Red Hot

Many things have disoriented and challenged me over the past two months: language and culture, suburban life, habitating with a child, gastro-intestinal adjustment, not having a blackberry or a mobile, focus on the family and not much focus on culture. I’ve had to learn to value my own work as a volunteer, because I’m not going to be getting heaps of praise for it. I’m learning to accept that the Senegalese generally, and the Senegalese government in particular, do not share my perspectives on time.

Big topics, it would seem. But they were nothing in comparison to my relationship with Ieta and Suzette, the duo with responsibility for caring for Seal, keeping the house and preparing our meals. They are a fluid duo—Ieta and Suzette, Suzette and Ieta—conjoined in name and in responsibility. One minute, Seal is bundled up on Ieta’s back while she makes French fries and the next minute, he’s on Suzette’s hip as sweeps the floor. Suzette starts ironing and Ieta finishes. They arrive together, leave together.

I lived with domestic help in my sorority, and I eventually worked with them. But it seemed different, most particularly because I could talk to them. Here, with Ieta and Suzette, language is only one of the barriers I have to overcome. For instance, there’s a DMZ between Ieta’s kitchen when she’s in it and me when I want something that’s in the kitchen. I feel like I’m crossing over into North Korea to get water out of the fridge or wash my hands at the sink.

There’s also the underwear barrier. These two are washing my tightie whities, and I find it a little weird. Do they think I’m a prude because I wear Hanes women’s briefs? Do they compare my underwear to Nathalie’s lacy, sexy lingerie? Do they think I have too many clothes from the Gap?

They are young--in their 30s. Both are moms. They wear really cool, chic street clothes--jeans and t-shirts--to work most days. On Friday, which is the Muslim Sunday, they wear traditional Senegalese dresses. They are always gorgeous, but especially on Fridays.

Of course, if we could speak the same language, my sense of separation from Ieta and Suzette would probably melt away. Amazingly, they seem to be picking up my American idioms and slang without much difficulty, while I am still puttering along with basic French. So I’m sure you can imagine how nearly impossible it is for me to make jokes when I can’t remember how to ask: Where did Paul go?

But today we had a breakthrough…happily at my expense. Ieta makes a killer hot red pepper sauce that I have learned to love. It is fantastic! Paul swears I’m becoming Senegalese because I’m eating it on all the native dishes: yassa, maffi, domoda, soupe kandje, katchoupa. Today, when he asked me how I liked the sauce, I said in a combination of French and English: “I’m a 58 year old, single white woman. This sauce is the closest thing to hot sex that I’m going to get. And I LOVE IT!”

Even through the messy French, Ieta and Suzette got it! They laughed hysterically. And something in our relationship has changed.

Felicitations x 3

We had a very big day today. It was a triple-header: Fete de Maman, aka, Mother’s Day; Mami’s birthday; and Ayesha’s confirmation!

The family danced, laughed, teased, hugged, kissed, ate and danced some more! Everyone was beautiful! The food was fantastic! It was hot, hot, hot…and we danced some more!

You know how family parties go. Enough said. I’m pooped.

Home Alone

The house is quiet. I am home alone. This is the first time since I left New York and the solitude of my sweet apartment—home sweet home since 1991—that I have been alone. And of course, the electricity has gone off, so I am without internet access. Translated, that means I am REALLY alone. And as soon as my battery runs out, even the distraction of writing my blog for later posting will be unavailable.

In New York, living alone is becoming a luxury for those who have enormous incomes or the province of those who have rent controlled apartments that they’ve lived in since the dinosaurs roamed Central Park. The city pushes people together. But in that mass of humanity, there are few markers that make it possible for individuals to find their own tribe…their own people.

Here in Dakar, I’m not often lonely. I certainly like everyone I’ve met. I even like some people that other people don’t like. It’s too much work to dislike people. It requires looking for reasons to personalize things that happen, reasons to stay angry when the time has come to “let it go.” In the final analysis, we’re all trying as hard as we can, we all have problems, everybody makes mistakes and everyone deserves a break. What’s to dislike?

But there’s a vast gulf between “good will toward man” and finding one’s tribe…where the language spoken, the costumes worn, the codes that facilitate communication are known by those who belong and the result is inclusion. I have not found those people in Dakar.

And tonight, all these years later, I find myself thinking about the kids in my hometown who were not allowed to be a part of the tribe, who were always the victims of childhood taunts, cliques and general unkindness. They never got a break. Ever. I wonder how they managed their loneliness then. Did our meanness build their characters so that they grew into adults with full, rich and happy lives?

