It's been quite a while since my last update and I apologize for that. My tablet is not very conducive to blog posting and since the Kolda house itself hasn't had internet in nearly 4 months, it makes doing anything on the internet a real chore. (Spoiler alert for 2013: I bought an internet key to use with the laptop I am bringing back from America. Conclusion: more blogposts and pictures) But I'm in Dakar now, waiting to leave for America and Christmas (YAY!!!) so I've got the time and the right kind of computer to easily update you all on a bit of my life since I last posted.
A lot has happened in the last 2 months. It's actually cold (by which I mean it is 70 degrees at night), my kitten, Talata, is actually a BOY (woops!), rainy season is long over replaced by wind, dust and the occasional overcast day. The frogs are still invading and the mosquitoes are still biting (though thankfully not as horribly as during hot/rainy season). Thanksgiving involved the killing and eating of three chickens and I baked an apple pie.
I also fainted for the first time in my life.
Strangest experience ever.
A few days before Thanksgiving I woke up in the middle of the night when my body decided to rid itself of some unpleasant food I had eaten the day before. I figure it was just one contaminated meal too many and my stomach just said, "ENOUGH!" and for twelve hours it made sure everything was gone. This also meant that I couldn't hold anything down except water and Gatorade. So while I did my best to remain hydrated, my blood sugar plummeted. Around 2 in the afternoon my counterpart came by my hut because we were going to start the baseline survey that day. (The sibling I had sent to tell her I was sick apparently decided not to go) As we talked about starting the next day and and when, I suddenly found myself seeing in black and white, fuzzy tunnel vision and my face went cold.
I've nearly passed out before, so I know the signs. I told her, "Fad am, mi walloyiima" (which means: wait for me I am going to lie down).
That's the last thing I remember before oddly waking up on the floor of my hut.
I felt pain first, in my elbow and hip before hearing my counterpart shouting my name and then opening my eyes. I don't have the slightest clue how long I was out, but I was lucky as hell that I took a step or two sideways because had I not, my head would have connected with my table and things would have been a whole lot worse. Anyway, I finally came to and the first thing I said was: "What happened?"
I know. Totally cliche. But that is what I said.
Disoriented and slightly nauseous I kind of rolled over and got myself to my knees while my host mother, a neighbor and my counterpart were all in my hut telling me I needed to go to the health post. There was also a crowd of my host siblings at my door.
So we can add serious embarrassment to the list of feelings.
After repeatedly refusing to go to the health post I appeased my host mom by agreeing to see my other counterpart, Aliou, who is a health worker. A sibling was dispatched and I (with the assistance of my lovely counterpart, Penda) crawled onto my bed. My whole body was shaking as Penda fanned me with my hand fan and asked if I was okay or if I needed anything. I really needed to eat something, but that just wasn't possible. My stomach didn't accept solid food.
Waiting for Aliou, I suddenly remembered I needed to report this to the Peace Corps med office, so I called up the doctor and told them what happened. "Drink rice water or eat some bread if you can," I was told. "And keep drinking gatorade or just eat a handful of sugar. You also need to take Cipro for the next 6 days." Rice water is disgusting and I needed to save my gatorade so I chose the sugar. Aliou arrived, took my blood pressure. I found the supply of Cipro that I was given way back during training. Only three days worth. So I asked Aliou to take me to Mampatime the next morning so I could go into Kolda where I could get the extra days worth.
Long story short (too late) I got into Kolda two days before I had intended for Thanksgiving and had the fun experience of everyone in my village knowing that I was super sick and that I fainted. The concept of 'small towns' has a whole new meaning when within just a few hours, literally every single person in your village knows you were sick, or that your cat hurt her leg or that you bought *fill in the blank* or that you are going to America for vacation.
But on the flip side, the people in my village were genuinely concerned about me when I did faint and they all wished me a trip of 'peace only' and to make sure I showed all my pictures to my family when I got there. I have also been instructed to teach Pulaar to my family. One of my brother's friends said it would be funny if all I did one day was speak Pulaar. "Alaa anglais. Pulaar tan." (No English. Pulaar only). I told him maybe.
No worries family. That won't be happening.
Movie night started in my compound nearly by accident. I showed a couple siblings Pixar's 'Presto' and they were so fascinated by my iPod they asked what other things were on it. Ended up watching 'Prince of Persia'. One thing led to another and more siblings heard about it so on another night I pulled out my tablet and we watched Prince of Persia again (not my choice) on the larger screen.
So now once a week we sit outside my hut and watch a movie.
I don't have karate movies - which is what they love and begged me for - but they've enjoyed the action movies that include people with special powers (The Mummy, Clash of the Titans, Wrath of the Titans, etc) and the younger kids enjoyed Shrek. It's all in English of course, but visual humor and lots of fighting action keep them entertained.
Love it this development.
My 'kitten' Talata (who I recently discovered is a boy - not my fault as all the other people in my village though he was a she) is now 2 1/2 months old and had quite the amusing delema when my other cat, Tennan, went into heat for the first time. Hormonal instinct has only barely begun to influence him and his attention was split between playing with Tennan's tail (which he thinks is a toy) and attempting to make a man of himself. I'll just say he failed at being a man and regret the fact that by the next time she's in heat it won't be so amusing.
On the work end: My baseline survey did get done and I went to two other volunteers' villages to help with a Moringa planting demonstration and health talk. I hope to be able to do the same thing in my own village in January. Finally got to meet the new middle school principle and we talked about a possible well at the school. He is very excited at the possibility and promised to try and find a well digger and get the price for all the materials and such. The president of the teacher's association (who is also a friend of mine) said he would help and when I call to greet him while I am in America he will keep me updated. If they can get everything together while I am gone I will go ahead and write for the grant. That way we can start work as soon as possible.
So that is a great bit of news for me.
Also talked to the English teacher at the middle school and he is excited about the prospect of perhaps doing a movie for the club once a month. He also asked if I could talk to some of the schools in my home town about some kind of cultural exchange like letters or even video letters. Get to know American schools, hear English spoken by native speakers and just break down some barriers. I personally think it is a great idea and so I took pictures of all the classes and the school itself to share with some teachers if I can meet them while I am at home.
Of course, later, he did ask for a more financial partnership between schools, to which I said - 'Possibly' - but the reality of schools in America, especially my own town's schools, and my own position as a Peace Corps volunteer makes all of that a bit difficult and slightly unrealistic. But a cultural partnership is totally possible and I'm really going to pursue that.
One last note on the title: Yes, I really did see my breath in the morning. Two mornings, to be exact. It feels so cold at night right now. Bucket baths are agony in the morning and I've started boiling water in the morning to try and warm things up. I've been sleeping in my sleeping bag and sweatshirt every night and welcoming my two cats into bed with me as two living hot water bottles. I fully admit that I didn't believe a word all the other volunteers said when they talked about cold season and being freezing at night.
I gladly eat my words.
It is cold.
Well, relatively speaking.
75 degrees may not seem cold to my fellow Washingtonians, but after 125 degrees, it's downright freezing.
I LOVE IT.
Cheers!
Christine
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Monday, October 22, 2012
Cats In Shade Structures
So I've been in my village for five months now and after all the dark/black cloud/depressing posts I think it is time to relate some funny stories and the more light hearted good things that do actually happen in my village. I'll start with a few things that I've accomplished since I've been in Badion.
1. I killed a snake. With a hammer.
2. Ate six fresh mangos in one afternoon
3. Finished two village wide surveys
4. Been cramped in the back seat of a car for 16 hours straight
5. Lost twenty pounds
So, the snake. That incident happened fairly early on, in the first five weeks. People here are deathly afraid of snakes. For good reason: Senegal has mambas, among other poisonous snakes, so freaking out at the sight of a snake is a good idea. Me, on the other hand, I did the dumbest thing possible: after finding this long, dark snake underneath my duffel bag I pulled it out by the tail.
Yeah. STUPID.
No clue what kind of snake it was, but after I dragged it out into the open of my hut it slithered away into the opposite corner. I figured I would just put it in a plastic bag and then take it out side and ask my family for a shovel to kill it. Using my hammer to try and just push it into the bag, it tried to bite the bag. I freaked a little and then smashed its head in with the hammer. Not a pretty sight and I got blood all over my floor.
