2013-05-25T02:35:16-04:00 Maya Lau http://www.huffingtonpost.com/author/index.php?author=maya-lau Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Maya Lau Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1099202 2011-11-17T09:10:57-05:00 2012-01-17T05:12:01-05:00

Maya Lau http://www.huffingtonpost.com/maya-lau/
In West Africa, I confronted the toubab version of myself, a self previously foreign to me that was lethargic, cynical and at home with failure.

For a long time I hesitated to admit that I felt incompetent as a Peace Corps volunteer. I felt that if I expressed my suspicion that I was inept, it would confirm criticisms that the program itself is irresponsible and presumptuous. I signed up largely because I saw myself as a go-getter and I wanted a challenge. I have a childlike loyalty to getting things right; I lack a cleverness for bullshitting. Yet these traits, from which I had previously derived strength, became the source of my immense heartbreak.

I did extra work in my demonstration garden only to find out later that agriculture agents resented me for it. I had lengthy, optimistic conversations with a village chief about starting a community garden only to discover that I misread his reaction and that he was, in fact, against the whole endeavor.

When a project faltered, I wondered if I should blame the cultural difference or my language skills, my lack of expertise or my accidental impropriety. I never knew for sure.

And yet, seeing my confidence unravel was helpful. Maybe everyone needs a period in their lives when they barely recognize themselves.

The story that Peace Corps volunteers like to tell -- and Americans like to hear -- is one of urgent and awe-inspiring work. Americans like to feel that at least someone is out there fighting all those incomprehensible African problems.

This narrative is too simplistic.

As the Peace Corps celebrates its 50th anniversary, some still find it hard to put a finger on what exactly the program achieves. There are both quantifiable yields, like number of wells dug and trees planted, and unquantifiable gains, like the intimate bonds volunteers make with people all over the world.

One benefit of the program that is never trumpeted (and likely never will be) is that it produces a group of young Americans who understand failure.

Americans, especially the variety who join the Peace Corps, are raised to believe that hard work pays off. We come from a place where the phrase, "We'll meet tomorrow at 5," means, "We'll meet tomorrow at 5" -- where you put a stamp on an envelope and it gets delivered.




"Failure is not an option," according to the locker room poster likely brought to us by the same people who birthed "Impossible is Nothing." Americans are immature when it comes to honestly accepting failure and maybe that's why so many of us lack the emotional depth to make sense of it.

We all have failures, yet we bury them in the folds of our pasts as curious gaps in our résumés and cryptic replies to direct questions. If we are unable to emerge triumphant, our failures eat away at us.

My Senegalese comrades are less brittle. They admit freely that their lives are full of fiascoes, delays and disappointments.

When I asked locals in Pulaar how work was going, I didn't often hear: "Oh, just fine!" Instead, the response was a more honest, "I'm trying, little by little." It seems to me that growing up with unpredictability has better equipped the Senegalese people to persevere in the face of real obstacles.

The same barriers Senegalese people manage to climb over regularly ended some of my projects. When I tried obtaining a grant for a women's farm, the land rights had to first be legally transferred to the women themselves. While the paperwork lingered in a government office, I foolishly kept preparing for the project that would never be, blocking off months in my calendar that I would devote to it. Meanwhile, the women moved on, continuing their own, smaller version of the farm they wanted. They knew not to rest their hopes in government offices and the men who shuffle within them.

I don't mean to give the impression that Peace Corps volunteers don't accomplish anything. We do a lot of the things other aid organizations do, but our version is less grandiose: We hold small-group trainings on childhood nutrition and organic pest control. We help small businesses grow, often through a series of one-on-one interactions. Our hyped-up expectations of success are often quashed--we learn quickly that smaller is better.

I survived two years in the Peace Corps. My proudest accomplishment during my time in Senegal, one that can't be expressed on a résumé, is how much I grew up.

I now know that no occupation, despite my generation's obsession with passion-following, is without compromise or disappointment. And I know that failure, despite its negative connotations, takes practice.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.952640 2011-09-07T15:07:49-04:00 2011-11-07T05:12:02-05:00

Maya Lau http://www.huffingtonpost.com/maya-lau/
In coastal cities like Mbour and Ziguinchor, male prostitution is common. I have observed as older white European women embrace young, athletic Senegalese men for company, and I presume, for sex. In Mbour, I've seen the men exercise on the beach, flexing muscles: auditioning. They later approach female tourists, who take their pick. Some men, after their workouts, have traipsed up to me as I'm reclining on the sand, hoping I might be interested. Perhaps it's clear after I respond to them in a local language that I'm not a tourist with money to spend.