I wonder if they would have some advice for me about how I might find my own people here in Dakar.

Sun, Sand, Surf

It’s Friday afternoon at 5:30. It’s Memorial Day weekend back home, the official first weekend of summer.

My head has gone to the beach. Or perhaps my heart has gone to the beach. I’ve been living by the sea since mid-April, so it’s not as though the beach is something I’ve been missing. No, the beach is right out the French doors. I can hear the tide coming in…it’s a little bit wilder than usual, perhaps the result of the full moon last night.

I think it’s my heart more than my head that’s wrapped up in this Memorial Day. This is the much anticipated weekend that stay-in-the-city New Yorkers so anticipate because they get a break from the I-have-a-summer-share New Yorkers who go away, who leave us empty seats in movie theaters, empty tables in restaurants, empty park benches, shorter lines, quieter streets, parking spots and a generally nicer city.

In New York, people are making plans for picnics, getting together, taking it easy. And in less urban areas, they’re picking peonies to put on graves and planning to gather around the grill on the deck. It’s an important weekend because it means that we all survived work through the long stretch from mid-February to the end of May when there are no holidays. And now, we get Memorial Day, Independence Day, Labor Day, and if we’re really lucky, Columbus Day in October and Veteran’s Day in November before Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s.

That stretch from February to May is tough.

Just as a scent or sound can trigger memories, significant dates can do the same. Memorial Day does it for me…it’s when I ritualistically start tanning, eating watermelon, drinking iced coffee, anticipating fresh corn and tomatoes from the New Jersey farms, and spending lots of evenings outside with no-name music groups that are playing free concerts.

This year will be a little different. I already have a tan. Watermelon is available, but not for much longer because it grows during the rainy season which starts next month. Iced beverages are….well, there’s no ice. Tomatoes are imported. Corn is not grown here because there’s not enough water and then there’s too much. Culture of the sort I like is a little hard to come by. But we do have a holiday to celebrate…several, in fact. Sunday is Fete de la Maman (Mother’s Day), which is always celebrated on May 30 in European countries. (Shhh...Senegal doesn't know it's not French.) It is also Mami’s birthday! And to add to the fun, Paul's niece is being confirmed. Our usual Sunday gathering will be triple the fun this weekend!

On Sunday, Mami will be tied to her chair so that she isn't working. We will eat fish, prepared in one of the endless varieties of ways that it is eaten here in Senegal, and I’ll be fantasizing about...hot dogs and corn on the cob at Coney Island.

Four Alarm

Last weekend Nathalie and I cruised to downtown Dakar, a trip that takes us past countless construction sites for residences, offices buildings, apartment complexes. As I’ve mentioned before, Senegal is a “developing” country and the evidence is in the amount of building that is underway…everywhere. All projects are constructed of the same material: concrete block covered with stucco.

I observed to myself—and almost said to Nathalie—“Limited risk of fires with all this concrete block construction.” But I didn’t say it. And this afternoon, I found out my assumption was wrong!

Around 6:30, a fire started in the closet that houses all the electrical circuits for our complex of four businesses and two apartments. "Snap, crackle and pop" quickly escalated to explosions, followed by roaring flames. Black smoke poured through the corridor that connects our ocean-side apartment to the street.

Those of us who live here scurried to get out…Nathalie grabbed Seal and his bottle…I packed a bag with my computer, cameras and electrical converter…and we raced through the construction site next door and out to the street where a chattering crowd of residents, business owners, vendors , people walking home from work had gathered. It was the same crowd of interested by-standers who gather wherever there is a disaster.

In two months of living in Dakar, I have not heard a fire alarrm nor seen a fire truck..a “pompier” in French. And this evening, we didn’t see one until about a half-hour after the fire had been drowned in buckets and buckets of sand.

The good news? No one was hurt. Damage was minimal. Only one business lost power. Seal is safe. And as in many other cultures, the firemen are hunky and handsome!

As I wrote yesterday, the Monument de la Renaissance Africaine gave me reason to start paying attention to the context of this continent where I am now living.

On Monday, our trip to Ile de Goree drove home that point.

Goree is a 30-minute ferry ride from the Port of Dakar. The day was sunny and very warm. It was lovely to be on the water. As we approached the landing for this petite island, my eyes wandered here and there, captured by the splashes of color: brightly painted 18^th century residences, vibrant pink and purple bougainvillea, women in traditional Senegalese dresses and headresses .

