The Road to Bayakh

Gregg, Taxi, Bayakh Bound

 After a day or two of “recovery” in Dakar, where I announced “salaam malekum” and “nanga def” at least more than a thousand times and had Katie explain why my Wolof was so bad to every passerby in order to protect my reputation as a seasoned ethnographic researcher (funny, that doesn’t impress anyone in Senegal, go figure), we ventured to the dreaded “garage” in Dakar – which by any definition is nothing more than a giant field of vehicles that wouldn’t pass inspection in Alabama (sorry Luke) AND, by Katie’s explanation, could be scarier than the airport. Not so, not scarier, but pretty interesting none the less.

We took a very expensive taxi – by Dakar standards (20 mil? Maybe? Which is equal to 10 American) – and were dropped off at the end of town in order to find a different type of taxi for 6 (I now forget what Katie called this clown-like station-wagon complete with smashed windshield, inoperable windows and a back seat where two 5’9” toubabs had to crouch hunched over our knees in the sweltering 116 degree Sahar heat for 4 hours). Basically, in a crazy, market-like situation filled with screaming girls selling nuts and Beignets and innocent, beautiful Talibe boys singing haunting prayers and pleading for one small morsel of food or low denomination coin, one must find a driver who is going to the town of your destination, bargain with him for trip, gas and luggage, and then sit in this teenage heap of rusted metal until it is filled with people also traveling to your destination. This can last a matter of minutes to a matter of HOURS and you CAN’T leave the car or you will lose your spot. Again, 116 degrees that day. But that wasn’t the most challenging part.

Streets of Bayakh, Talibe

 Tess Langan, of the Verona Cedar-Grove Times knows first hand what any American visiting Senegal for the first time experiences:

“DAKAR, Senegal — Thousands of children in Senegal are forced to beg on the streets under the pretext that they are receiving religious instruction, Human Rights Watch said in a report Thursday that urged the government to crack down on the long-established phenomenon… Beneath the staid, even words of the article my U.S. mom had sent me was the reality I had encountered back at the garage here of Mbour.

I am sitting in a taxi and trying, trying not to turn my head and look into the eyes of the three small talibe boys pressing themselves against my windowpane. They sing a harrowing, high-pitched, traditional song and leave the little traces of their noses and palms upon the glass. These three little boys, knobby-kneed, shoeless, one no older than six, have eyes powerful enough to bore into me and unhinge me. There is no evidence of any “crackdown” and from where I sit in my weather-worn seat, I feel angry and helpless. I know that the money they collect will most likely not feed their bellies but the coffers of their marabouts, often corrupt clerical leaders. But that fact could not abate the guilty quickening of my heart or the way my loose change seemed to turn cartwheels in my pockets.”

More on the Talibe later, let me just state that every time I saw these children in the villages I cried. Stupid American with no knowledge of the tradition or culture. Just felt like it was harsh and sad. So I cried.

Gregg and School Children in Bayakh

We first travelled with our beloved Gregg to Bayakh. Now you may recall from Katie’s blogs, Bayakh was the initial training village Katie and Gregg were sent to directly after the PC introductory training in Theiss. She loved her family and, although this village was small, remote and fundamental, the people were unforgettable. The children were funny and delightful – filled with energy and love and laughter and the women were magnificent looking – full head dress, brightly colored dresses, slight in build and shy and sweet. We took a suitcase filled with silly little gifts I brought from the States and handed out bubble pipes and crayons and hair ribbons and Avon products to the pleasure of all. The taxi driver, who had been paid to WAIT, was not very patient and frankly was a little bit of a creepster on one of the teenage girls, so directly after we consumed the most delicious Ceebujen (same dish everyday, different fish and veggies =delicious!) ever (until the next day when we had a different version in Louga) we headed down the bumpiest road (no wonder the cars look like they do!) unpaved, but glorious in that it would take us to our next destination – Louga, Fama Diop’s home sweet home! I couldn’t wait to hug Zal and hold babies Mohammed and Caroline.

Opening of the Suitcase

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Last night I dreamed of Africa

I dreamed of a beautiful young woman – small in stature compared to the tall, proud, graceful ladies in Africa – she was carrying a baby, sound asleep on her back, wrapped up in a kind of “reverse papoose.” She grabbed for Fama and me as we wandered through the market, desperately trying to sell us her beaded necklaces – forcing herself in front of us, impossible to ignore. I dreamed she begged angrily, promising quality and affordability. I dreamed we said “bakhna!” forcefully to her over and over again until she finally turned away.