Using the hammer I carried the snake outside to ask my family what I should do with it. My brother, Ibrihima say me first, jumped up with a shout and ran over to me. The older boys and the man who works with my family quickly took the hammer from me, dumped the snake on the ground, dug a hole and then pushed the snake into the hole and buried it. Ibrihima jumped on top of it for good measure and then - much to my humiliation - finished off with a nice 'F--- you!'. In English.
Yes, I accidentally taught him that in an early fit of rage after catching a younger brother spying on me through the bamboo fencing as I showered. Ibrihima knows enough English to understand the context of the use. Not exactly the kind of culture the Peace Corps had in mind when they told us to share America. Woops.
Anywho, the snake was dead and buried and I gained a ton of bravery props for killing it on my own. A couple months later I found out, truly, why everything I did on that day was the dumbest thing I could have ever done. A young girl was working in the rice fields in another nearby village. She was bitten by a snake. The actual hospital down in the city of Kolda did not have any antidote. She died the next day.
I freaked a little when I heard that because all I could think about was my own encounter with a snake. Will never grab a snake by the tail again.
Rainy season is pretty crazy. For a lot of reasons. When it rains, it POURS. One night it stormed and poured for over six hours. The next morning I went outside and a benoir that holds about 8 L of water was nearly full. Streets turn to raging rivers and the area between my hut and the rest of my family’s huts turns into a giant lake. And the storms themselves are spectacular. I’ve watched storms back in the US, but there is nothing compared to literally being under one, where you can see the lightening strike the ground or a dead black night is lit up like day as lightening crawls across the sky right above you. And the sound: I woke up from a dead sleep one night as lighting flashed across the sky. The roar shook my hut. Scared the crap out of me first but now I love it. Totally going to miss the rain over the next nine months.
Other reason why it is crazy is the animals. Mostly bugs, but right now, in the last month or so, we’ve been suffering the plague of frogs. They hop through my room, hid under my backpack and hang out behind my bed. First I thought it was kind of funny, especially since the Senegalese are also terrified of frogs. I’d show up behind one of my siblings, tap them on the shoulder and say ‘look what I found’ and they’d jump back in terror. It was hilarious. But now they are just a pain in the butt. Doesn’t help that my cats don’t bother to try and kill them. Tennan will paw at them but she doesn’t try and get them like she does lizards and birds.
As for bugs. Oh dear Lord. Mosquitoes, flies, giant millipedes, dragon flies, butterflies, spiders, moths, hornets, ants, beetles, stink bugs…you name it. Mosquitoes and flies are the worst by far, though. The former believes I am a moving buffet while the latter is just DISGUSTING. And there are all different kinds, all different sizes. There was a period of about two weeks when my room would just be full of them (or so it seemed) and the background was just a constant humming of flies. So, so, so disgusting.
A large population of birds also take up residence during the wet season. Huge vulture-like birds, small bright red birds, gorgeous blue tailed birds, tiny sparrow like birds and these super annoying yellow birds called (I believe) Village Weavers. They weave hanging nests in Mango trees and never shut up from dawn to dusk. I have a mango tree right next to my hut, so as soon as the sun rises they are chirping. Ear plugs or no ear plugs I hear them early in the morning. Who needs an alarm clock when you have annoying birds?
The kids in my family throw rocks at the trees to make them flock away in a panic. Only time I actually cheer them on. I’d love some peace and quiet.
My dislike for children has grown a ton since I got here (as the Lord of the Flies model is proved on a daily basis) but there are some really fun times of playing soccer, showing them weird dances and then rolling in laughter as they try and copy, letting them watch Presto – the Pixar short film that has no words and is thus perfect for international audiences – on my iPod and chasing after them in the compound for tickling, throwing them over my shoulder and spinning them around, or ‘stealing’ them and dumping them in the middle of a field. It is also fascinating to watch my youngest siblings – Alpha at about a year old and Jarta at just over a month – develop. The way they learn, how fast they grow, the discovery of their feet or how chairs can be pushed over and then pushed across the ground, it’s like I’m in a spontaneous study of child development in the third world. Best part is: the development and growth is the same. Certain milestones in a child’s development are universal. Teething, crawling, walking, discovery of motion and manipulating their own hands to get food or successfully hold on to a ball – every single one of these things is universal in normal mental/physical development. I love coming back to my village after being gone because Alpha has learned something new and my family is eager for the little guy to show it off to me.
I never had younger siblings, so being the ‘oldest’ in this family with 16 younger siblings is a whirlwind of crazy, frustrating, maddening and funny.
They are also very funny about my cats.
When I first got Tennan (I think she was a month or so old when I got her) they were all scared to death that she would rip them to shreds with her teeth and claws. Now that she is older and they are used to her, most of them love to play with her, having her chase strings and such. But when I got Talata, at the tender fluffy age of five days old, they were even more freaked out than they were about Tennan. At five days old, Talata didn’t really even have teeth, but they still thought she would bite them. They would run and shriek when she got near. The noise would scare Talata and she’d arch her back and hiss, scaring the kids even more.
I continually asked them, “Why are you scared of her? She is five days old and you are a big human. Why are you scared?” After many excuses – including scratching and biting nonsense – most of them have gotten over it and now play with her as well. One girl loves to get Talata straddled over her foot and then lift her foot. While the play often annoys both of my cats after a point, it is good practice for the kids. They are learning to be gentle (at least with my pets, no change in behavior towards other animals unfortunately) and they are also learning to curb some of the more irrational responses. Run away screaming from a five day old cat? That’s ridiculous. And they are fascinated when I feed her with an eyedropper. This kind of care of baby animals is not done. If the mother dies or abandons the babies, those babies die. Now they see it is possible to take care of a small animal. They also see the results of such care.
The other cats in the village – save for a precious few – hate, despise, and fear humans. They are kept around only for getting rid of pests and are not treated well at all. Which makes those cats lash out and scratch when they are approached by people. Hence the belief by these kids that my cats would scratch their eyes out. But Tennan is a pretty good mouser, she also goes after lizards, scorpions, flying bugs and spiders. And she loves to be scratched under her chin. She doesn’t run away from people when they approach and doesn’t scratch their eyes out when they try to pick her up. She does her work and isn’t a danger to anyone. Tennan is also a source of entertainment for the whole family. Chasing after birds, the rope on escaped goats (her claw got stuck once and she got dragged halfway down the compound. My host sisters and I were in tears we were laughing so hard). She also once climbed up onto the roof of one of the shade structures, somehow managed to get herself under the roof and stuck between two poles as she tried to figure out how to get down. We all laughed at her as she slumped across one of the poles and looked down at my host dad as if it to say, ‘okay, I give up. Stop laughing and get me down.’
I’d say this kind of lesson to the kids is an important one, and hopefully it will continue and perhaps pass on to the larger animals like goats, sheep and horses. I won’t hold my breath, but it is something I will continue to watch for.
Workwise, things are slow to the point of not moving. Without school in session I haven’t been able to do anything for the well at the middle school or fixing the well at the elementary school, but the teachers are back now so that should change once I get back. Rainy season is also pretty much dead season since everyone is busy in the fields so trying to do anything is nearly pointless. School means harvest and the end of most work for the people in my village, so things might be easier to set up. Our new baseline survey is really going to take up most of my time up until I leave for the US (Dec 18th BABY!!!) as it has to be translated, tested, tweaked and then out to the village as a whole, then the information needs to be compiled and submitted. So I’ll be busy with that. Hope to fit in the wells in between and also talk about how I can contribute to the English club at the middle school and where I might fit in at the Elementary school. The principal is one of my closest friends so hopefully I won’t encounter a lot of resistance from the teachers themselves on stuff.
So I hope this shows the lighter side of life for you. Tomorrow I will begin the trek back to Kolda. I’m cutting it close since Tabaski is on Friday and it won’t be easy to get transport the closer that day looms.
Wish me luck.