The entire island is a World Heritage site, which means that Goree is in the process of being historically preserved. The narrow alleyways are lined with graceful colonial homes, some are stucco over native stone and some simply native stones, fitted together so perfectly that sliding a broomstraw in the cracks would be impossible. Wrought iron balconies on the second level and open courtyards off the flower-lined cobblestone paths invite romantic curiosity.

Goree is quiet. There are no roads and no cars. The whole island is only 56 acres, so it takes about 10 minutes to walk from one end to the other. Its small beach is surrounded by boulders and crashing breakers. Commerce is limited to art, artifacts and refreshments. It wasn’t always.

Goree was a slave trading station. On one end of the island is the Castel, erected by the Dutch. On the other, is an ancient fort. Goree’s most famous building is La Maison des Escalaves, built in 1776 by the Dutch to conduct slave trading. On the ground floor, holding chambers segregated men from women and women from children. The slaves were kept alive, but just enough to survive their transport. Dungeons, barely large enough for one person, commonly held five to ten. A dim, dank narrow passage ends at a doorway that opens onto the ocean, so that the prisoners could be loaded directly onto boats.

From the crowded slave quarters, a double curving stairway leads to the second level and an ocean-front terrace. Here, the merchant conducted business, and his family lived in luxurious comfort above the human cargo stored below. Now a museum, the house has an appropriately somber and reverent atmosphere. Docents offered moving portrayals of the house’s grim history. Although only 300 of the 20 million Africans who were enslaved moved through Goree each year, the island’s value is indisputable: a reminder of the suffering inflicted on Africa and its people.

As I wandered through the quiet streets, having left Nathalie and Seal, in the shade for a mid-day snooze, I passed by houses under renovation and courtyards where women were braiding hair extensions. Kids were swimming on the beach and playing soccer in front of the school and large 19^th century church. On an exceptionally beautiful lane, there was a well-tended garden and beautiful gate. The name plate read: Residence George Soros.

I thought it telling that this icon of philanthropy dedicated to social change and social justice would have a home on Goree Island.

Sights and Insights

Just before I came to Dakar, Senegal celebrated the 50^th anniversary of its independence from France. To mark the occasion, President Abdoulaye Wade unveiled the Monument de la Renaissance Africaine, which in the minds of many is the Monument de la Abdoulaye Wade, who is preparing to leave office.

The monument is a representation of a couple, both of incredible physical attributes….he, robustly male with the best chest in Dakar and she with best breasts in all of Africa. In his arms, the man holds a child pointing to the west. Why? No one is sure.

Started in 2002, the 53-meter statue appears suddenly from the hills overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Completed with the assistance and underwriting of the Korean government, the monument cost about $27 million and is built on the highest point of land in Senegal, which is probably only a few hundred meters high rising from the coast. This large hill has a twin about a kilometer away, where the only lighthouse in Senegal is located.

The flags of all Africa fly proudly on the landscaped and well-tended hillside. At the street and parking level—180 steps lower than the monument’s entrance—are the theater and Jumbo-tron where it is expected crowds will gather for cultural, sports and political events.

Much bally-hooed, the monument is intended to be a Statue of Liberty-style attraction, nationalistic in its spirit, drawing tourists from all over the world, and especially Africans and Senegalese. The price tag doesn’t begin to cover the additional investment in infrastructure to support the monument…the highway, parking, ancillary buildings, programming and security that are required to keep the site open, organized, clean and safe.

We’ve laughed about it, marveled at the cost (which could have financed 120 dispensaries) and then we went to visit on Saturday. I stopped laughing. The site, the scale, the sentiment are inspiring and ennobling. Artistically, the monument’s strengths are that it is heroic and African.

Within the historical context of Senegal’s role in the Atlantic slave trade, the monument dignifies that scarred past, suggesting a people with determination and hope. Within the context of the current global economy, it towers, seeming to remind that Africa is thriving, a continent where there is driving energy and optimism that the developed markets seem to have lost.

Clap your hands!

It’s Saturday. Paul is on his way to Guadalupe for a concert with Ismael Lo, with whom he has played for 12 years. Without Paul’s steady and maternal presence, we are a household without restraint. He not only keeps a watchful eye on Seal, but he also makes sure we eat healthy…fresh fish, salad with lots of tomatoes, fresh aubergine or zucchini and a starch of some sort at least five days a week. On Sunday, Mami takes care of lunch, which is also usually fish, and one day a week we have beef.