I dreamed of Africa last night. I dreamed of Bayakh hugs from many moms, I dreamed of beautiful cherubs, with shiny earrings and waist beads instead of diapers. I dreamed of oversized, athletic dads with long cigarettes held in mouth delicately, preciously holding tiny Carolines and Mohammeds like they were the most amazing gifts – and they were.

I dreamed of giant Flagg beers, cold, delicious, going down like the freshest, coldest water mid 120-degree day in the Sahar…like drops of rain on my parched, dusty cheeks – feeling better than light fingertips on my throbbing neck and back after a 7-hour day in an un-air-conditioned taxi.

I dreamed of a tailor and a jeweler in a micro-village of artisans reminiscent of the museum I used to visit on elementary school field trips – where we would gaze at exhibits of American artisans in centuries past, like Benjamin Franklin’s workshop, with dirt floors, wooden tables and large, steel and blunt handled instruments lit by kerosene lamps and empowered only by imagination and invention. The only materials organically found in the geographical components of the region. I dreamed of brightly colored fabric floating in the breeze of a busy, friendly marketplace where American chewing gum wins smiles and conjures laughter and affinity.

I dreamed of lying next to my nomad daughter in a sand-lined bed of dirty, weary feet – listening to her mmmmm and her giggles and her babble in a language these ears have never been blessed to hear before, wild dog on the floor, snoring. I hear the echo of 5AM prayer call, the music, the meditations repeated over and over as I try to doze off for a few more sweaty hours of sleep. As she lays her head on my shoulder, wrapping her arm around me, reminding me of when she was two, or three, or four – I wish this moment could last forever, or at least until Canary Islands…

I dream of Africa every night. I will never be the same. I will dream of the day when She will allow me to return to Her beautiful music, Her cool breezes, Her brutal, relentless heat and Her divine culture.

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America interrupted…

Lori and the kids in Bayakh

I did it! I freaking did it! Ok, I know you world travelers out there (i.e. ALL of my friends who have traveled all over the world WITHOUT ME while I was raising my beloved children) think it is nothing to be the recipient of 7 immunizations (including RABIES I will have you know), get on a South African Airlines plane leaving Dulles for an overnight flight in Economy class by yourself and landing at 5AM in a foreign and perceivably unstable region. But honestly, until I heard the landing gear belly up and the pilot with the charming British accent say “welcome to flight SOA209” I didn’t think I was going to have the Kahunas to do it. Needless to say, it was the trip of a lifetime thanks to tourguide and Wolof linguist of the decade, Kathryn E. Aulenbach. Shout out girlie! Thanks for making my feet bleed!

I will be writing about my travels in the magnificent country of Senegal, West Africa over the next few blogs. Well, after all, the blog IS about Katie’s tour in Africa courtesy of the United States Peace Corps (the smiley face of the American government). So if there are a few digressions of self-pity, morbidity or distaste apparent in any of these journal entries, let it be known, this is NO reflection on the most beautiful people in the world. Talk about FAMILY MATTERS. Boy do we Americans have a long way to go. But let’s get started….

Katie at Terrou Bi, Day=1, Sleep=Not in 36 hours

I landed in Dakar, Senegal, West Africa on Saturday, March 19, 2011 after 7 hours of annoying-cool-guy and his ad-agency girlfriend who had to be told two times to put her very, very, very important Blackberry away (ok, you are 25 years old, I am SURE your job hasn’t even BEGUN to get that demanding little girl). I land n Dakar at 4:15AM local time to find the airport somewhat reminiscent of a war zone.

Emmie in Dumpster at House Fire, Christmas, 2010

May I digress for a moment to talk about how things have not exactly been evolving or ending the way I imagined of late? Admittedly, I have been accused of exaggerating in the past – even been called a Hypochondriac. Please, me? But darnit’ this has NOT been the case this year. Talk about piling on the “shit burgers” as my ex-partner used to say in his Lancaster County Dutchified accent. House fire, car accident, my husband Tim’s dear mom’s untimely and unpleasant passing….for sure things have ended quite worse in several cases than my endearing imagination could have ever conjured up. Well, thus so my entrance into the (I was soon to find out) beautious Senegal (at 4:15AM local time).