Inland, where I live, female sex work is more common. The main hotel in Kolda, a leafy oasis with a pool, a sports bar, a restaurant, and wireless internet, is the hang-out for European men and their Senegalese "girlfriends."

These men spend their days in the bush outside Kolda somewhere, being driven around in 4WDs, walking through the forest in their camouflage-print outfits, shooting at game. On days when I use the internet at the hotel, I see them arrive in the evening with their Senegalese guides trailing them in matching camo gear dragging their furry catch. If these men wanted to hunt, they would have headed to East or Southern Africa. Here they settle for warthogs, squirrels and pigeons.

By night, the Europeans sit at long dinner tables by the pool, each of their arms slung around young Senegalese women. It's like they are all on a singles retreat or at a swingers' party. Everyone canoodles with everyone else.

There seems to be a lot of pretending going on. The Senegalese women pretend to be girlfriends, spending time with the men, talking, laughing and sleeping with them. While I've never seen money change hands, the monetized nature of these relationships is something everyone talks about. A woman my age who I teach English to after her shifts as the hotel hostess says she's embarrassed to sometimes be confused with the other young women who hang out there as prostitutes.

Perhaps there are deeper romantic connections I'm unaware of between the European men and their Senegalese paramours, but given the attractiveness of these women, I doubt that overweight, middle-aged men from the South of France would be their ideal mates if it weren't for the monetary and immigration issues at play.

Some say that this is a harmless win-win for everyone. Senegal's HIV/AIDS rate, at 1%, is one of the lowest in Africa. Locals I talk to about it seem ambivalent: they seem quietly disgusted by sex tourism, but then shrug it off, unable to come up with a more viable financial alternative.
There is also the argument, propounded by some economists, that African women who choose to engage in sex work are making an extremely rational economic decision, one that could improve their lives in real ways.

All that aside, I still can't help but be sickened by the obvious power differential between an affluent Westerner making a kept woman or a kept man out of a Senegalese local. I have a visceral reaction to this form of inequality. Sex tourism, with its explicit racial components, seems like colonialism of the most intimate and worst kind. ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.926391 2011-08-14T08:03:05-04:00 2011-10-14T05:12:01-04:00

Maya Lau http://www.huffingtonpost.com/maya-lau/
When Ramadan arrives, there is a seriousness to everything.

Many Peace Corps volunteers dread Ramadan and plan vacations to escape it. For those who live in villages, Ramadan can be especially rough: There is less food than usual, our work projects slow down and the people in our communities become tired, thirsty and harder to collaborate with. Everything is on hold.




I decided this year I wouldn't do the dance of seeing whether I could fast like everyone else. This is the fourth Ramadan I've experienced while living in Muslim countries (one in Morocco, three in Senegal). I usually fast for at least a few days.

That was when I was playing at integration: fasting for the entirety of Ramadan, dating a Moroccan guy and doodling Arabic in my notebooks. I loved haggling endlessly in the markets, drinking ultra-sweet tea, and doing things that made me feel like I fit in.

Ultimately, no one is asking me to be --or pretend to be -- Senegalese. I'm not Muslim, and no one is hoping I'll become a religious convert. The experience of fasting made me more understanding of Ramadan's meaning and more respectful of the dedication it requires. But of the things I've learned, one of the most important is knowing when to stop proving yourself to others, and most of all, to yourself.

The anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss said that in an encounter between two cultures, you have to find the right distance in order to really get to know each other. There is wisdom in that.





For any type of traveler in a Muslim country during Ramadan, it can be hard to experience things normally. Businesses are closed or have unpredictable hours, making breakfast and lunch hard to find. People expect modesty, so engaging in vacation behavior like tanning on the beach is tricky.

The best way to participate in Ramadan as a non-Muslim is to restrict yourself from eating or drinking publicly during the day. You feel how challenging it is to ride a bike uphill or take an all-day dusty car ride with locals when you can't sneak even a sip of water. You may feel, even if artificially, the sense of community during Ramadan, of everyone around you sharing the same physical torment. Later, in the safety of your hotel room, you can scarf down a few Clif bars and realize what a fortunate experience it is to eat.