Christine
1. I killed a snake. With a hammer.
2. Ate six fresh mangos in one afternoon
3. Finished two village wide surveys
4. Been cramped in the back seat of a car for 16 hours straight
5. Lost twenty pounds
So, the snake. That incident happened fairly early on, in the first five weeks. People here are deathly afraid of snakes. For good reason: Senegal has mambas, among other poisonous snakes, so freaking out at the sight of a snake is a good idea. Me, on the other hand, I did the dumbest thing possible: after finding this long, dark snake underneath my duffel bag I pulled it out by the tail.
Yeah. STUPID.
No clue what kind of snake it was, but after I dragged it out into the open of my hut it slithered away into the opposite corner. I figured I would just put it in a plastic bag and then take it out side and ask my family for a shovel to kill it. Using my hammer to try and just push it into the bag, it tried to bite the bag. I freaked a little and then smashed its head in with the hammer. Not a pretty sight and I got blood all over my floor.
Using the hammer I carried the snake outside to ask my family what I should do with it. My brother, Ibrihima say me first, jumped up with a shout and ran over to me. The older boys and the man who works with my family quickly took the hammer from me, dumped the snake on the ground, dug a hole and then pushed the snake into the hole and buried it. Ibrihima jumped on top of it for good measure and then - much to my humiliation - finished off with a nice 'F--- you!'. In English.
Yes, I accidentally taught him that in an early fit of rage after catching a younger brother spying on me through the bamboo fencing as I showered. Ibrihima knows enough English to understand the context of the use. Not exactly the kind of culture the Peace Corps had in mind when they told us to share America. Woops.
Anywho, the snake was dead and buried and I gained a ton of bravery props for killing it on my own. A couple months later I found out, truly, why everything I did on that day was the dumbest thing I could have ever done. A young girl was working in the rice fields in another nearby village. She was bitten by a snake. The actual hospital down in the city of Kolda did not have any antidote. She died the next day.
I freaked a little when I heard that because all I could think about was my own encounter with a snake. Will never grab a snake by the tail again.
Rainy season is pretty crazy. For a lot of reasons. When it rains, it POURS. One night it stormed and poured for over six hours. The next morning I went outside and a benoir that holds about 8 L of water was nearly full. Streets turn to raging rivers and the area between my hut and the rest of my family’s huts turns into a giant lake. And the storms themselves are spectacular. I’ve watched storms back in the US, but there is nothing compared to literally being under one, where you can see the lightening strike the ground or a dead black night is lit up like day as lightening crawls across the sky right above you. And the sound: I woke up from a dead sleep one night as lighting flashed across the sky. The roar shook my hut. Scared the crap out of me first but now I love it. Totally going to miss the rain over the next nine months.
Other reason why it is crazy is the animals. Mostly bugs, but right now, in the last month or so, we’ve been suffering the plague of frogs. They hop through my room, hid under my backpack and hang out behind my bed. First I thought it was kind of funny, especially since the Senegalese are also terrified of frogs. I’d show up behind one of my siblings, tap them on the shoulder and say ‘look what I found’ and they’d jump back in terror. It was hilarious. But now they are just a pain in the butt. Doesn’t help that my cats don’t bother to try and kill them. Tennan will paw at them but she doesn’t try and get them like she does lizards and birds.
As for bugs. Oh dear Lord. Mosquitoes, flies, giant millipedes, dragon flies, butterflies, spiders, moths, hornets, ants, beetles, stink bugs…you name it. Mosquitoes and flies are the worst by far, though. The former believes I am a moving buffet while the latter is just DISGUSTING. And there are all different kinds, all different sizes. There was a period of about two weeks when my room would just be full of them (or so it seemed) and the background was just a constant humming of flies. So, so, so disgusting.
A large population of birds also take up residence during the wet season. Huge vulture-like birds, small bright red birds, gorgeous blue tailed birds, tiny sparrow like birds and these super annoying yellow birds called (I believe) Village Weavers. They weave hanging nests in Mango trees and never shut up from dawn to dusk. I have a mango tree right next to my hut, so as soon as the sun rises they are chirping. Ear plugs or no ear plugs I hear them early in the morning. Who needs an alarm clock when you have annoying birds?
The kids in my family throw rocks at the trees to make them flock away in a panic. Only time I actually cheer them on. I’d love some peace and quiet.
My dislike for children has grown a ton since I got here (as the Lord of the Flies model is proved on a daily basis) but there are some really fun times of playing soccer, showing them weird dances and then rolling in laughter as they try and copy, letting them watch Presto – the Pixar short film that has no words and is thus perfect for international audiences – on my iPod and chasing after them in the compound for tickling, throwing them over my shoulder and spinning them around, or ‘stealing’ them and dumping them in the middle of a field. It is also fascinating to watch my youngest siblings – Alpha at about a year old and Jarta at just over a month – develop. The way they learn, how fast they grow, the discovery of their feet or how chairs can be pushed over and then pushed across the ground, it’s like I’m in a spontaneous study of child development in the third world. Best part is: the development and growth is the same. Certain milestones in a child’s development are universal. Teething, crawling, walking, discovery of motion and manipulating their own hands to get food or successfully hold on to a ball – every single one of these things is universal in normal mental/physical development. I love coming back to my village after being gone because Alpha has learned something new and my family is eager for the little guy to show it off to me.
I never had younger siblings, so being the ‘oldest’ in this family with 16 younger siblings is a whirlwind of crazy, frustrating, maddening and funny.
They are also very funny about my cats.
When I first got Tennan (I think she was a month or so old when I got her) they were all scared to death that she would rip them to shreds with her teeth and claws. Now that she is older and they are used to her, most of them love to play with her, having her chase strings and such. But when I got Talata, at the tender fluffy age of five days old, they were even more freaked out than they were about Tennan. At five days old, Talata didn’t really even have teeth, but they still thought she would bite them. They would run and shriek when she got near. The noise would scare Talata and she’d arch her back and hiss, scaring the kids even more.
I continually asked them, “Why are you scared of her? She is five days old and you are a big human. Why are you scared?” After many excuses – including scratching and biting nonsense – most of them have gotten over it and now play with her as well. One girl loves to get Talata straddled over her foot and then lift her foot. While the play often annoys both of my cats after a point, it is good practice for the kids. They are learning to be gentle (at least with my pets, no change in behavior towards other animals unfortunately) and they are also learning to curb some of the more irrational responses. Run away screaming from a five day old cat? That’s ridiculous. And they are fascinated when I feed her with an eyedropper. This kind of care of baby animals is not done. If the mother dies or abandons the babies, those babies die. Now they see it is possible to take care of a small animal. They also see the results of such care.
The other cats in the village – save for a precious few – hate, despise, and fear humans. They are kept around only for getting rid of pests and are not treated well at all. Which makes those cats lash out and scratch when they are approached by people. Hence the belief by these kids that my cats would scratch their eyes out. But Tennan is a pretty good mouser, she also goes after lizards, scorpions, flying bugs and spiders. And she loves to be scratched under her chin. She doesn’t run away from people when they approach and doesn’t scratch their eyes out when they try to pick her up. She does her work and isn’t a danger to anyone. Tennan is also a source of entertainment for the whole family. Chasing after birds, the rope on escaped goats (her claw got stuck once and she got dragged halfway down the compound. My host sisters and I were in tears we were laughing so hard). She also once climbed up onto the roof of one of the shade structures, somehow managed to get herself under the roof and stuck between two poles as she tried to figure out how to get down. We all laughed at her as she slumped across one of the poles and looked down at my host dad as if it to say, ‘okay, I give up. Stop laughing and get me down.’
I’d say this kind of lesson to the kids is an important one, and hopefully it will continue and perhaps pass on to the larger animals like goats, sheep and horses. I won’t hold my breath, but it is something I will continue to watch for.
Workwise, things are slow to the point of not moving. Without school in session I haven’t been able to do anything for the well at the middle school or fixing the well at the elementary school, but the teachers are back now so that should change once I get back. Rainy season is also pretty much dead season since everyone is busy in the fields so trying to do anything is nearly pointless. School means harvest and the end of most work for the people in my village, so things might be easier to set up. Our new baseline survey is really going to take up most of my time up until I leave for the US (Dec 18th BABY!!!) as it has to be translated, tested, tweaked and then out to the village as a whole, then the information needs to be compiled and submitted. So I’ll be busy with that. Hope to fit in the wells in between and also talk about how I can contribute to the English club at the middle school and where I might fit in at the Elementary school. The principal is one of my closest friends so hopefully I won’t encounter a lot of resistance from the teachers themselves on stuff.