The most colorful of commercial portrayals could not possibly have embraced the thick, edgy chase taking place at “Dakar International Airport.” The most descriptive words I can come up with – ” are you kidding me????” With no direction other than an arrogant point from some Policia lifted high in a booth resemblant of a Presbyterian pulpit, myself and perhaps 10 other brave (crazy) passengers daring NOT to travel on to Johannisburg, South Africa with the rest of the 500 passengers on that fateful flight, were grunted to a few scattered custom forms composed in Francais. Of course there were no writing utensils – never are – that made it pretty much like the US airports anyway! I spied a very old Columbian woman in a wheelchair who was being helped by what appeared to be a very young security guard armed with a pen…once I approached the passport stamp king in his royal booth, I endured 15 minutes of shame and fear until he brow-beat me into submission, teasing me by hovering the stamp over my passport with an evil (or playful, not sure) grin on his face until he gave me a final nod and allowed me to enter this new world, initiated by a rumble in the parking lot, grabbing of person and luggage and a final leap for freedom into the arms of my daughter and our precious Gregg (her BFF in the PC) both of whom had not slept the night and waited patiently for me at a local drinking establishment. Thank God for the ensuing taxi and cash exchange negotiation to place some levity on the situation. Amen.

For a week I live vicariously through Fama Diop (Katie’s Senegalese name). All the coloquialisms in the world cannot describe how I felt as the outsider in this world so foreign, so surrealistic to me that I felt transported to Mars or perhaps even the more distant Uranus . I was to learn what Fama has oft talked about in her blog, “Notes from L’Afrique”- people are all the same deep down inside. Some just really GET IT – life, success, contentment – are we really still searching for it in America, of all places?


Katie and Greggers


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Over the Ocean and Through Customs to Katie’s House We Go!

Katie in Louga, December, 2010

Pictures come flowing in from Senegal once in a blue moon – when Katie has the patience (and the computer) to upload the large jpg. files via “dial up” style internet. We wait, patiently, taking every advantage of the video Skype function to see a stilted, shadowy, robot-like version of our Katie, now Fama, daughter of Fama Diop. Her interrupted laughter, in 5-second delay, lands like soft butterfly wings on our anticipating ears. Her smile, just like the one we remember, is warm, inviting, happy, friendly, loving -there is no sign of distress or loneliness, only fulfillment and freedom and dreams coming true. Courage and determination have rewarded Katie, and we cannot take away from it, only participate and celebrate.

It is my intent to travel to Louga, Senegal to visit my missing daughter in March. 2011 could not have come soon enough, for those of you who are aware of our challenging year. And I intend to make the most of it – frankly, by doing something I never thought I would have the nerve to do – visit Africa, flying alone, landing in a city which speaks TWO languages I do not grasp – and staying with Katie’s new family for a couple of weeks. To say I cannot wait is an understatement. And yet, change is still scary for a semi-centurian.

Apparently peanuts are very big in the Louga region. And there is beer, measured in liters, not ounces. The amazing French settled city of St. Louis (or Ndar, as it is called in the native language of Wolof) is a mere hour of so from Louga and was the capital of the French colony of Senegal until its independence in 1960. The streets are lined with beautiful colonial architecture and the beach is untarnished.  Katie spent some time visiting St. Louis with her PC buddies over the holidays and “had a blast.”

The Three Musketeers in West Africa

The PC Musketeers also traveled to Dakar,which is now the capital of Senegal, located on the Cap-Vert Peninsula on the country’s Atlantic Coast. With almost 2.5M residents, Dakar most closely resembles what Katie remembers as her last home of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA.  Less crime, warmer.


I think the most valuable lesson resonating from Katie’s experiences thus far in Senegal has been that our world’s societies and cultures – as unique and distinct as they are – as different financially, academically, technologically and religiously- really do experience connectivity on the family level. To imagine Katie and her little brothers and sisters watching home videos of our life here on the laptop in her sleeping quarters 4,000 miles away- rolling around on the bed, laughing at the top of their lungs, playing “Mr. Ticklebug” and genuinely connecting – is something I would have never thought possible. And now, I get to go do it too. Nothing like your mom to come down once you have paved the way…there have to be some fringe benefits of parenting!