An outsider is bound to notice the distinctness of Ramadan--its odd schedule, the special foods eaten, the way it's the subject on everyone's lips--and walk away with this memory from their travels.

I'll spend the rest of the month hiding my eating habits. I'll be crouched on the floor of my hut, cracking open cans with my Swiss Army knife for my one-woman lunch. I'll be at the 9 p.m. dinner bowl for the odd ones out: the kids who are too young to fast, the menstruating, the ill, and me. Maybe that puts me at the right distance.
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.917671 2011-08-03T16:48:18-04:00 2011-10-03T05:12:01-04:00

Maya Lau http://www.huffingtonpost.com/maya-lau/
Senegalese people already think I'm wacky, so I waste less time caring about others' opinions of me. I can't always communicate, so I spend more hours just thinking. People stare at me, so I stare at them.

In my de-facto role as an observer, I have become fascinated with the style choices I see on the street. On one end of the spectrum, there are older women, who by loyalty to convention or lack of economic freedom wear head-to-toe complets and matching head scarves. This satisfies a stereotypical vision of traditional West African attire: sculptural head wraps, quirky patterns (Obama's face, a severed finger), and unapologetically loud colors.

On the other end of the spectrum, there are those who are more experimental with their fashion. Men tend to do this more, often because they are granted more social freedom and have more disposable income. They wear bold hats or provocative t-shirts, at times looking silly; at other times, avant-garde. I live for the sight of elderly men ready for Friday mosque, in long robes and Moroccan fez hats, clutching prayer beads and looking utterly conservative, yet who with one touch--classic round sunglasses--are chic. Whether wearing $2 plastic jellies or a woman's velour sweater, it's one's confidence that lends to one's swagger.

For nearly two years, I found myself dying to take portraits of all the stylish people I saw around town. The problem was, taking pictures of strangers in Senegal is a sensitive act; I've been berated in the market for snapping a shot of fish lying on the ground. With time, I gained a better feel for people and learned that photo opportunities come of informal conversations and asking for consent, not of claiming other people's images at the slightest touristic urge.



After I started shooting, a friend pointed me in the direction of the guerilla-style fashion site Accidental Chinese Hipsters. On it, contributors post photos (often taken furtively) of Chinese people wearing outfits that at first glance seem awkward, yet upon further reflection could be construed as hipster. It dawned on me that maybe what transfixed me about Senegalese men's style was a certain fuck-you attitude toward clothing, a can't-put-your-finger-on-it othernethat conveys humor and that people might aptly describe with the overused term, "hipster."

Thus, my fixation on the accidental hipsters of Senegal, the people who wear the detachable hoods of ski jackets as hats and who zero-in on t-shirts with wolf illustrations in the thrift markets. Their look is refreshing because it's not over-calculated--they just like what they like. One of my favorite outfits was a woman's complet with a retro floral design and gold zippers. I couldn't get her picture; she was on the back of a moto, speeding fast ahead.

The fashion I'm witnessing is the result of a shift taking place in Senegalese style. Much of it is due to the global used clothing industry. According to the Office of the U.S. Trade Representative, used clothing was the 5th largest import to Senegal from the U.S., clocking in at $7 million as of 2009, the date of the most recent data.

Used clothing is shipped to Senegal and many other African countries by middlemen who specialize in sorting and exporting clothing bought by the ton from places like the Salvation Army. It winds up in the fookijaay in every market in Senegal. Fookijaay, the Wolof word for "thift market," literally means "shake out" and "sell."

Snippets of Americana, stamped on t-shirts and paraded as everyday fashion, are part of the landscape. As I bike around, I see "Bacon Eating Championship 2005," and "I'm a Jesus Freak" advertised unwittingly by Kolda's Muslim, non-English speaking crowds. I see men wearing "Real Women Have Curves" or "Glenview High Ladies Ice Skating Team" t-shirts. They exhibit cultural dissonance, and they own it.

Many point out, however, that the global used clothing industry is destroying local textile production all across Africa. Some mourn the trend away from people taking pride in beautiful local fabrics and toward an approximation of Western style. I admit I'd be dismayed to see my tailor go out of business if traditional fabric disappeared and American hand-me-downs took over entirely.