So I hope this shows the lighter side of life for you. Tomorrow I will begin the trek back to Kolda. I’m cutting it close since Tabaski is on Friday and it won’t be easy to get transport the closer that day looms.
Wish me luck.
Christine
Sunday, October 21, 2012
October
My original intent for this next post was to pour out some upbeat/funny stories to compensate for the dark gloom that has unfortunately dominated my last several posts. I remember doing an initial survey of people in my village, asking them what was good and bad about the village, and feeling a bit frustrated at how hard it was to get people to think and talk about what was actually good in Badion.
I really should take a long hard stare in the mirror, I told myself at the end of September, because there are a lot of good things/enjoyable things about living here.
And then October 1st came along and kind of blew that to hell.
On September 30th my younger sister, Kumba, at 16 years old (who was in Dakar for the equivalent of summer vacation), called my host dad to let him know that she'd be back on October 2nd. We were all really happy to hear this as she'd been gone since the end of June and everyone missed her, including me. The first five weeks of my stay in village was all the time I had to get to know her, but what I knew I loved. Feisty, smart with a great sense of humor (including towards herself) she remembered my off the cuff remark about how great it would be to have a cat for the mice that invaded my hut at night. Knowing she'd be gone by the time I got back from my fourth of July Kedougou outing she even made sure that my other siblings knew about it so I could have a cat when I got back. Which is why I now have Tennan, the crazy wacko cat that she is.
She was my friend. The only person who could braid my hair without making me want to cry from the pain. She was patient with my halting, horrible pulaar and helped me to learn how to laugh at my miserable language skills by laughing at her own ridiculous English. Five weeks - five extremely brief, culturally overwhelming weeks - that was all the time I knew her before we both went off for vacations.
The difference: she didn't make it back from hers.
On October 1st around noon my family was informed that Kumba had died in Dakar from some kind of stomach ailment. Here in Senegal - and most likely Africa in general - the 'stomach' is anything between the ribcage and groin. And for women it includes the uterus. With that in mind, it truly could have been any number of things. Malaria, unknown uterine cancer, burst appendix, etc. I have no idea if she had mentioned anything to her family about a hurt stomach or headaches or fever before this, so I can't even begin to guess at what happened. When someone asks about your health, the answer is either 'Jam tan' (peace only) or 'Aay, mino selli' (yes, I am healthy). Even between family members. Aside from a few elderly who take joy in detailing their ailments to anyone who asks, people just don't talk about being sick.
So Kumba may very well have not said a single word to her family even if she was in some kind of pain. Which made her death all the more shocking and horrifying.
Mourning, public mourning, is very different here in Senegal. There is a certain kind of shriek and wailing that happens when death occurs. It bores straight into your heart and there is no questioning what has happened. I tore open my curtain and found my neighbors and siblings running towards my host mother, Aisatou - who was Kumba's mother - wailing and crying. My host dad was just across the compound. He called to me and told me, "Kumba is dead." Even at a distance I could see his eyes were puffy and his voice was strained. I thought for a moment he meant his mother, who is named Kumba. "What?!" I shouted back in English. "Bobo [her nickname]. She is dead."
It still took a moment for my brain to process the reality. She was sixteen. Sixteen!! What the hell do you mean she is dead? I burst into tears, took a few steps back into my room and crumpled to the floor. It didn't matter that I'd only known her for five weeks. This girl was my friend. She was my sister. She was my family. And she was gone.
I thought, 'she must have been in a car accident'. These damn overnight buses turn over after drivers fall asleep too often to want to think about. Sept places are held together with duct tape and the roads are horrible. Drivers are totally insane. That must have been it. No less devastating, but nothing else could be possible.
A fantasy pushed away when my counterpart, who is Kumba's uncle, came into my room to check on me. He's the one who got the call because my host dad's phone is so awful it rarely can receive calls. I asked him what happened and he said, 'her stomach hurt.'
"Wonna wullu," he said [don't cry]. "Ce n'est pas grave." [It's not bad]
I just stared at him. He got another phone call and left. I started crying again. Not bad? Not bad? Was he insane?!
But this is how death is here. Yes there is wailing and grief and sadness. But only for a short period of time and then the mourning must end. Somewhere in the back of my mind I remembered how the elementary school teacher told me 'this is Africa' back in April. Well, it is the same thing for death. It is Africa. Life is hard. God wills it, another popular explanation for misfortune. I couldn't accept that. I couldn't not cry. My entire compound was filled with wailing women and children. I didn't join the masses but curled my legs up against my chest, wrapped my around around my knees and sobbed as I sat there on my plastic mat. Maybe I should have gone out so they knew I was distraught with them. But I couldn't. I sat there and cried while Tennan paced around me, rubbing her body against my legs and back, 'round and 'round.
Finally I got myself out and sat in front of my door. Two of my younger brothers came and sat next to me. The hut where my host mom, Aisatou, slept was surrounded by women from all over the village. In front my my host dad's hut, under the shade structure, my dad was surrounded by men from around the village.
Men are not allowed to cry. They do not wail. They do not shriek. They do not throw themselves on the ground in grief and despair. They are expected to be stoic, reserved, and the balance to the dramatic response of women and children. They give prayers and condolences and they sit in silent support while my dad visibly fought back tears as he tried to figure out what happened and what would happen next.
Then everyone went silent.
The time for over dramatic wailing was over. Silence, eerie, uncomfortable silence fell on the compound as though someone had hit the mute button. Kids were shushed if they talked or tried to play. Babies who cried instantly had their mouths full of their mother's breast to silence them. No one spoke.
This is how mourning is done. There is an appropriate interval of time for crying, then after that, you need to pull yourself together and move on with life.
Until my oldest brother showed up.
The entire compound erupted again when Ibrihima came home and found out about his sister. At fourteen, he and Kumba were more than just brother and sister, they were best friends. My heart broke all over again as he screamed, "It's not true. It's not true. She isn't dead!" over and over again. Several men had to practically carry him into another hut as he fought and struggled to get away from them. He sobbed into a straw stuffed mattress, muttering her name. I held his hand, doing my best not to start crying again as the men told him to stop crying and be a man.
The rest of the week went by in a blur of family members showing up from all over the south and Dakar. Chiefs from other villages came. Friends and women from surrounding villages came. Huge pots of rice and sauce were cooked by my other host moms and some village friends for all those that stayed. Thursday, Oct 4, was the actual funeral, though Kumba, as is proper in Islamic law, was actually buried in Dakar the same day she died. I put on my nice green shirt I had made in Thies and awkwardly sat outside for hours along side fifty other women dressed to the nines as they watched sixty some odd men pray and chant together under the shade structure.
There are no speeches. No flowers. Three hours of chants and prayers. Then it is done. I imagine it is different when the body is present, but I can't picture it to be much more than what I witnessed.
The entirety of October has been consumed by this. While my village and my younger siblings (and other two host mothers) have moved on quickly and rather easily, Kumba's parents have not. For a week Aisatou rarely left her hut. My host dad hasn't been sleeping well and complains of headaches. Mamadou Mballo of October is not the same man he was in the previous months I've known him. "I can't sleep," he told me before I left for Dakar. "My head won't stop hurting. Kumba is in my thoughts all the time. I can't concentrate." I asked when he would be able to go to Dakar to see her grave, as he mentioned this desire previously. "I don't know," he said. "It is so expensive to go and I don't have the money."
Thankfully that situation has changed. I spoke to him a few days ago while I was at the health summit in Thies and he said he would be able to go after Tabaski, the largest Islamic holiday, which is this coming Friday. I pray that being able to stand at her grave will help him emotionally and spiritually.