Leading up to Paul’s departure, Nathalie and I threatened to eat pizza, fried chicken and peanut butter-jelly sandwiches while he was gone. We even talked with Ieta and Suzette about how to prepare these all-time cholesterol toppers. And this morning, we went to the supermarche to stock up on various bad-diet items. In particular, peanut butter because we are serious about transgressing Paul's strictly enforced healthy habits.

Senegal being an exporter of peanuts, we were giddy about our intentions to be break the fish regimen.

But, in the land of peanuts there is no peanut butter!

No Jiffy…no Peter Pan…no Chiekh Touba (which is what the local brand would be if there were a local brand)…no smooth or crunchy, no low sodium or low fat! How can this be? Even the Europeans and Americans living here, who number by the thousands and have lots of kids, even they do without!

So we reverted to plan 2 and had hamburgers….good old fashioned burgers on buns with sesame seeds…burgers with sliced tomatoes, lettuce, grilled onions with ketchup. And of course, we had French fries because Ieta makes fantastic fries. No golden arches over our villa at Virages…just a good old All-American lunch.

And a good old American idea that something needs to change in the peanut butter import/export business.

Donnez-moi cinq!

Yesterday on my college chum Ann’s FaceBook page, she posted a photo of her new grandchild. Reading the flood of joyful and excited comments from other FB friends, I was delighted for Ann. This is one lucky kid!

Her post also made me think about the dimension that has been added to my own life simply by living with Seal, my 17 month-old pal.

Unexpectedly, I find myself completely captivated by this miniature diplomat to the world.

I’ve made two contributions to Seal’s development so far, much to the delight and consternation of his parents. The first is “Donnez-moi cinq!” which some of you will recognize as the classic street greeting: “Give me five!” He slaps my hand and laughs…I laugh. Everybody laughs. The second is our “great ape” act, in which we both scratch and hop and shriek like chimpanzees being teased with a banana. It never fails…it stops a tantrum, it stops adult conversation, and it would—I believe--stop traffic!

But there’s another part of living with Seal that I treasure. His very being has awakened sleeping aspects of my character. His dependency extracts my desire to make his life happier and easier with a drink, a snack, a game, a song. His vulnerability makes me willing—perhaps for the first time—to put aside my to-do list for someone else's needs. His consistent good cheer makes grouchy old adults like me smile and be a little bit goofy.

And what do I get from this unanticipated love affair? I get a shy smile when I come down for coffee in the morning. I get to hear him say something that we all agree sounds like “Stephanie”. I get to be amazed at his inability to hold a grudge for longer than three seconds. I get to share my dinner, giving him the best parts. I get to walk slowly and be interested in everything along the way. I get to learn the subtle difference between what’s fun and what’s scary. I get sloppy, wet kisses whenever I want them, but always before we go to bed.

I get to be a little more human.

Big Oooops!

What’s that old aphorism about the bluebird of happiness being in our own backyard? Well, I missed my own bluebird yesterday. In the midst of all the web connecting and Dakar family hugging and kissing that was going on, I failed to make good on a promise to call my brother Doug…my very own big brother, whom I adore!

Doug and Karen, my off-the- chart wonderful sister-in-law, are in the very late stages of preparing to move from Kansas City to Colorado. Today, the money was handed over, which is the point of no return.

On Friday, the radically downsized Blackwoods head west after 10 years + in KC. While this is not their first move, nor is it even their third or fifth in nearly four decades of being a family, it’s big. Moving is big whenever it happens and whatever the change.

And I forgot to call. I’m so sorry I let you guys down.

Here’s my shout out to Doug and Karen: Good luck! Drive safely. Make cookies to make friends. Senegal à Denver = 6 hours! Be happy in your new home.

I love you!

Only Connect

I’m thinking about how much pleasure I get from all the connections that come in an average day, like today:

· Meeting with the consulting firm that is going to work with us on the Hospital of Hope project…It’s nice to be the conduit for developing this working relationship, which feels like it could also lead to friendship.

· Another lengthy email from one of my cousins…an exploration of our differing perceptions of family history.

· A long conversation with Nathalie about work, career, discrimination, politics and how much it really matters.

· Connecting with an old friend from New York who is currently facing some career changes that are uncomfortable…It’s nice to be called out of mentoring retirement to offer encouragement and support.

· Listening to my friend from the toy store lament that her web-based boyfriend wasn’t everything she had hoped he would be and she was finished with him.

· Seal’s giant-sized smile and unsolicited kiss for no reason…or at least none that he could tell me about.