But for now, witnessing the negotiation of Western thrift and old-school African style is what is fascinating. It's clear that Senegalese people love the thrill of injecting artifacts of foreign clothing into their wardrobes. They love being the only one out of their friends to have a certain bag or a specific shape of dress. They do this without apology, and thus, panache. I think they're onto something.


]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.917672 2011-08-03T16:48:18-04:00 2011-10-03T05:12:01-04:00

Maya Lau http://www.huffingtonpost.com/maya-lau/
Senegalese people already think I'm wacky, so I waste less time caring about others' opinions of me. I can't always communicate, so I spend more hours just thinking. People stare at me, so I stare at them.

In my de-facto role as an observer, I have become fascinated with the style choices I see on the street. On one end of the spectrum, there are older women, who by loyalty to convention or lack of economic freedom wear head-to-toe complets and matching head scarves. This satisfies a stereotypical vision of traditional West African attire: sculptural head wraps, quirky patterns (Obama's face, a severed finger), and unapologetically loud colors.

On the other end of the spectrum, there are those who are more experimental with their fashion. Men tend to do this more, often because they are granted more social freedom and have more disposable income. They wear bold hats or provocative t-shirts, at times looking silly; at other times, avant-garde. I live for the sight of elderly men ready for Friday mosque, in long robes and Moroccan fez hats, clutching prayer beads and looking utterly conservative, yet who with one touch--classic round sunglasses--are chic. Whether wearing $2 plastic jellies or a woman's velour sweater, it's one's confidence that lends to one's swagger.

For nearly two years, I found myself dying to take portraits of all the stylish people I saw around town. The problem was, taking pictures of strangers in Senegal is a sensitive act; I've been berated in the market for snapping a shot of fish lying on the ground. With time, I gained a better feel for people and learned that photo opportunities come of informal conversations and asking for consent, not of claiming other people's images at the slightest touristic urge.



After I started shooting, a friend pointed me in the direction of the guerilla-style fashion site Accidental Chinese Hipsters. On it, contributors post photos (often taken furtively) of Chinese people wearing outfits that at first glance seem awkward, yet upon further reflection could be construed as hipster. It dawned on me that maybe what transfixed me about Senegalese men's style was a certain fuck-you attitude toward clothing, a can't-put-your-finger-on-it otherness that conveys humor and that people might aptly describe with the overused term, "hipster."

Thus, my fixation on the accidental hipsters of Senegal, the people who wear the detachable hoods of ski jackets as hats and who zero-in on t-shirts with wolf illustrations in the thrift markets. Their look is refreshing because it's not over-calculated--they just like what they like. One of my favorite outfits was a woman's complet with a retro floral design and gold zippers. I couldn't get her picture; she was on the back of a moto, speeding fast ahead.

The fashion I'm witnessing is the result of a shift taking place in Senegalese style. Much of it is due to the global used clothing industry. According to the Office of the U.S. Trade Representative, used clothing was the 5th largest import to Senegal from the U.S., clocking in at $7 million as of 2009, the date of the most recent data.

Used clothing is shipped to Senegal and many other African countries by middlemen who specialize in sorting and exporting clothing bought by the ton from places like the Salvation Army. It winds up in the fookijaay in every market in Senegal. Fookijaay, the Wolof word for "thift market," literally means "shake out" and "sell."

Snippets of Americana, stamped on t-shirts and paraded as everyday fashion, are part of the landscape. As I bike around, I see "Bacon Eating Championship 2005," and "I'm a Jesus Freak" advertised unwittingly by Kolda's Muslim, non-English speaking crowds. I see men wearing "Real Women Have Curves" or "Glenview High Ladies Ice Skating Team" t-shirts. They exhibit cultural dissonance, and they own it.

Many point out, however, that the global used clothing industry is destroying local textile production all across Africa. Some mourn the trend away from people taking pride in beautiful local fabrics and toward an approximation of Western style. I admit I'd be dismayed to see my tailor go out of business if traditional fabric disappeared and American hand-me-downs took over entirely.

But for now, witnessing the negotiation of Western thrift and old-school African style is what is fascinating. It's clear that Senegalese people love the thrill of injecting artifacts of foreign clothing into their wardrobes. They love being the only one out of their friends to have a certain bag or a specific shape of dress. They do this without apology, and thus, panache. I think they're onto something.


]]>