As of right now I am in Dakar. I was sick for a while in village just before leaving for Kolda. Could possibly be because I've lost so much weight in such a short amount of time (20 pounds and no signs of gaining it back soon), but most likely from the emotional roller coaster of the previous weeks. My cousin back in the states is currently fighting an extremely hard war with Leukemia and losing Kumba shoved my anxiety over her to the forefront of my mind. My cousin is barely 30 years old and this is her second fight.
I will never accept the phrase, "God wills it" on these sorts of things.
Found out I got strep in my leg from scratching all my bug bites so I've been on antibiotics and such for nearly a week now. The doc said I caught it early and things already look and feel so much better in my leg that I am hopeful at tomorrow's appointment she'll let me head back to my village.
A week ago today I came up to Dakar, then went to Thies on Wednesday for the health summit where all Health Volunteers (nearly 100 of us) stayed for two days of sessions on projects and found out about our new baseline survey we need to do. Then came back to Dakar Friday night since I have an appointment tomorrow.
I've eaten more pizza in the last week than in the last 7 months. So maybe I've gained some of that weight back.
Dakar is a strange place. Not quite the west, but certainly not Senegal, it is in between. There is a mall with an Apple store and Italien Gilatto ice cream. A movie theatre, fancy restaurants run by French ex-pats that make good food and lots of wireless Internet places. I had a fried chicken sandwich about a block from the presidential palace and have eaten loads of ice cream. It is going to be strange to leave and re-enter the reality of Senegal in the next few days.
On another note for October, I have a new kitten. She was five days old when I got her and I first I thought Tennan would kill her but now they are best buds. Talata is her name and she still has to be fed with an eyedropper. Tennan is her overprotective, rough housing older sister, though there are times when I think Talata believes Tennan is her mother. Right now my new community counterpart is taking care of the little blue eyed fluff ball that is Talata - who I also call squirmy because she squirms around so much when I try to feed her - while I'm gone. Her best chance of survival is with Penda (my counterpart), who is great with her and feeds her easily. So I hope she is still alive when I get back.
This is Africa after all, and anything can happen.
Watching the two cats play is a unique joy and cheer me up in the darkest times. And there is something to be said for falling asleep with a two week old kitten on your stomach. They are just so damn cute.
Hope to post my fun stories soon. Until then, cherish your family, tell them you love them and take a moment to look around your home and appreciate even the smallest convenience.
-Christine
I really should take a long hard stare in the mirror, I told myself at the end of September, because there are a lot of good things/enjoyable things about living here.
And then October 1st came along and kind of blew that to hell.
On September 30th my younger sister, Kumba, at 16 years old (who was in Dakar for the equivalent of summer vacation), called my host dad to let him know that she'd be back on October 2nd. We were all really happy to hear this as she'd been gone since the end of June and everyone missed her, including me. The first five weeks of my stay in village was all the time I had to get to know her, but what I knew I loved. Feisty, smart with a great sense of humor (including towards herself) she remembered my off the cuff remark about how great it would be to have a cat for the mice that invaded my hut at night. Knowing she'd be gone by the time I got back from my fourth of July Kedougou outing she even made sure that my other siblings knew about it so I could have a cat when I got back. Which is why I now have Tennan, the crazy wacko cat that she is.
She was my friend. The only person who could braid my hair without making me want to cry from the pain. She was patient with my halting, horrible pulaar and helped me to learn how to laugh at my miserable language skills by laughing at her own ridiculous English. Five weeks - five extremely brief, culturally overwhelming weeks - that was all the time I knew her before we both went off for vacations.
The difference: she didn't make it back from hers.
On October 1st around noon my family was informed that Kumba had died in Dakar from some kind of stomach ailment. Here in Senegal - and most likely Africa in general - the 'stomach' is anything between the ribcage and groin. And for women it includes the uterus. With that in mind, it truly could have been any number of things. Malaria, unknown uterine cancer, burst appendix, etc. I have no idea if she had mentioned anything to her family about a hurt stomach or headaches or fever before this, so I can't even begin to guess at what happened. When someone asks about your health, the answer is either 'Jam tan' (peace only) or 'Aay, mino selli' (yes, I am healthy). Even between family members. Aside from a few elderly who take joy in detailing their ailments to anyone who asks, people just don't talk about being sick.
So Kumba may very well have not said a single word to her family even if she was in some kind of pain. Which made her death all the more shocking and horrifying.
Mourning, public mourning, is very different here in Senegal. There is a certain kind of shriek and wailing that happens when death occurs. It bores straight into your heart and there is no questioning what has happened. I tore open my curtain and found my neighbors and siblings running towards my host mother, Aisatou - who was Kumba's mother - wailing and crying. My host dad was just across the compound. He called to me and told me, "Kumba is dead." Even at a distance I could see his eyes were puffy and his voice was strained. I thought for a moment he meant his mother, who is named Kumba. "What?!" I shouted back in English. "Bobo [her nickname]. She is dead."
It still took a moment for my brain to process the reality. She was sixteen. Sixteen!! What the hell do you mean she is dead? I burst into tears, took a few steps back into my room and crumpled to the floor. It didn't matter that I'd only known her for five weeks. This girl was my friend. She was my sister. She was my family. And she was gone.
I thought, 'she must have been in a car accident'. These damn overnight buses turn over after drivers fall asleep too often to want to think about. Sept places are held together with duct tape and the roads are horrible. Drivers are totally insane. That must have been it. No less devastating, but nothing else could be possible.
A fantasy pushed away when my counterpart, who is Kumba's uncle, came into my room to check on me. He's the one who got the call because my host dad's phone is so awful it rarely can receive calls. I asked him what happened and he said, 'her stomach hurt.'
"Wonna wullu," he said [don't cry]. "Ce n'est pas grave." [It's not bad]
I just stared at him. He got another phone call and left. I started crying again. Not bad? Not bad? Was he insane?!
But this is how death is here. Yes there is wailing and grief and sadness. But only for a short period of time and then the mourning must end. Somewhere in the back of my mind I remembered how the elementary school teacher told me 'this is Africa' back in April. Well, it is the same thing for death. It is Africa. Life is hard. God wills it, another popular explanation for misfortune. I couldn't accept that. I couldn't not cry. My entire compound was filled with wailing women and children. I didn't join the masses but curled my legs up against my chest, wrapped my around around my knees and sobbed as I sat there on my plastic mat. Maybe I should have gone out so they knew I was distraught with them. But I couldn't. I sat there and cried while Tennan paced around me, rubbing her body against my legs and back, 'round and 'round.
Finally I got myself out and sat in front of my door. Two of my younger brothers came and sat next to me. The hut where my host mom, Aisatou, slept was surrounded by women from all over the village. In front my my host dad's hut, under the shade structure, my dad was surrounded by men from around the village.
Men are not allowed to cry. They do not wail. They do not shriek. They do not throw themselves on the ground in grief and despair. They are expected to be stoic, reserved, and the balance to the dramatic response of women and children. They give prayers and condolences and they sit in silent support while my dad visibly fought back tears as he tried to figure out what happened and what would happen next.
Then everyone went silent.
The time for over dramatic wailing was over. Silence, eerie, uncomfortable silence fell on the compound as though someone had hit the mute button. Kids were shushed if they talked or tried to play. Babies who cried instantly had their mouths full of their mother's breast to silence them. No one spoke.
This is how mourning is done. There is an appropriate interval of time for crying, then after that, you need to pull yourself together and move on with life.
Until my oldest brother showed up.
The entire compound erupted again when Ibrihima came home and found out about his sister. At fourteen, he and Kumba were more than just brother and sister, they were best friends. My heart broke all over again as he screamed, "It's not true. It's not true. She isn't dead!" over and over again. Several men had to practically carry him into another hut as he fought and struggled to get away from them. He sobbed into a straw stuffed mattress, muttering her name. I held his hand, doing my best not to start crying again as the men told him to stop crying and be a man.
The rest of the week went by in a blur of family members showing up from all over the south and Dakar. Chiefs from other villages came. Friends and women from surrounding villages came. Huge pots of rice and sauce were cooked by my other host moms and some village friends for all those that stayed. Thursday, Oct 4, was the actual funeral, though Kumba, as is proper in Islamic law, was actually buried in Dakar the same day she died. I put on my nice green shirt I had made in Thies and awkwardly sat outside for hours along side fifty other women dressed to the nines as they watched sixty some odd men pray and chant together under the shade structure.