Video Viewing in West Africa



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Family Interrupted…


Daughter Katie in Senegal 2010

I am a writer and yet have been unable to put one moment of the past three weeks into words until now – not a unique reaction, I am assured by Sir Philip Sydney, who, in sonnet one of Astrophil and Stella (1591) shared…

I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,

Studying inventions fine, her wit to entertain,

Oft turning others’ leaves, to see if thence would flow

Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burned brain.

But words came halting forth, wanting Invention’s stay;

Invention, Nature’s child, fled step-dame Study’s blows,

And others’ feet still seemed but strangers in my way.

Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,

“Fool,” said my Muse to me, “look in thy heart and write.”

Our family has experienced adversity over the years – certainly not of the category or severity of many of our brothers and sisters – our solid family foundation has assured that we will never feel the pain of abandonment, loneliness, neglect or abuse – but certainly painful learning experiences have plagued us. Divorce, death, financial challenges, betrayal of friends and loved ones…and yet again, God has spared us from the most devastating – that which would rob us of our faith in God and each other, our joie de vivre and our desire to live on.

Herewith is what I have learned:

Those who have the least, give the most, with the greatest sincerity and step up to the highest level of integrity.

It is impossible to get rid of the guilt associated with others’ generosity and consideration – giving, doing and praying for YOU on a daily basis. Coming to terms with the selflessness of others is almost as hard as coming to terms with one’s own loss.

Not matter how many times others, who have notably lost FAR more than you, tell you that these are just “things” to be “replaced” and how you should be thankful for the lives saved (animals non-inclusive, apparently) IT IS STILL A TRAGEDY AND YOU ARE ALLOWED TO GRIEVE. It’s not the things – of course it’s not – it’s the comfort, the “home,” the gathering place filled with laughter and energy and love and community. In a family as devoted as ours, the stability  –  the family center – has always been our strength and respite. This was represented in part by our home for 15 years, and will most certainly be re-created as we begin this journey again.

On this note, the family core has grown in strength and numbers and temporarily moved its church to Hoffer Street. There was never a fear of losing our eternal connection – the fear was in losing the gathering place, but God took care of that immediately. Our first night in our newly rented home, we sat around the family room, all of us – siblings, kids, friends, new neighbors – joking and laughing and all talking at once like always – it didn’t take a week for us to find another place filled with familiarity and companionship and genuine affection.

God only knows how I wish I was the one giving to others right now – I said to my daughter, Emilie, last evening “don’t EVER let us be like those that consider themselves good friends but are afraid to get their hands dirty! Let us be like those who have the least, but give the most – they get it.” Just like our beloved Katie, serving in Senegal for the Peace Corps.

Count your blessings. Once you realize how valuable you are and how much you have going for you, the smiles will return, the sun will break out, the music will play, and you will finally be able to move forward the life that God intended for you with grace, strength, courage, and confidence. Og Mandino

Let us move forward together, our little band of warriors.

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My BuBu is Fly…

Katie gets to wear her BuBu tomorrow – her Senagalese sister took her to the village tailor to have it made and her Senegalese aunt paid for it. It is not what you would think – it is loose and cool but not un-attractive or even un-sexy, in its own way.

This BuBu probably looks similar to the one Katie now proudly owns

At long last, the Muslim holiday of Ramadan is over, the final day commencing with the celebration of Korite, a day of feasting and, according to Katie – resting. Eat and flop, eat and flop kind of like our Thanksgiving Day here in the US.

In Senegal, where family is tantamount, they visit neighboring villages as well, sharing stories and delicious food with friends who have been rather cranky for the past 30 days. One not particularly pleasant part of a month of fasting is this end of day crankiness. Nearing sundown, everyone is less friendly than normal. During Ramadan villagers and shopkeepers are a little less patient with limited language skills and most of the stores and offices closed early throughout the month. Katie actually participated in the sun-up to sun-down fasting for a few days (including hydration cessation, which in very high temperatures can really take its toll on the body and mind) and gained a greater appreciation for the mass quantities of bread, coffee and the traditional Senegalese dish called Ceebujen served around 11PM to fortify for the day to come.