· A thought-provoking business-focused conversation with a friend from Amsterdam and my realization that there is something miraculous about even having a friend from Amsterdam.

· A surprising and very welcome FaceBook message from the lovely and wonderful Mr. Subaru.

· A kiss and big hello from Paul when he came home from rehearsing in preparation for a tour to Morocco and Guadalupe.

· Dinner with Nathalie, Paul and Seal…a moment to wind down from the day and be equal parts grateful, silly and contented.

Care at any Cost

Although health care reform has been pushed off the front pages by BP’s oil spill in the Gulf, the subject is on my mind. I don’t have health insurance. It was an intentional decision. But it puts me in a category that is a little like being gay: Nobody talks about it in polite society. And certainly if you are, you shouldn’t admit it!

I am more than happy to be an example of why reform is necessary. Look, our business’s policy was up for renewal at the end of November, which was around the same time that Arthur and I decided to dissolve the agency. I already knew that I was leaving the country to live in Senegal starting in the spring. There just didn’t seem to be any point in taking out a policy for four months, especially as I knew it would have no value once I left the country.

Further assurance (if not insurance) was that I would be living with an M.D. and that health care in Senegal is completely affordable. As Nathalie has explained to me, an emergency room visit costs on average about $15 but there is a fee for virtually every medical item that is used in a diagnosis and treatment, i.e., every syringe, every gauze pad, every alcohol wipe, every test, every single item. OK, paying for everything that's used is not so different from the US system, here, .the price is undoubtedly lower because there's no insurance covering multiple mark-ups as supplies work their way through the distribution channel.

A marked difference in care in Senegal is that before a physician undertakes a procedure, the patient or a patient’s family member may be dispatched to the pharmacy to purchase all the supplies that are required for diagnosis and treatment.

I naively asked: “And what if the patient has no family member or is too sick to go get supplies or has no money?"

In her matter-of-fact Swiss fashion, Dr. Cretin replied, "They just might die.”

This brief and enlightening discussion opened my eyes to just how challenging it is for Coumba's mother and grandmother to care for her (See post from 5/14.). Daily, the work that we’re undertaking at the Hospital of Hope—to provide comprehensive, affordable, accessible care—becomes more relevant, more real, more urgent.

Steinbeck

I'm re-reading Grapes of Wrath, inspired by my friend Ricky Ian Gordon's opera, which had its premiere at Carnegie Hall right before I left for Senegal. I think I'm re-reading it. Wasn't it required reading in high school or college literature? It's like a fresh read for me...as was Of Mice and Men and Lord of the Flies and Brave New World.

This quote in Robert Demott’s introduction invited me pause: …Steinbeck discovered…the most heroic action was to learn to be present in the here and now, and to inhabit the “wherever” as fully and at once as possible.

Here and now...as fully as possible.

Heart Attack

Yesterday we drove to St. Louis, which was a little more than 3 hours each way, including the bio breaks under the baobab trees and stops to buy mangoes and melons.

All the guidebooks remark on St. Louis’s architecture, which is distinctly French colonial. It reminded me of New Orleans. (You can check my FaceBook page for photos.) The city has a large water front, because it is built both along the mainland and on an island in the bay. It’s pretty in a disheveled but promising sort of way that’s characteristic of developing countries.

But we weren’t in St. Louis for sightseeing. Nathalie was checking on the welfare and health of two young women—Coumba and Socadou--whom Nathalie met seven years ago when she was volunteering at a dispensary in St. Louis. Now 10, Coumba has epilepsy and is developmentally disabled. She is not able to see, speak or walk. She hears…and in fact, her face erupts with joy when she hears music or a familiar voice, like Nathalie’s. Before she began taking medication, Kumba was suffering from 20 or more seizures every day. For the past year, she has been seizure free.

In all respects, Coumba is dependent on Penta, her mom, and the family of women who surround her. Although financial resources are limited, they seem to have love in ample supply because Coumba’s sister Fagouda, who is eight, and her brother Papa Moussa, who is two-and-a-half, are happy, healthy, energetic, smart kids. Much to my delight…and dismay… Fagouda’s French skills far surpass mine. She happily demonstrated how well she could read, even correcting me when I tried to read along with her.

We also met Socadou, who is now 15 and a beautiful, thriving young woman. Seven years ago, she was a scrawny kid who was slowly dying of a congential heart defect. Although her first surgery—at birth—was successful, she needed another. And Nathalie--with her unfailing determination to help--secured the support of a French medical group called Terre des Hommes, who flew Socadou to Paris for that critical second surgery. The photo tells the story…Socadou is healthy, and she was overjoyed to see Nathalie.