There are no speeches. No flowers. Three hours of chants and prayers. Then it is done. I imagine it is different when the body is present, but I can't picture it to be much more than what I witnessed.
The entirety of October has been consumed by this. While my village and my younger siblings (and other two host mothers) have moved on quickly and rather easily, Kumba's parents have not. For a week Aisatou rarely left her hut. My host dad hasn't been sleeping well and complains of headaches. Mamadou Mballo of October is not the same man he was in the previous months I've known him. "I can't sleep," he told me before I left for Dakar. "My head won't stop hurting. Kumba is in my thoughts all the time. I can't concentrate." I asked when he would be able to go to Dakar to see her grave, as he mentioned this desire previously. "I don't know," he said. "It is so expensive to go and I don't have the money."
Thankfully that situation has changed. I spoke to him a few days ago while I was at the health summit in Thies and he said he would be able to go after Tabaski, the largest Islamic holiday, which is this coming Friday. I pray that being able to stand at her grave will help him emotionally and spiritually.
As of right now I am in Dakar. I was sick for a while in village just before leaving for Kolda. Could possibly be because I've lost so much weight in such a short amount of time (20 pounds and no signs of gaining it back soon), but most likely from the emotional roller coaster of the previous weeks. My cousin back in the states is currently fighting an extremely hard war with Leukemia and losing Kumba shoved my anxiety over her to the forefront of my mind. My cousin is barely 30 years old and this is her second fight.
I will never accept the phrase, "God wills it" on these sorts of things.
Found out I got strep in my leg from scratching all my bug bites so I've been on antibiotics and such for nearly a week now. The doc said I caught it early and things already look and feel so much better in my leg that I am hopeful at tomorrow's appointment she'll let me head back to my village.
A week ago today I came up to Dakar, then went to Thies on Wednesday for the health summit where all Health Volunteers (nearly 100 of us) stayed for two days of sessions on projects and found out about our new baseline survey we need to do. Then came back to Dakar Friday night since I have an appointment tomorrow.
I've eaten more pizza in the last week than in the last 7 months. So maybe I've gained some of that weight back.
Dakar is a strange place. Not quite the west, but certainly not Senegal, it is in between. There is a mall with an Apple store and Italien Gilatto ice cream. A movie theatre, fancy restaurants run by French ex-pats that make good food and lots of wireless Internet places. I had a fried chicken sandwich about a block from the presidential palace and have eaten loads of ice cream. It is going to be strange to leave and re-enter the reality of Senegal in the next few days.
On another note for October, I have a new kitten. She was five days old when I got her and I first I thought Tennan would kill her but now they are best buds. Talata is her name and she still has to be fed with an eyedropper. Tennan is her overprotective, rough housing older sister, though there are times when I think Talata believes Tennan is her mother. Right now my new community counterpart is taking care of the little blue eyed fluff ball that is Talata - who I also call squirmy because she squirms around so much when I try to feed her - while I'm gone. Her best chance of survival is with Penda (my counterpart), who is great with her and feeds her easily. So I hope she is still alive when I get back.
This is Africa after all, and anything can happen.
Watching the two cats play is a unique joy and cheer me up in the darkest times. And there is something to be said for falling asleep with a two week old kitten on your stomach. They are just so damn cute.
Hope to post my fun stories soon. Until then, cherish your family, tell them you love them and take a moment to look around your home and appreciate even the smallest convenience.
-Christine
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Sometimes You Just Have To Shut The Door
Here is a small list of things I have noticed in the last three months at site:
Whites Can't Do Anything
"You are able to pull water?" "You can run?" "You can climb a tree?" "You can ride a horse?" "You can crack open a peanut shell?" "You can_______" Feel free to fill in the blank however you like. I am amazed sometimes that I haven't yet heard some person state with shock that I am able to breath. It is extremely annoying, frustrating and down right ridiculous. I know that people here (and around the world for that matter) are given the warped sense of what white people and Americans in particukar are like (Rambo movies, Vampire Diaries, soap operas and othersuch dregs of our media culture) but seriously, I am perfectly capable of carrying a bucket of water.
Part of the Peace Corps mission is to share our culture with our host village and any other people we meet. What I have realised is that, in reality, it isn't so much sharing our culture as it is correcting serious misconceptions. This also includes, on occassion, coming to Europe's defense when a man told me that all europeans were a bunch of rascist who would murder all Africans if America was around to stop them.
Yes. That really happened.
So explaining that, no, America is not at war with Columbia just because someone saw a "rambo" movie that said we were is not uncommon. Or having to correct them when they claim that Khadafi (sp?) was killed by US comandos - the Libyans actually did that. It was on Senegalese tv too. No, the roads in the US are not paved with gold, nor do people just hand you money once you arrive in the country. Many of the men tell me they will go to America and be floor cleaners or window washers. I've heard quite a few say they will teach Pulaar and make tons of money and then come back rich and give their family everything. I remember during my CBT stay I ended up giving a comparative economics 101 class with my host brothers and cousins. It blew their mind how expensive just my watch was (converted to CFA) let alone how much it cost for electricity, water, sewage, rent, taxes. And they nearly fainted when I told them how long people work during the day/week. I don't know if this is just the divide between semi-urban and rural populations are, but people in my village - even the educated teachers - either can't grasp the fact that no matter how much more money they make in the US (comparitively speaking) all of that is eaten up by the enormous expense of simply living. I told them how much my plane ticket was - in CFA - that got their attention for a bit, but only to the point of saying that maybe they would just be a taxi driver instead.
How does one say, nicely, that because you can't speak a word of English, and you are Muslim, your possible employment in the US at a time of high unemployment of citizens, heightened religious and racial bigotry will not help your job search? Our country, to them (aside from apparently being at war with every nation, and, as one middle school history teacher told me, willing to invade any country at the mere thought of oil), is this vast pot of money just waiting to be pillaged.
It doesn't matter how many times I tell people that it is expensive, you have to work 70 hours a week just to pay for rent, there is no 3 hour lunch or 2 hour tea breaks in them middle of the day, they just keep telling me they will go to America and be rich.
Hence their thoughts on what white people can do:
But me help my dad build a fence for his horses? What? A white person? A girl? No way!
I will say that after 3 months in village there are now some people who come to my defense when outsiders mention me being a 'Toubako' and then comment on my pulling water or speaking Pulaar to someone. "Of course she can," my friend Hawa said once, "She's African just like us."
I love that woman.
Animals are just Animals
I HATE this. Animals are treated so, so terribly. Not fed (horses & cows die all the time from lack of food, even in the rainy season when grass is everywhere), fed poorly (garbage is a diet staple for way too many animals), and beaten for absolutely no reason (My brother, Ousaman, answered my question of 'why did you beat the horse?' with "because it's a horse.'), worked way too hard (horses and donkeys especially), no real veterinary service or interest in those available. The only reason I feel semi comfortable leaving my cat with my family is because they know how much I love her and they think she's funny.
But there are times when I have to leave and area and go into my hut to get away from it because I just can't take it.
Tea
"Stay for two rounds of tea."
Tea is an essential part of the social life in Senegal. People gossip, talk about problems, goals, desires, ask about my life in America, do I like Senegal, will I take their kid with me when I go home, will I marry them and take them to America....it's a lot of talking and really their version of having a couple beers with some friends. When you commit to drinking tea it is going to be about an hour and a half before you can get out of the compound or from under the shade tree or out of the boutique. So plan to not have a lot on the schedule.
I really don't mind this part of the culture. I actually really enjoy it, especially when the person making tea is really good at it and puts vanilla or mint in it. It is also a great way to integrate and just be a part of the community. Bonus when it is a group of men that get passed the marriage issue and ask me serious questions about economy and what my work is.
Problem with all this tea, though, is the sugar.
The tea leaves they use make a strong, bitter flavor after being boiled for 20 minutes. Sugar is needed.
Tons of it.
