It’s one thing to bring us to the table, it’s a whole other thing to keep us sitting. So I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Senator Obama: we like our money, but we think our opinions are much more valuable.

This is a problem facing campaigns: making the supporter (and the donor, for that matter) feel engaged in what’s going on with the campaign day to day. It’s not enough anymore just to donate money, we want to have a say in what’s going on. Everyone has their own opinion on what a campaign should be talking about, who they should be targeting, and what issues they should focus on—everyone has their own vision. But, it’s hard to incorporate millions of visions into one presidential campaign—we can’t all be on the strategy committee!

So I propose a new approach to fundraising, an “open-source” approach—fundraising 2.0, if you will. Open source is when programmers release their programming code to the public so that anyone can improve and expand upon it. It’s not just for programming; the business community is pouncing on the idea of “open-source” business models. And so I ask—why not politics, as well?

What would this look like? Obviously, David Plouffe can’t release his strategy online and simply ask for comments—what a disaster that would be! Instead, here’s a simple idea: the Obama campaign can take all of their television ads and put them on a special section of their website (there’s no harm in this, you can already see all of them on Youtube anyways). Then, they can point their supporters to this page and ask them to watch the ads and rate them. When they see an ad which really speaks to them, or is particularly good at finessing a point, supporters will have the opportunity to directly fund airtime for that ad. In doing this, the Obama campaign can turn their website into a focus group of sorts. Except the beauty of this focus group is that the campaign doesn’t have to pay them; in fact, quite the opposite—they pay you!

Simply sending e-mails asking for money is an antiquated approach to fundraising, and it does nothing to address this engagement problem. Open-source fundraising engages the supporter without confusing the message. The Obama campaign still controls what gets voted on, they’re ultimately deciding where the spots are played, but they’re opening up the decision process on which ads get the most airtime to those who are actually voting on November 4^th. It’s sometimes hard to know what will resonate the best with the voter, especially when you’ve been working in a campaign bubble for the last 18 months; this system quickly tells you which ads you were right about, and more importantly, which ones you were wrong with.

I certainly know I would donate money this way. And I’m willing to bet I’m not alone…

   We started our Wolof classes last week. For those of you that don’t know, Wolof is the native language for most of Senegal; French is the language taught in schools and spoken by the government but Wolof is what they speak on the street (n erryting I kno I learnt on da sTrEeT, bitch, so I best be learnin’ me sum-a dat Wolof shit too). It sounds like a combination of French and Arabic except for the fact that it’s nothing like a western language in grammar or roots (wow that sounded incredibly nerdy, I guess I just invalidated everything I said about da sTrEeT in the sentence before. Whatever, I had you going for a little bit, right? No? The festive street grammar didn’t even have you going? Am I really that white? Did I really just use festive to describe street grammar?). A nice part about it is that they only have numbers up to 5 and then they start over by going five-one, fiv

Meet Mel and his Senegalese friend Tafaa (teaching tools used to help illuminate the world of Wolof). As if the racial divide weren't already completely evident, the comically painted characters only serve to heighten the divide. Seriously--yellow hair and white skin? OK...

e-two, etc. I guess in Africa they only needed to count to five? It does pose problems when you want to say, for instance, 68, which translated directly sounds like five-one-ten-five-two. If you were following, that is five plus one times ten plus five plus two—67!!! Go Wolof!!! On that same note, they were also optimistic enough not to make a word for zero because the chalice is always half full in Senegal. Here’s a little sampling for you to enjoy:

 

 

            Laayila. Toubab bi degg na Wolof. Alhamdulillay. Translated that means “My Lord. This white person speaks Wolof! Amen!” We haven’t established if Toubab is a derogatory name for white people here but everyone uses it (OK, say it over and over again in your brain. Toubab Toubab Toubab “too-bob” because I’m planning on bringing it back to the states with me. So when you hear someone say “Me and my Toubabs were walking down the street” just remember that you have Christopher Katsaros to thank for that. You’re welcome, in advance). That last part of the phrase, Alhamdulillay, is my favorite word. I bust it out at inappropriate times because Africa really calls for an Amen every once and a while (like when things work). It’s also written on all the busses here which, judging by the ragity look of these buses, it really is a testament to God that they actually still work, hence the Amen. Praise be to Jesus. Or Muhammad. Or Budda. We’re really all-welcoming here in Africa.