This visit to St. Louis was not one from the guidebooks. We spent our time in a small, single-room home with Coumba, her mother and grandmother and aunts and siblings. We strolled to the market to buy a fan, so that the hot, rainy days ahead are bearable. We feasted on a fish, rice and vegetable dish that thrilled my taste buds but clearly taxed the family’s food budget. And then, Paul and Nathalie negotiated with a local builder to repair Penta’s home before the rainy season arrives in July, and the inevitable leaks become intolerable.

The drive home was long, but it gave me time to think about the day. In St. Louis, I had seen despair and happiness in the same home. I had experienced poverty and generosity in a family with very little but an instinctual willingness to share all they had. I witnessed Nathalie and Paul as a team. Their humanitarianism, which is committed to social change, is profound and humbling.

Nathalie does not just solve problems. She sees the people with the problems. She helps them…she stays with them…she continues to support them. Yes, Nathalie is paying for Coumba’s medication and ongoing medical care, providing money for her diapers and clothes, rebuilding the house, counseling and support Penta about Coumba’s care.

But it’s Nathalie’s strength and commitment that gives them hope. I saw Coumba’s face light up when she heard Nathalie’s voice. I saw Penta’s dancing eyes and radiant smile when she opened the car door and reached out to embrace Nathalie.

This is the change that Ghandi spoke and wrote about. This is being the change that we want in the world.

En Famille

Until I came to Senegal, I had lived alone for nearly 30 years. Sharing meals usually meant I was in a restaurant with a friend or on a weekend visit to the country or at home in the Midwest with my family.

Here in Senegal, my ritualistic standing-in-the-kitchen-eating-whatever-I-bought-at-the-deli is undergoing re-programming. At Chez Cretin-Oliveira, we share breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Breakfast is Nescafe and fresh baguette with butter and jam, most recently homemade apricot and raspberry from Nathalie’s mom. We discuss the day’s agenda briefly. We laugh at Seal’s silliness. And then, Nathalie grabs Seal and his backpack, and they head off to pre-school and work.

Lunch--around 1 pm—is a sitdown whenever Nathalie and Seal get home. Ieta and Suzette prepare lunch-- usually fresh fish, salad and veggies—and they sit with us. We’ve had a really full table for two weeks because Nathalie’s sister Janette has been visiting from Switzerland….six adults, all sharing their lunches with Seal, who just moves from person to person, eating the parts that he likes. It’s a mini-UN…French is dominant with some English translations for me and side conversations between Paul, Ieta and Suzette in Woloff.

Dinner is always leftovers from lunch, which is fine with me because the fish is too wonderful to believe. We eat when we get around to it, usually sometime after 8. We catch up on the day, laugh at Seal, laugh at Paul (who is the world’s biggest flirt), talk about the world news (which is my job) and then clean up. Around 9:30, the table is clear, everybody else is on their way to bed. I sit down to write.

It’s none of the “ex” words: not exciting, not extravagant, not expensive. But it sure is nice.

"...no great wonder..."

The Hospital of Hope has not been like any project I’ve ever worked on. I’m not talking about the glaringly obvious differences, like it’s in Francophone West Africa, has Swiss origins, will serve a population that has such extreme health needs that a pharmacy often substitutes for hospital emergency care. Beyond these differences, there’s something about this project that is subtle and magical.

Consistently, since I committed to volunteer for the hospital, I’ve experienced it in small and large ways, and again today, there it was…the magic. As Nathalie and I drove home from a meeting this afternoon, we looked at each other and smiled…and agreed: There’s something about this project.

It doesn’t need to be pushed. It flows. It keeps moving in the direction it needs to go. When I started thinking about an international volunteer assignment, a mutual friend introduced me to Nathalie. When we needed the funding to establish an account with our US fiscal agent, suddenly, there was the donor. When we began talking about financial sustainability, I was introduced to a former Fortune 500 CEO who’s now focused on health care and wants to help us develop the business model for transitioning from philanthropic support to revenue generation. When we weren’t making progress with the title transfer for the land, the mayor resolved the problem by giving us a different, larger, better, more centrally located site for construction. When we needed a 3D elevation, my architect friend in New York volunteered to render the design.