I don't even know what the typical amount is, but it is a lot and everyone does it differently. Though I've never found someone who didn't put sugar in Tea. In fact such a suggestion is as foreign and disgusting to them as my finding a cow vertebrae in my food bowl. I'm not exaggerating. I made Lady Grey tea (which I never put sugar or milk in) and let some neighbors and family taste. That was a moment where I wish I had someone following me with a camera. Their facial expressions after drinking it were HILARIOUS. My oldest sister, Kumba, turned it into a prank and told people it was coffee. We died laughing.
Back to the tea: overall, I love it and jump at the opportunity to have some, especially when vanilla sugar and mint leaves are added. BUT: 9:30 in the morning? Scalding hot sugar with tea flavored water is a bit hard on my stomach. "I've had breakfast," one man told me when I told him it was only 8:30 in the morning. "I can have tea any time after that."
One more note on the tea: the cups they use - shot sized glasses - are also shared. They are not washed - rinsed with water, but not actually washed - and after one person drinks their cup, it is refilled and handed to the next person.
And they complain to me about all the sickness in the village.
Yeesh.
Domestic Abuse/Corporal Punishment
This is another aspect of the Senegalese culture that has been hard to deal with. I can't say that I've witnessed pure domestic abuse in the sense of angry/drunk/beat on the wife or kids just because sort of thing. But, emotional abuse and beating for punishment is everywhere.
To be clear on this, from my own observations and those of other volunteers, beatings of people are not like beating animals: beating a women just because a person felt like it is not culturally acceptable. If that happens, the person who does the beating gets in serious trouble and is shamed and loses respect, etc.There has to be a legitimate reason for someone to get smacked around. But of course, as with all things here, the definition and 'legitimate' needs adjustment from our own idea of it. Dropping a bowl, getting in the way of the plow, being too close to the horse while it is being washed (and thus the danger of spooking), getting in a fight, or just even being in the way while a women is cooking is enough to have several sharp snaps of a stick, spoon or hand across a kid's face or anywhere within reach.
With this in mind, I would like to share a very disturbing even that happened about two months ago.
Boys are boys, no matter what country you are in. They tease, play pranks, blame each other for everything, play wrestle, fight and do stupid things in general. One afternoon, two of my brothers, Lemmon (around 12 years old) and Pate (around 10), were arguing over a half a mango that my grandmother gave to Pate. Lemmon wanted some and Pate didn't want to share. He only wanted a slice of it and soon enough a game of keep away started with the knife.
You can probably guess where this is going.
I was playing with my 7 month old baby brother, Alpha, and didn't actually see what happened, but the next thing I know Pate is wailing in this hoarse type of crying (that is unique to real pain, as opposed to the fake-as-cheese-wiz crying they do to get attention or get each other in trouble), holding his eye while blood poured from under his hand. The tip of his eyebrow and a bit of his temple had been sliced open. Superficial, but it hurt like hell (I'm sure) and head wounds always bleed like a burst pipe.
There was a brief moment of confusion as few others actually saw what happened either. One of those blink-and-you-miss-it moments. Lemmon stared in horror and my grandmother (who is a hard ass and also the matron at the health post) took charge, smacked Pate on the shoulder and said something to the effect of, 'suck it up and lets go to the hospital.' My other siblings were shouting, one of my host mom's, Tennan, was shouting about 'stupid boys' until finally Lemmon snapped out of it and followed my grandmother, Pate, and the huge entourage of siblings to the health post apologizing over and over again. They disappeared into the Health Post and I went back to playing with Alpha.
This was an accident. Everyone knew that. They were stupid, but it was a total accident.
About ten minutes later the worst screaming and shouting I had heard to date exploded from the general direction of the health post. Out bursts Lemmon, who stumbles to the ground and barely managed to stand up before a guy streaks out after him - HUGE stick in his hand - grabs on to his shirt and proceeds to beat the living daylights out of him.
I have no clue - to this day - who the hell that guy was, but he wailed on my brother, ripped his shirt to bits as he tried to escape and ended up slicing open his nipple. The cut was probably three inches long. Lemmon managed to get away - thank GOD - and sprinted into the fields before returning to our family compound some time later crying so hard he couldn't breath and holding his hand over the bloody cut.
My grandmother had returned from the health post by this time and it took her, my host mom Tennan and my oldest brother Ibrihima to literally drag him to the health post to get stitches. He screamed and wailed. What if that bastard was still there? If I were him I wouldn't want to go back either.
During the actual beating people all over were shouting at the man to stop. "Enough!" they yelled. But not once person tried to physically stop him.
It was an accident. A total accident. But my brother, after apologizing and already having the worse punishment of shame and guilt take over his senses, he got the crap beat out of him. So what happened at the end of the day? Pate is cut but totally fine. He went back to eating another mango. Lemmon? He curled up, nearly in the fetal position, under the shade structure, didn't talk and didn't eat for the rest of the day. All I wanted to do was give him a hug and tell him how sorry I was and that I knew it was all an accident. But I didn't know how to really say that and hugs...hugs just aren't done here. He wouldn't understand what it really meant because they don't have the same significance to these kids as it does to us.
This was an over reaction, but I think the lack of response to the over reaction is a testament to the practice of beating in general. People will actively and quickly break up a fight between children (and then beat the crap out of the kids for fighting) but rarely does anyone step in to stop an adult from beating a kid unless it goes to the real extreme.
Another aspect of beating that is extremely hard to watch is the encouragement of it. I can't even begin to count the number of times one of my siblings has told me, 'Lapi mbo' ('beat him/her') for something as ridiculous as trying to sit on my lap.
My little brother, Kala (who is my pal and around 4 years old) went out one day a few weeks ago to help bring the goats in. Moussa, another one of my brothers went as well. Some time later, goats in tow, they return crying, shoving each other and each blaming the other for something I couldn't understand. (I never can when it's young kid talk while wailing/crying. English or not). Kala ran over to me. Moussa to my grandmother. There was a lot of confusion about what happened until my host dad showed up. Apparently Kala had lost grip on of the ropes that was tied to a goat and the goat ran off and knocked over Moussa. Moussa probably slapped and hit Kala for it, but they (like all children) ran back to the family to get the other brother in even more trouble.
Once it all came out, my dad ordered Kala to come to him, shouted at him about losing control over the goat and then handed a stick to Moussa and told him to beat Kala. Moussa refused, so my dad shouted at him for refusing and then started hitting Kala with the stick himself.
I went into my room, shut the door and turned on my music to drown in out.
A last note: some of you may ask why there isn't just denial of privileges, 'grounding' or just taking away beloved items. Maybe these kids just need a 'stern talking to', after all, this kind of punishment - and to the same severity - was practiced not all that long ago in our own 'enlightened' western world before we started these other practices. In response, let me ask you just what sort of privileges you think these kids have? What beloved items? There is no tv, no playstation, no special outings to restaurants, no iPod, no cell phone, no toy (all things are community owned within a group of children; no toy is only one kid's toy, it is all the kids' toy), no possession period that can be used as a punishment. Well, then, why aren't they grounded - who is going to watch this kid and make sure he doesn't leave an open compound that has no locks and no physical way of closing them in? The women go out to the fields during the rainy season. So do the men. During the school year, the older kids go to school (and they wouldn't care about enforcing the parent's mandate anyway). With five, ten, fifteen kids to watch while they cook, clean, do laundry, how can a woman keep track of who is where? The kids lie for each other all the time. Sending kids to play with their friends is how women can do their work during the day. Community raising of children is how these kids don't end up killing each other or having serious accidents - they are watched all over the village. But it is nigh impossible to confine them.
And a talking to? Words, while they evoke emotional pain and cause a kid to cry and run into a corner in shame for a short period of time, don't actually mean anything. When a person can promise to be at a meeting, just so they won't upset who they are talking to (see the next section), and then not show up, what does a person's word mean? Nothing.
Isn't this the prevailing complaint people have about the lack of disciplining of children in America? No swat on the butt to emphasize a 'No, you cannot take the stuffed tiger from the shelf', or what have you. Kids don't know there are repercussions to their actions.
