but wasn’t fussed since my apartment-mate was away and I could still cook on the gas stove.

However, as the daylight waned, I grew perplexed as to why the outage was dragging on so long. I poked my head outside on the balcony and was shocked to see lights in the neighboring buildings, since usually the entire neighborhood is in this together. Then I discovered that the hallway of my apartment building lit up when I pressed the button, so I started to wonder where I might find the circuit breaker.

I dug out a few candles from under the sink and laid them on the kitchen table before I walked downstairs and asked the guard if other apartments were without electricity. He shook his head, then said, “Wait,” and disappeared for a minute into another room. A moment later, he opened the door and waved me in while pointing to a meter. He said, “You’re out of credit. Do you have candles?” Sure enough, our meter read zero, while others flashed numbers and whirred on.

I had no idea that there was any kind of credit associated with our electricity. I had (naively) assumed that we’d pay a bill at the end of the month for what we’d used. No, that’s not how it works here. I quickly learned that you buy credit – much like the phone credits – and top off the meter, then hope that you (or someone else) will notice when you’re meter is running low. I asked where I could buy a refill card. Senelec, but they don’t open again until Monday, was the response. Anywhere else I might get a card? Nope. I was thankful for a moment that no one spoke English for what came out of my mouth next.

It then dawned on me while I was walking back up the stairs to my apartment: our housekeeper was trying to convey this to me on Friday morning. The guard must have told her that our credit was running low, and she then explained this to me but I didn’t quite get the whole story. I had interpreted her pointing at the light fixture on the wall above the refrigerator as she couldn’t find light bulbs. At the time, I nodded, and said the equivalent of OK, no problem, clearly not seeing this as anything urgent.

As I lit the candles I started to laugh at myself for totally missing the point; serves me right for not figuring out a way to clarify what I didn’t understand. As they say, don’t assume...

The Toubab Effect

Intervention studies take into account factors that could potentially muddle a relationship between two variables of interest. For instance, if you want to know whether exercising is related to weight loss, you also have to consider what and how much a person eats. If a man exercised every day but ate twice as much energy as he needs, you're likely to conclude that exercising doesn't make a difference in his body weight, but dietary intake would have a confounding effect on the relationship.

In our study here in Dakar, we're dealing with the Toubab Effect. (Toubab being a term for white person.) In general, I'm quick to pick up a youngster who needs attention ... until said child starts howling at the sight of my face. (I try not to take it too personally.) It's pretty amusing to watch everyone's reactions to my approaching a youngster who clearly would rather not be cooed at by a scary foreigner. Given that, I only wander in and out of view as needed while we're filming the children eating the cereal, lest they get distracted and decide to stop eating in protest.

The Senegalese study staff from the university get the biggest kick out of referring to the stations at the study site as "Station Anthropometrique" (where the kids' lengths and weights are measured), "Station Alimentaire" (where the cereals are fed to children), and "Station Toubab" (where the other Toubab and I sit and enter the data into the laptop). The lead staff member from the university brought in some beignets (delicious, doughnut-like balls rolled in sugar) for the team yesterday morning and warned me that I need to gain some weight if I am going to find myself a Senegalese husband here. When I told her that I went to the tailor on Saturday to drop off the material I'd bought here and to have some pants made, she replied, "I hope they're a tighter fit than those pantalons you're currently wearing!" and started cackling. I can't tell whether she's like this at baseline or whether it's her pregnancy-induced loss of a filter, but she's a riot.

I took a "Survival Wolof" class over the weekend which armed me with the (many) basic greetings, all of which I tend to use at once. I've already discovered wider smiles and surprised facial expressions in response to my attempts at saying hello in Wolof. I've heard of taxi drivers dropping the fares for folks who greet in Wolof rather than French. Although securing a safe ride from point A to B is a greater task than negotiating the fare: while riding in a taxi recently, when the driver pulled into the gas station I casually glanced at the ignition and then again at the ignition. It was hotwired (and probably had parts stolen from other cars)!

We've since found a friendly, reliable taxi driver named Babacar to take us to the clinic each morning. He drives a new-ish Peugeot, with seat belts all around, and sent a friend of his to pick us up when he was out of town one day last week. I got a bit confused when I said to his buddy, "You're a friend of Babacar?" and Buddy replied, "Oui, Pape is my brother." Pape? Pape who? I thought it was Babacar. But everyone seems to be called Pape here. And brother, even if no relation.

Apparently, names are a universal source of confusion. Once Babacar returned, I loved the text message he sent to let me know when he had arrived at my building: "Saly, j'ai arrive." Poor fella, confused by my Toubab name!