As we have begun to discuss how we get the community involved with the hospital so that they feel it is theirs, we were introduced to a business consultant whom I had hoped might—in the best possible scenario-- give us some ideas and or even models for how to undertake this work. But she had a bigger and better idea…much bigger and much better: She is bringing her consultancy onto the project—pro bono. Together, we are going to work on strategies for fundraising, communications, community engagement and organizational development. It’s a significant boost we need right now. And there’s more. Several times, the same names have surfaced as “people we need to meet,” and no surprise, she knows all of those people and wants to introduce us.

Coincidences? Possibly. As Plutarch wrote: "It is no great wonder if in long process of time, while fortune takes her course hither and thither, numerous coincidences should spontaneously occur."

Proponents of ancient Vedic spiritual and other mystical teachings insist that there is absolutely no coincidence in the world. Everything that occurs can be related to a prior cause or association, no matter how vast or how minute.

I agree with that. And I also believe in magic.

Day 26: Animal Farm

Over Mother’s Day weekend, we welcomed a new member to the family!

Say hello to Janette, born on Saturday morning. She arrived just in time to replace Albert, who was probably her father. Albert became a wedding present on Saturday afternoon.

Having lived for 20+ years in a fifth-floor walk up…no possibility of co-habitating with a pet, I’m really enjoying the experience of the animals that populate our life here in Dakar. Two turtles live on the terrace outside my bedroom. Two white rabbits live on our rooftop terrace. I’m guessing we’ll have a whole bunch more, based on the bad-boy bunny behaviors we witnessed this afternoon. The rest of the livestock live at Mami and Papi’s. There, Paul has two pairs of gorgeous prize-winning chickens, a fantastic Brama breed and a smaller Chinese variety. And then, there are the six sheep, of which Janette is the latest.

Day 25: Moon and Mom

It’s 4:30 a.m. in Dakar. I just came down from our rooftop. I planned to rise early anyway. I wanted to see the crescent moon and Jupiter, which are lined up in the eastern sky. The sky is perfect this morning. It’s clear. The air blowing off the Atlantic is fresh. The tide must be coming in because the surf is crashing mightily.

It’s Mother’s Day. I wish I had a photo of Elsie that I could share. I don’t. Instead, I’ll post this one of Nathalie and Seal, which was taken a couple of days ago when we went for a walk along the rocky coast of our neighborhood.

It’s been fun and provocative for me to live with a 15 month-old. Seal's in the stage of his life where everything is interesting (in particular, electrical outlets), every action is mimicked (especially dancing and sweeping), everything can be eaten or at least put in his mouth (most recently, tomato slices) and many behaviors require reinforcement or correction. It’s also been fascinating to live with Nathalie and to observe first-hand the mother-child relationship. Many of Seal’s impressions of the world start with Nathalie's reactions to his exploration. She gives him space to explore, to touch, to taste, to engage…always ready to pull him back from the brink but also ready to let him find his own way.

Today, as I’m thinking about moms in general, and mine in particular, I’m more aware than ever that my physical resemblance to my mother may be more than skin deep, that my relationship to the world may—and probably does—reflect my own mother’s affinities and fears. I don't recall how much space there was to fall, get dirty, take chances, make mistakes and wander when I was growing up, enough that when I left at 18, I didn't look back or go home for a long time.

I once asked Mom why she and Dad didn't ask us to come home for visits or holidays. Her response surprised me: "I didn't want you to come back because I didn't think there was anything here for you."

As always, lots to think about.

Day 23: Breakthroughs

Today, I want to share news about the hospital.

This afternoon, we met Mayor Mar Douf and Assistant Mayor Mamadou Gueye of Bargny. It was a breakthrough. Even without a perfect understanding of the rapid-fire French that characterized the meeting, I could discern that the hospital has been the subject of some political play. Exactly what, no one was saying. But one thing was absolutely clear: the mayor really likes the hospital project, so much that he offered a new—and apparently better--tract of land, much more centrally located within town. After Nathalie’s compelling presentation that included an overview of the need, the services and the progress we’ve made in fundraising, what politician wouldn’t jump on this band wagon?

We also had an engaging and exciting discussion with the executive director and senior staff at Trust Africa, a foundation that seeks to strengthen African democracies, business enterprises and resources for development. What makes Trust Africa different is that it’s the only nonprofit working to build Africa that is actually led by Africans. It’s connected to the most powerful funders in the world. Although Trust Africa’s objectives don’t presently focus on health projects, the team’s response to the Hospital of Hope was nothing but positive and energetic. They not only liked the values that support the hospital, but also the way we want to work within the community of Bargny. We left the meeting with new allies, with connections to governmental and philanthropic funders and with the promise of ongoing support and collaboration for our efforts to build programs aligned to Trust Africa’s objectives.