Dear Africa,

We’re sorry about thick denim, non-breathable flannel and just plain stiff polyester—it’s simply much too hot here for that. You were right, clearly the loincloth was a much better idea. In the future, we’ll try to be more vigilant of your climatic needs when imposing our culture on the rest of the world. In the meantime, try to stay in the shade!

Friends ‘till the end,

The good ‘ol US of A

P.S.: Colonialism wasn’t such a good idea either, but you’ll have to call Europe for that one. I know, tell me about it, they did the saaaame thing to us!

What happens in here stays in here.

Tuesday, September 5^th, 2006:

As previously promised, here’s the story behind the left hand policy. In Senegal, you never do anything with your left hand. This part is a tad graphic, but useful for anyone traveling in West Africa. If you want you can skip to the next entry but you’ll always be wondering what really is the story behind the left hand policy and you know that eventually you’ll end up reading. But I did warn you. And then I taunted you. So ha!

In one of our classes we were making this special type of tea and as I was pouring it into the cups, I accidentally used my left hand, a very big faux-pas in Africa.

 “Chris, don’t use your left hand” said our teacher.

“belieeeeve me, don’t worry about it, hun.”

            For those of you that saw the last e-mail’s picture of the fish, I’d like you to know that I have since eaten that fish and it is actually really good (you just have to get past their faces looking at you, Peppridge Farm really needs to see this “snack that smiles back, goldfish”). On the whole I’m actually really satisfied with the food, which I’m proud of because I was afraid I wouldn’t try anything, which hasn’t been the case. One night we had a sketchy meal but luckily the power was out so I couldn’t see what I was eating. It’s nothing like I’d normally eat, there’s a lot of fish and sauces and rice. Actually that’s pretty much exclusively what they eat here, it’s hard to cover all the bases (which posed a few problems when I first got here, if you know what I mean—yeah I just went there, but what are you going to do about it). In fact, I’d say that Senegal is every Atkins-dieter’s worst nightmare—the carbs are just inescapable (luckily I’m not on any sort of diet. Except for the African diet. I’ll tell you how that works out…). A few of the girls in the other programs are vegetarians—I pity the souls. African people really don’t understand the concept of vegetarian-ism.

“Wait like there’s food in front of you but you don’t want to eat it?”

“Yeah.”

“And this is a life choice you made because…”

“I just don’t eat meat.”

“Oh, that’s ok. There’s barely any in here and only a little in the sauce so you’re fine.

“No you don’t get it. No meat. At all.”

“But there are starving children in Africa.”

“Yeah, I know. Here I am, now feed me.”

The first meal I had with the family I went straight for the lettuce and they looked at me a bit confused and asked if I was a vegetarian. “No, I just haven’t eaten anything green in a really, really long time!” I mean, it wasn’t just out of personal preference that I was hogging the vegetables—I was satisfying my digestive needs as well. But like for instance the day after we were served that “friendly” looking fish our family had fries, a salad, chicken and mashed potatoes so it’s really not that bad.

I think the only weird thing about dinner is how we eat it. We all sit on the floor in the kitchen huddled around this bowl and eat directly out of that. Luckily they let me use a fork, but they don’t always. When I stop eating and take a moment to look up and around me it feels very—what’s the word I’m trying to think of—tribal. Especially considering at my very first meal with my family the sister/maid/cook/mother (I’m not sure at this point) was clad in a sarong and braw: c’est l’Afrique, non?

So anyways, lots of people want to know about my host family. I know what you guys are all thinking so I’ll just clear it up right now, are they black? Umm yeah DUH. I’m in Africa not Scandinavia. OK, so I’ll continue on with the description, but keep in mind that I’m not exactly sure about any of the following details regarding my family for the following reasons. First of all, you’re never supposed to ask a Senegalese person how many children they have: they are superstitious and they feel that if they answer something bad will happen to one of them (in which case the person who asked is a demon and cast out of society—so I’m not about to ask). Instead they answer something like “a few” or “enough” as to not give a number—haha a convenient response for some people. Another thing, as I mentioned earlier, is that there is an open door policy here that is used and abused. There are always a lot of kids around and I don’t know who’s who. Also I’m pretty sure one of them is the maid/nanny because although she eats with us she also asks me for my laundry and does the dishes. Oh yeah, we definitely have a morning maid too which is awkward because I always try and talk to her but she looks down instead. (I don’t think she likes me, which is confirmed by the fact that every morning when I’m taking a shower she always uses the courtyard faucet to get water to mop the floors when clearly she knows that the courtyard faucet comes before my shower on the water line. Which means I’ll just be standing there forever waiting for her to finish so I can have a dribbling of water to wash off the soap. I mean, hello, it’s bad enough it’s only cold water but to add insult to injury it’s not even consistent. Is a 5 minute steady stream of cold water really too much to ask for, Africa?)

