The water situation in my family compound has been rapidly deteriorating since the end of the cold season. The combination of last-6-inches-of-the-well-dirty water and an invasion by swimming ants has rendered the water in our well unusable for anything except washing the goat poop off the bottom of my Chacos sandals. Since I am far too cheap to pay for water from the neighborhood robinet (water tap), I have been relying on my good looks and mad Pulaar skills to sweet talk the neighbors into letting me pull water from their wells—really anyone will let me pull water, they just want to laugh at the white girl while she attempts to carry 10 liters of water in a bucket on top of her head.

The other day, I was with my sister at our neighbor’s compound pulling water for laundry, when I noticed something floating in the water. Confused, I called my sister over and asked her what it was. Unsure herself, she took the bucket and string from me and with a flick of her wrist was able to coax the mysterious object into the bucket. We pulled the bucket out, and to our surprise inside was a 6 inch long dead fish. Yes, a very very dead fish.

Now, let me explain how weird this was. First, fish do not live in wells. And second, no Senegalese person would ever throw a fish down a well—especially a big one (they would eat it). I kept asking my sister and my neighbors how a fish got into the well, but no one seemed to have any idea. So, how does a dead fish get into a well? And more importantly, how long has it been in there? I’ve been using that water to drink and bathe with… maybe I should just pay the 5 cents to get water from the public robinet.

Thirsty?

No TV.  No Internet. What’s a girl in West Africa to do?  Read! 

The following is a list of the books I have read/am reading.  And I will continue to add to it during my service.  If you have a book you loved, tell me, chances are we have it in one of the Peace Corps regional house libraries and I can read it.  Then we can write letters back and forth about the book (or skype).  It will be like Oprah’s book club.  Only better.

Three Cups of Tea – by Greg Mortenson & David Oliver Relin
The Kite Runner – by Khaled Hosseini
Lamb, The Gospel According to Biff – by Christopher Moore
The Virgin Blue – by Tracy Chevalier
Reading Lolita in Terhan – by Azar Nafisi
Eat, Pray, Love – by Elizabeth Gilbert
Mountains Beyond Mountains – by Tracy Kidder
A Guide to the Birds of East Africa – by Nicholas Drayson (recommended and sent by Danni)
A Year in Provence - Peter Mayle
The Zookeeper's Wife - Diane Ackerman
Tears of the Giraffe - Alexander McCall Smith (recommended and sent by Barbara)
The Places in Between - Rory Stewart

Every morning I open my front door to a neat pile of fresh yellow-green mangos on my front step.  Almost like breakfast-in-bed, Senegalese style.

My youngest brother, Abibou and nephew, Jiby (both around 12 years old) are harboring huge crushes on me, and have been in competition for my attention for the past few months.  For awhile they would fight over who would get to pull my water from the well, or find a plastic chair for me to sit in, or who could keep the small kids away from me when I am reading.  But last week, they saw me eating a mango and concluded that I must love mangos.

It is Abibou and Jiby’s job to climb the mango trees in our yard and shake down the mangos, or to use a huge stick to knock a ripe mango down to the ground.  And every time they do this, they save the biggest and best mangos for me.  If I am around, they make a big show out of handing them to me (and I make a big show out of telling them thank you).  Or if I am in my hut or away working in town, they leave them in a nice pile in front of my door.  They are in a feud to see who can pick me the most big and ripe  mangos, and I am content to let them fight, as long as they keep the mangos coming…

Little Sannu, enjoying a mango

Abibou picking mangos for me