It was a very good day for the Hospital of Hope.

Day 22: Enterprise

Yesterday we went back to the Grand Yoff Market to buy fabric for duvet covers. To my uneducated eyes, the market is chaotic, dusty, loud, unorganized, unsophisticated, congested with people, cars, horse carts, livestock, noisy with honking, hawking, amplified prayers, haggling. Stalls after stall after stall, each averaging less than 100 square feet, display every possible kind of merchandise: sneakers, foam rubber pads, hair products, car parts, cigarettes, chickens, cookies, soap powder, cell phones, batteries, fabrics, Barack Obama underwear, Muslim Barbie. Every possible thing you could need is there…except Diet Dr. Pepper.

What’s not visible is the second level of enterprise. In the alleyways, wide enough for two people to pass are shops 10 feet deep on each side. These are sewing factories. The passageway hummed like a hive. The machines were manned, and I intentionally choose to use the word “manned”, by boys and men, whose age ranged from pre-teen (at least based on the absence of facial hair that would be my guess) to 20 or 25. Depending on the level of their skill, they were either piecing together traditional garments for men and women in vivid fabrics or they were performing complicated finishes with trim.

This was my first exposure to any kind of local business enterprise, organized according to the local culture. It reinforced a growing awareness that business transactions are taking place all around me. By the standards of New York or Amsterdam or London, where a decent lunch now costs $10 or 8 Euros, these are micro-transactions…maybe as little as 25 cents or as much as $4. Margins in Senegal are slim. The difference between a good day and a bad day may be the cost of four tomatoes or a six-pack of Coca-Cola or a pack of cigarettes. But everyone is hustling to earn enough to feed their family, pay the rent, send their kids to school, buy the inventory that they will sell the next morning.

I haven’t seen anything that looks like lazy. At the fish market, for example, there are young men who sell heavy-duty plastic bags for transporting multiple purchases weighing as much as 10 or 12 pounds. And then there are boys who carry the bags. Other young men run errands for the men and women who own the stalls. Moms have babies on their backs and toddlers at their feet.

Everyone is ready to work.

Day 21: La Marche (The Market)

A couple of days ago, I mentioned the supermarche (For those of you who are fluent in French, please forgive the absence of accents.) that reminded me of home with its big wide, sparkling clean aisles and tidy shelves of branded goods from Unilever, Procter and Gamble, Kraft, Nestle, General Foods. You know the names.

Yesterday, we went to the OTHER market, the street market where Senegalese locals shop. It’s a sensory experience: sight, smell, sound overload! Staying alert is critical, and not just for pickpockets, which are fairly common. Keeping one's eyes open is the only way to void stepping into “it,” whatever “it” might be.

I love the market! It’s a visual feast: red, yellow, white, green, purple, orange. Carefully stacked vegetables and fruits, intended to invite the eye and a purchase. My favorite is the lettuce, fanned into a lush, circular arrangement.

The sounds are commercial as well as community…lots of banter between neighboring vendors, between customers, between moms and kids (Moms do yell in all cultures!), as well as between customers and merchants. The slightest interest—a second glance in the direction of a display, for example—results in inquiries and vociferous encouragement to purchase. Two or three sellers will converge simultaneously, each with a special offer.

By necessity, merchants are hyper-vigilant about opportunities to sell. In an economy where the average income is slightly more than $100 per month, the difference between a good day and a bad day is marginal and may be a single transaction.

The smells are robust. I think that’s an apt, if modest, description. In the late afternoon, when the air is still, the odors are strongest and float above their source. Some are pleasant, like the sweet fragrance that lingers above a massive pile of hibiscus or the mélange that emanates from a display of spices. Others are frankly overpowering, like the strange fishy smell of dried calamari or the rot that floats above the burst bag of chicken innards lying in the street.

What I am most aware of while following Paul through this commercial maze is that the human constitution can tolerate much more of the un-sanitized, un-hygienic than we might want to believe. It’s not that flies, mosquitoes, open-air markets, dust, mangy dogs and open sewerage should necessarily be a part of anybody’s life. Obviously, health improves when risks are managed, when there are vaccinations and means for simple hand washing.

The point is that the human system has an amazing capacity for tolerance. Sanitary is nice--and it’s an artificial standard created by the manufacturers of products that sanitize. But necessary? I don’t think so.