My skateboard was the only way to get accepted into the society.

“Here. I made you a present. From scratch.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have!”

“Don’t worry about it, it was practically nothing.”

“Oh. It’s a baby.”

“I know! Don’t you love it! I have one in every color.”

“Thanks. I guess.”

            In terms of like social status, my family is pretty well off. They have Xbox (I know, right?), and, get this, they have DSL!!! I almost creamed myself when I found that out. And as I said earlier, they also have two maids (Or at least like one and a half, I’m not totally sure. All I know is my clothes get cleaned every week. Except I have to hand wash my underwear myself because it’s inappropriate for someone else to clean that for you here. But ok like how do you hand wash something?? I’m really good at throwing stuff in the washing machine but that goes with the premise that there is a washing machine. And there isn’t. Luckily I brought a large collection of boxers). But like at the same time we don’t have hot water (it’s so hot that they don’t need it or at least that’s what they’re telling themselves in the morning when cold water is dribbling down their bodies) and my bathroom has a Turkish Toilet rather than a regular one (for those of you that don’t know, a Turkish toilet is a hole in the ground).

That’s kind of the way this country works, just when you’re about to make a judgment they send you a curve ball. It’s like how you’ll be crossing the street one day and you’ll almost get hit by a taxi that’s all rusty which is just scrapping along the ground and then the next time you’ll look up and it’ll be a BMW X5 or a Porsche Cayenne that’s about to hit you. Either way it’s Africa and it’s headed right at you and there’s nothing you can do so don’t ask questions—that’s been my mentality, if you spend too much time analyzing stuff here your brain starts to hurt because nothing really makes sense. And plus it’s too hot to think. Duh.

            We moved in with our host families yesterday. The house is actually a lot better than I was expecting, it’s not too far from something you’d find in America (except I’m going to have to put a big asterisks next to that statement because there are a few major characteristics about it that you would absolutely NOT find in America). I feel like if it were in the Middle East you’d call it a “compound” but it’s not it’s in Africa so we’ll call it, umm, big. Really big. It has three levels (I know, that’s a lot of levels) which all open onto a main courtyard which has a mango tree and a fountain. Cute image, right? Me, basking in the courtyard eating my mango and lounging next to the fountain—so Africa. My room is right off that courtyard. The top level only has one room (my host brother’s—his name is Moussa and I hang out with him the most, more on that later) so the rest of it is this really cool tile terrace. It’s one of the taller buildings in this area so the terrace has a really nice view of Dakar. The best part about the terrace though is that there is actually a really nice breeze up there, and when the power goes out, the kids in my family sometimes bring cushions up there and sleep outside. It’s right next to this really big Mosque which functions as the main mosque for a large portion of Dakar so throughout the day and at night I can hear the call-to-prayers. The first night I slept here the power went out (obvi) at 2:30 in the morning and I couldn’t fall back to sleep. At 5AM there was the first call to prayer so I went up to the terrace to listen. It was amazing because I could hear a bunch of different mosques echoing in the distance, and on top of that, a lightning storm was lighting up Dakar. It was festive, one of those holy-shit-I’m-in-Africa moments.

But anyways, in the time beforehand I was just lying there in my bed for hours trying to ignore how hot I was. But the real problem was that I was extremely thirsty as well, but I had forgotten to ask where the filtered water was before I went to bed. All I could think about was water (incidentally the night before I dreamt about a sandwich and the night after I dreamt about a salad). By 4:30 I couldn’t take it anymore so I went to the fountain in the courtyard and thought, hmm, what’s the worse that could happen? I’m probably going to die from something or another while I’m here, so I drank a little bit from the fountain (ok it’s not like a fountain fountain that birds poop in it’s like one of this Turkish-styled, tile-mosaic water spouts where there’s a faucet coming out of the wall plus I had seen other people taking water from there, so whatever, right?). Well then today I was talking to my host brother, Moussa, who sorted a few things out for me:

“What’s with all the people coming in and out of the courtyard.”