Senegalese Traditional Dish "Ceebujen"

All Muslims celebrate at the end of this month in the Islamic year. The wrap-up holiday is called Korite in Senegal but has different names in other countries. The date of the celebration has to do with the appearance of the moon. As explained in one of my earlier blogs, Muslims fast from sunrise to sunset during Ramadan to shift focus from material goods to prayer and worship. It is a serious time meant to encourage self-evaluation and introspection.

Senegalese pray during the Korite celebration

Ramadan is one of the five pillars of Islam, but not everyone fasts. Children, the elderly and pregnant women are exempt. For those who do fast, athletes like the Vikings’ Husain Abdullah can’t even drink water during practice.  It just so happened that Katie’s PC training began at the very beginning of Ramadan – unlucky to be without protein/energy bars, one begins to understand the devout spirituality and sacrifice inherent to Islamic sects. Katie was very happy to see her brother, Pape carrying six live chickens into the village this evening, in anticipation for the feast to take place tomorrow. I am sure she is thinking about Long John Silver chicken planks more and more these days. I quote, “I will kill those little buzzards myself to have me some chicken for dinner tomorrow. LOTS of chicken.” One big step for one little Central PA vegetarian.

Tonight's dinner

In international studies, we talk about the hierarchy of needs  – for a quick refresher, they are:

Physiological Needs

These are biological needs. They consist of needs for oxygen, food, water and a relatively constant body temperature. They are the strongest needs because if a person were deprived of all needs, the physiological ones would come first in the person’s search for satisfaction.

Safety Needs

When all physiological needs are satisfied and are no longer controlling thoughts and behaviors, the needs for security can become active. Adults have little awareness of their security needs except in times of emergency or periods of disorganization in the social structure (such as widespread rioting). Children often display the signs of insecurity and the need to be safe.

Needs of Love, Affection and Belongingness

When the needs for safety and for physiological well-being are satisfied, the next class of needs for love, affection and belongingness can emerge. Maslow states that people seek to overcome feelings of loneliness and alienation. This involves both giving and receiving love, affection and the sense of belonging.

Needs for Esteem

When the first three classes of needs are satisfied, the needs for esteem can become dominant. These involve needs for both self-esteem and for the esteem a person gets from others. Humans have a need for a stable, firmly based, high level of self-respect, and respect from others. When these needs are satisfied, the person feels self-confident and valuable as a person in the world. When these needs are frustrated, the person feels inferior, weak, helpless and worthless.

Needs for Self-Actualization

When all of the foregoing needs are satisfied, then and only then are the needs for self-actualization activated. Maslow describes self-actualization as a person’s need to be and do that which the person was “born to do.” “A musician must make music, an artist must paint, and a poet must write.” These needs make themselves felt in signs of restlessness. The person feels on edge, tense, lacking something, in short, restless. If a person is hungry, unsafe, not loved or accepted, or lacking self-esteem, it is very easy to know what the person is restless about. It is not always clear what a person wants when there is a need for self-actualization.

In third world countries, even meeting basic needs is often challenging, making spoiled rotten American brats miss those non-basic needs more than ever – music, art, literature. WE should be participating in a Ramadan-type exercise once a year, Muslim or not, to make sure we are registering gratitude and appreciation for those cultural activities we take for granted.

And so it begins. Katie goes to a country half-way across the world during its most pious season, learns new dialects, new customs, new ways of life – and learns to love a new family, so unlike any family she has ever known, but so similar to the family she has always known. Off to Louga in four weeks. More changes and challenges. More human beings with whom to laugh, to share and hope and grow and love and learn. And we stay here, living vicariously through our brave and amazing trailblazer.

“The survival of the fittest is the ageless law of nature, but the fittest are rarely the strong. The fittest are those endowed with the qualifications for adaptation, the ability to accept the inevitable and conform to the unavoidable, to harmonize with existing or changing conditions.”

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If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to a man in his own language, that goes to his heart.

I got to Skype IM Katie for an hour yesterday. It was AWESOME. And, aside from the three power outages and one computer FAIL which prohibited us from having any kind of flow to our conversation, we pretty much covered all the crucial ground needed to be discussed between separated mother and daughter, including, but not limited to: personal hygiene, language, food, activities, family and pooping. I’m sorry for any offense this last subject might elicit but honestly, when it comes down to it, isn’t finding and using a restroom/lavatory/hole in the ground couple with the fear of uncooperative bowels while you are travelling or living away from home something that weighs us all down when we ponder exploring the world? In our family it is.

