Crazy Adventures in the Life of a Redhead

I wish I had taken pictures of the flowering okra fields or my field of Moringa trees that are growing splendidly after having planted them the last time I was at Beer-Sheba in March. Having concentrated on my weed-picking work, I did not even take one moment to capture the vegetative growth occurring at one of my favorite places on earth. Maybe picking weeds sounds tedious—and it certainly is not the most glorifying work—but it is necessary, and I was certainly happy to have a job assigned to me that would take a lot of physical work and endurance. I spent about 20 hours on my knees this week pulling up blasted grass and vines that have invaded our okra field. My goal is to be a part of whatever the project desires of my hands and skill set. I am blessed to be a part of a group that welcomes any help and has no problem delegating tasks to those who are willing to work. I think back to how I met the team of Beer-Sheba. The Director of Ministry and Service at North Central

current progress on the center A friend from college who is now a teacher at the Milwaukee Montessori School (MMS) found out that I was living and studying in Senegal. She told me that her school had started a project in Senegal three years ago in one of her colleague’s villages and wondered if I would be interested in doing some follow-up research on the progress they had made and what work would remain to be done in the future. I was immediately willing, and we started to discuss details about the project. As a researcher, one of my favorite aspects is developing a work plan then seeing it come to fruition as I fill in the notions I had possessed with facts from what I experienced and observed. There are always many surprises—generally good and sometimes challenging. Unfortunately, the Zuiginchor/Dakar ferryboat was under repair the dates of my trip to Casamance. I was obligated to take the road, opting to take a night bus on the way there and a 7-seater hatchback on

Making fried chicken was never one of my culinary goals—I hate frying food—until one of my Senegalese brothers requested this “typical” American recipe. I asked my mom to bring from the U.S. an enormous can of Crisco ®—apparently makes the best fried chicken—which we used to fry pieces of freshly plucked chicken, eviscerated of all the many parts Americans never consider when buying a whole chicken at the supermarket. What I love most about Senegal is how raw the eating conditions can be from time to time. I perceive that Americans are much too disconnected from the alimentary processes of daily living: we buy meat nicely wrapped and packaged with no idea where it has come from; our vegetables look and taste like wax because the image of what looks nice must be upheld; we live in a disinfected bubble with our fear of germs. My refrain was, “Mom, just don’t think about it.” Sometimes when faced with differences in cultural eating habits in Senegal, it is best to sit do