“My father used to be the Imam,” Imam being the Muslim version of a priest. Incidentally does that make me the preacher’s son? Woah, I’m not sure how I feel about that, plus I think I’ve already crossed a few too many preacher’s-son boundaries and I might get excommunicated before I’m even, well, communicated? “So they’re coming to talk to him and pray.”

“oh yeah, cause they’re always using that fountain.”

“That’s because they’re cleaning off their ablutions before they pray.” Yeah, I drank the fucking holy water. Woops. Don’t tell Allah…

null

            OK, so there are two seasons in Senegal, the wet season and the dry season. It’s the wet season. I think they mean wet as in rain, but really it’s wet as in that’s what you are ALL day cause it’s SOOOOO hot here. I personally enjoy being a walking bucket of sweat—it’s good for the pores. It’s kind of like the hottest grossest summer day at Georgetown multiplied by 10 with limited foliage cover and pretty much no AC. Our classrooms have AC but as I said earlier, the power situation is a crap shoot and more often then not there is none. I brought the materials for a double popped collar but clearly I will never be sporting that here, it’s just too painfully hot to be fashionable (obvi I don’t actually mean that, I’ve got plenty of light and breathable v-neck tees to look good for a while. Thank God summer ’06 saw the onset of sueded cotton and lightweight linen or I don’t know what I’d be doing right now). And they teach you in science that deserts get cool at night. That’s bullshit, they don’t. Or I’d be asleep right now and not up writing this two page single spaced e-mail.

            OK, I think that’s probably enough for now. Sorry if I’ve bored you. The next e-mail is already in the works and it looks like it’s going to be reallllllly good. I’ll tell you why you never use your left hand in Senegal (it’s gross), my encounters with Wolof (the native language here that I’m studying in addition to French) and I’ll explain my first meal with my host family, and how two of my host sisters (I’m pretty sure there my sisters but to be honest I’m not quite sure who’s who’s child and what not) felt that knowing me two hours was enough of a buffer zone to wear their bras to dinner. Yeah. Until then!

-Chris

Oh yeah, internet access here is, well, third world, so if you’re going to reply, do so, but just remember that it takes like 2 minutes to load each new window so you better say more than just “it sounds like you’re having a good time” and tell me how YOUR life is going and it better be entertaining! Or else I will make my new African friends summon the Gods by using their clicking language to align against you. And you don’t want that to happen to you. Trust me, I knew someone who knew someone who it happened to and it did NOT turn out pretty.

Oh look! Those little shacks get HBO!

            Anyway, Cassablanca is a lot less glamorous than it sounds. We spent an hour walking along the coast trying to find a beach—there were only grimy shipping ports—but instead we found this huge amazing mosque. Yaa da da da blah blah blah it was nice. Mainly I was just hot and grumpy and really confused about where I was—not just geographically but in general, like have you ever opened your eyes and realized you’re staring at a Mosque in Morocco while you’re halfway between here and there and it’s really hot and you’ve been awake for the last 24 hours (ok clearly you haven’t had that exact feeling but you know what I mean, it was just completely random—but that’s how this trip seems to be headed, a string of random encounters tied together by awkward language barriers and strange customs).

Did I mention I was really hot??

In other news, racial segregation still exists in Africa (what?? no!!) or at least that’s what we’ve surmised thus far. On our flight from Morocco to Dakar the six of us were the only white people on the plane, which in and of itself is not evidence of racial inequality. But even though we all had booked our flights at different times, for some reason, they had us all sitting together and we were all in the first two rows of the plane. It was only mildly uncomfortable as we sat there in the front row, forced to subdue to a litany of disapproving mugs as people walked by.

“Don’t blame me. Blame Monica at the check-in counter at JFK. She’s the one who still subscribes to apartheid.”

“Whatever, white boy. I’m surprised to see you decided to take off your pointy white hat for this trip. I’d just ask that you wait until after we get off the plane to burn your wooden cross. Tampering with lavatory smoke detectors is a federal offense, you know.” I’m pretty sure Rosa Parks was rolling over in her grave (may she rest in peace).