Yoff, Chez Moi

Views from the roof deck of my new digs, and of soccer matches on the beach! Dakar-Yoff is a fishing village right on the water, north of downtown Dakar. It's close to the airport and since there's no curfew for flights you hear planes at all hours of the day and night, but otherwise you can only hear waves (and occasionally, bongo drums or the barking of stray dogs). It's pretty sweet.

Getting the study going

This past Wednesday, we started the sensory trials, where we feed children the fortified cereal and assess whether or not they like it. It's a full morning at the study site, a clinic downtown. The coordinator and I drive from our neighborhood (Yoff) at 7 am down the Corniche to Medina and meet the local study staff from the University Cheikh Anta Diop of Dakar (UCAD) at the clinic, where we set up and anticipate mother-infant pairs arriving anytime after 8 am. I'm in charge of portioning out the cereals and making sure they're correctly randomized (one is high zinc, one if low zinc) for each subject. We spend the morning filming mothers mixing the cereal and feeding it to the infants and it's pretty funny to watch some of the kids' faces. There are some absolutely adorable ones, too. Given the energy of the children, the quick pace of tasks to be done while mothers are present, and all conversation in French (or Wolof, but I have only learned the equivalent of "Hi, how are you?"), there's never a dull moment.

We finish up by about 1:30 in the afternoon, and then enter the data from the handwritten forms into the computer database, clean all of the materials and get paperwork and materials ready for the next day. The mother-infant pairs come to the site each day for three days, and then we begin another group tomorrow. It's exhausting but I like the hands-on nature of the work and the interaction with the subjects and local staff.

Yesterday I went downtown to do some shopping with a couple of new acquaintances here - I bought some linens and cotton fabrics to have some clothes and sheets made, as well as a couple of household items. I looked at a couple of apartments that would have been fine for me, but then a colleague of mine in the office offered for me to live in her spare room for the 6 months I'm here ... the same apartment where I stayed in November (i.e., the apartment on the beach!), so I have a place to call home and only need to get a few things to feel settled. For now.

Just excitedly anticipating Obama's inauguration in 2 days ... !!!

Watching the waves

I have yet to tire of seeing the ocean. I don't think I ever will. I pinch myself that I get to see it everyday here, and listen to the waves every morning and evening. I can eat breakfast on the patio that overlooks the ocean and watch the swells. There's a surf school down the road, but I have my doubts about swimming in this water since certain areas have sewage draining directly into the ocean, such a shame. This past week, I've walked along dirt roads in the neighborhood where I'm staying and have glimpses of the ocean between homes, and I often just stop and stare. There's a fish factory at the end of a driveway and I can't help but think what a gorgeous bit of property on which it sits.

There's also a beautiful highway - the Corniche, it's called here - that connects the northern and southern parts of the city. The road runs parallel to the ocean and passes by a lighthouse that sits atop a hill, a mosque, embassies, and beaches where every morning groups of men are exercising.

We take the Corniche every morning to get to the study site and I watch the sunrise from the taxi. There's a certain peacefulness in the early hours of the morning by the ocean, but by the time we reach the clinic downtown, the city is fully awake and bustling with energy. I smell smoke from fires over which women are cooking, see shops opening with tools, batteries, and plastics for sale inside the shacks, vegetable stands set up, people peeling oranges on wheelbarrow carts, and watch goats eating from piles of garbage. We dodge traffic - taxis, minibuses, horse-drawn carriages, and mopeds. It's a bit of sensory overload at 7:30 in the morning but I enjoy seeing the different parts of the city through the sites we visit for work.

Zinc fortification

My first day at work was anything but the typical orientation day that I've had at other jobs. I jumped right into the study-in-progress and drove with the project coordinator to Les Grands Moulins (LGM), the largest flour miller in Dakar to fortify a small batch of cereal with zinc for the study. LGM produces flour for 70% of Senegal and it's an enormous operation. There's a baking school upstairs from where we were working that morning, and I learned how to scratch the tops of the baguettes before they went into the oven - cutting lines into the tops of the dough using a knife - and I got a kick out of it, simply because there's clearly a technique to it that separates the professionals from someone like me. We hung around a bit, hoping that the bread would be finished before we had to leave, but no dice that day.

We brought with us 4 buckets of locally-produced infant cereal that is an iron-fortified complementary food (meaning it's fed to infants who are breastfeeding and eating solids) and mixed in two different quantities of zinc (so that we'll have two cereals: high zinc and low zinc) using a cement mixer that's never been filled with cement. I was partially covered in flour by the end of the morning but it was fascinating to see how's it done since food fortification is a low-cost approach for providing essential micronutrients.