Fast forward to my new obsession with the bathroom habits of the world, starting with Senegal. Thanks to “Hub Pages: How to Use [Indian] Toilets” we are comforted by the notion that the squat-type toilets that are common in cheaper hotels are actually much more hygienic and healthier for the system than sit-down toilets. Ok, but what about us 50-year-olds who really have a hard time squatting (it’s not squatting down, it’s getting up!!) – what about us?

“The most important thing is not to fall in. This seems self evident, but when the floor is slippery it is easy to do. You can get a nasty cut to your foot if you slip and the porcelain breaks along the rim.”

A squat toilet is a toilet used by squatting, rather than sitting. There are several types of squat toilets, but they all consist essentially of a hole in the ground. The only exception is a “pedestal” squat toilet (pictured here).

Now, if you have read my beloved PC volunteer/daughter Katie’s blog at Word Press appropriately entitled, “Notes from L’Afrique” you will note that even this Cum Laude Temple University International Business graduate (2009) found the squat toilet navigation complex, and spent her first two weeks abusing its methodology and peeing on her feet. Once informed by seasoned PC alum, while back for five days at the Senegal Training Center in Thies, she was able to master the art quite proficiently, which I imagine has made her bathroom experiences infinitely more delightful.

 Extending from the use of the squat toilet, or perhaps contributing to its design, is the whole “mastering of the toilet-paperless method” or, as the residents of India and Africa like to call it, the “washing-my-hiney-with-my-hand” method of personal hygiene.  I made that up. But considering the infrastructural challenges Katie has shared which exist in Senegal -all kidding aside – this is a much more environmentally friendly way to clean up.  Here is how it is described:

 “If you can’t slide you pants to the knees and sit, then take your pants off and hang it on a clip or the hook most usually found on the back of the door.

Remember it can be slippery and mishaps do happen.

Crouch down and sit down in a squatting position (if you feel uneasy, try to remember the health benefits of squatting)

Squat to your hearts content.

After doing it open the tap (where Katie is, in Bayakh, one must carry his own water to the shower cottage) and fill the bucket with water. Take a jug usually located nearby and fill it with water.

Clean your back-side with your left palm by pouring water in it and then rubbing gently where the sun doesn’t shine. For the left-handed foreigner use the right hand. Most Indian type squats contain a flush usually hooked to the wall so get up and pull the chain or the lever with the clean hand.”

In Senegal, most toilets are simple holes in the ground without the advantage of sewage.

I am trying to get Katie to take a picture of her actual toilet so we can compare to the above picture of an Indian squat toilet. ‘Nuff said. There are just some intimate details of her life I am sure no one but me wants to know about.

VERY INTERESTING FACT (according to this article): “Oncologists have observed that 80% of colon cancers occur in the caecum and the sigmoid colon, the two areas that are not fully evacuated in the sitting posture. This causes fecal stagnation and probably explains why colon cancer is the second leading cause of cancer deaths in the United States. In traditional Asian and African cultures where squatting is the norm, colon cancer is virtually unknown!”  There are even diagrams:


I lightheartedly spoof on cross-cultural differences NOT to have our Western civilizations appear at all superior but quite the opposite. We are so ingrained in our “advancements” that we don’t realize some of the processes we used thousands of years ago were created because they worked!

We have lost touch with our environmental conscience, our connection to the earth, our evolutionary recycling of plant and animal and human waste – and polluted our habitat to the point of extinction.

In our burning desire to represent unique individualism, we have lost touch with cultural traditions and tribal relationships and abandoned those very things that connected us and banded us together as warriors and adventurers discovering new worlds. Katie mentioned once she donned the wardrobe the local tailor had sewn for her, the whole village opened up to her – proof that her acceptance of their culture was paramount in her connection on a deeper level, even beyond the language barrier.

More on toilets later, but for right now squat on this:

“As a scientist, objectivity is one of my most deeply held values. If we could just try harder, I once thought, surely we could each see the world as others see it and learn to respect one another’s views more readily. But … our expectations, our culture, and our experiences can [sometimes] render even perceptions of the environment nearly incommensurable cross-culturally.” Daniel Everett (Google me!)


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