Already I can hear the arguments: "Spanking is not the same as what these kids get!" No kidding. Which is why I hate it and can't watch it/have to tune it out somehow. It is horribly excessive and by the time they are older, it also starts to mean nothing in terms of it being a real repercussion of behavior and instead becomes 'just part of being an African kid'. (See 'defeatist attitude') But in a culture where there is nothing to take away and where words mean nothing in the long term, it is all they have to control their mass of children: fear of pain.
Say 'Yes' To The Guest
As I mentioned in my previous post, the first 7 weeks of being in village (more, if you count the site visit back in April) I believed I could have a dog. My host dad told me it wasn't a problem, he knew where I could get a dog and I didn't need to worry about it. I won't repeat the circumstances of how I found out the truth - that he, in fact, didn't want one and actually doesn't like dogs - but it is a perfect example of the culture of hospitality and not denying things to guests. He didn't want me to be sad, upset, disappointed or angry, so he said yes.
Senegal is known for its hospitality, generosity, tolerance and political stability on a continent rife with chaos (which stems from those attributes). Just take a look at all of the countries that surround it and you'll see what I mean. The last ten years have not been kind to Senegal's neighbors. But the people here will literally give you the shirt off their back if you ask, give you food, water and shelter if needed and even ask for those things from a neighbor if they can't afford to buy it/get it themselves. (Which is probably why they don't really have words for 'please' and 'thank you' - only words that can mean those things, but primarily mean other things in other contexts. Sharing is just expected. Why say thank you when you have no doubt it will happen?) They want to please you, to give the answers you want to hear and keep you happy because that gives them greater respect within the community. It's also a big part of the Koran. Islamic terrorist bastardize a truly good religion, just as all extremists in any belief do (Crusades? Witch trials? KKK? Mao? Stalin? ring a bell to anyone?)
Problem is, when they don't want to do something, don't agree or don't like something, they won't actually tell you (see the dog issue). This creates a HUGE problem for volunteers when they are trying to get projects set up, have meetings or get to the base issues underlying a problem. If a time is a set, but it doesn't actually work for the Senegalese you are talking to, they will still say it is fine, they'll be there. And then they won't show up.
Being direct is not an attribute to be found in the Senegalese make up and to the typical American (who doesn't have to tip toe around being politically correct or kiss their boss's behind) who has no problem saying, 'hell no that is not okay', getting the run around and being lied to is extremely frustrating. No matter how good the intention might be.
Miscellaneous
Like I said in the beginning, there is a ton of cultural aspects that I could talk about and fill up a book. I won't though (I can hear your sighs of relief already since this post is novel-like enough). But I want to comment briefly on a few other topics.
Food: Rice is the staple in this country - as it is in most of Africa - and it comes from all over the world. NGOs provide it, it is grown here in Senegal and people flip their lid if they don't have it. Rice is used, among other things, to fill up a child's belly. Like chinese food, it creates the illusion of being well fed and full while in fact the person is malnourished. Just because a belly is full and a kid says he can't eat anymore, doesn't mean he/she is a healthy child. Quite the contrary. I often feel sick seeing all the young kids (who don't work in the fields or the girls too young to pull and carry water) with huge protruding stomachs that are in stark contrast to their stick thin arms and visible ribs. These kids don't eat vegetables - and if they do they are NEVER raw, but instead boiled to the point of having no point at all - despite the fact that they are sold in every market. Yes, money is an issue. It takes money to buy them from a market, and it takes money, labor and time to grow them yourself. But the colossal amount of money adults spend on tea makes that argument moot. And EVERYONE drinks tea. Several times a day.
Meals are also pretty much arranged in a hierarchy. Men and boys over ten eat in a well supplied bowl. When there is meat, they get most of it. Women eat separately (in my family they share the bowl with the younger kids, but in other compounds kids have a separate bowl even from women) and have less protein. The kids get even less, even though they are the most in need of calories and food for their growing bodies.
Defeatist Attitude: "This is Africa. It is just how it is." This was spoken by one of the teachers at the elementary school during my first site visit back in April after Chelsea, the volunteer in Mampatime, told him the kids get sick from drinking untreated water from the well. People here either don't understand, don't care or don't see the possibility that they have an influence on their position and influence on their food quality, water quality and health. They also rely heavily on how things have gone in the past. It is and has always been, this way. "God wills it," is another favored phrase which is used just as often. It's a cop out, because the God I know - which is the same as theirs, thank you very much - gave us a brain and the intuition and curiosity to better ourselves for a reason.
Inertia is the greatest force to overcome and these people - as a collective group - are nearly impossible to move. Change must come from within, but when they cannot conceptualize long term projects, goals or effects (because their family needs money to buy rice now not in three years) why should they cover a well or wash their hands? If they don't see it, it isn't happening or it can't be changed.
I did a big USAID survey on sanitation and water quality before I left for IST (in service training, which I am currently at right now). I had to go to every single compound and see the latrines, find out how many families lived in the compound, ask how many people lived there, where all the wells were, and what kind of issues the people saw in the community. I then had to compile that info, so I was in my hut for the majority of a few days. People in my village either thought I was sick or that I was sleeping because they couldn't see what I was doing.
Malaria is a big problem in the southern regions of Senegal. It is part of being here, they tell me, and if their child gets it and dies, 'God willed it.' I call BS on that. The sad thing is, they know exactly what to do. They know they should sleep under a mosquito net, get tested if they have a fever (and they call nearly all sickness Malaria) and that kids are especially vulnerable, but it doesn't matter. They don't like the mosquito nets and/or don't use them at the critical times. They stay out side until midnight, the nets aren't put outside on the sleeping structure and kids always fall asleep outside waiting for dinner and so don't sleep under them either. What they do want, though, is medicine to be given to them when they are sick, which leads me to my next point.
NGOs And Most Foreign Aid In General: Before I got here I was a huge supporter of foreign aid and NGOs.Those who complain about how much we spend: get real. Get the facts. The US spends less than 1% of GDP on foreign aid. http://foreignassistance.gov/ So stop whinging about how we spend all this money abroad to feed kids when we have starving kids at home. No kidding. I agree we should take a serious look at how we help ourselves (or don't for that matter) but take a look at the other parts of government spending that are down right obscene ( billion dollar military contracts that fall through and are never recouped, lifetime cheap medical insurance for a one term senator or congressmen, wars that should never have been fought and billions lost in subsidies for companies that don't effing need them, etc)
Back to the point: I still am a supporter of foreign aid, but my view has shifted a great deal (as my poor unfortunate parents and sister can attest after many phone conversations). Money isn't a problem. Dear God, the amount - globally - that is spent in Africa alone is enough to make your head spin, but that money rarely ever makes a sustainable difference because it is just dumped on communities in varying forms (if they are lucky and their own horribly corrupt government doesn't shove it in their own pockets) and then left there without support. No one is trained on how to repair these fancy new toilets or well pump that UNICEF just installed. They break down - as all things do - and the money and materials is wasted. No education on why using latrines is better than pooping in the bush. They are built, the NGO leaves and no one uses the latrines. Diseases persist.
Many people in my village don't understand why I can't build them a huge water tower, bring electricity or pave their horrible, horrible roads (as many NGOs do). Or why I am not bringing western medicine to cure them of diseases (I was told by one man that America had found a cure for AIDS and wanted to know when I would be stocking the health post with it.)
Teaching them to help themselves, to better their own lives gets increasingly difficult while NGOs waltz in with a million dollars and build whatever they want and/or whatever the village asks for. This just re-enforces the 'hand out' mentality and makes our jobs harder. It also ultimately undermines the very purpose of aid: temporary assistance to the country until they are self reliant. Why struggle and pay for it yourself when someone else will do it for you, for a few empty promises?
And how can skilled labor increase if no one teaches these people how to maintain the infrastructure or new technology put in place? USAID, UNICEF, the Japanese, Austrians, French, Chinese - they don't leave behind mechanics or trained personnel to fix what breaks. It is unsustainable and everything just ends up taking 10 steps backwards once it does break.
Don't get me wrong, big money and big plans are needed and governments (legitimate governments that are not on the UN's list of ten worst for corruption) are often vital in order to get their own distribution/supply lines built, trust built between them and their citizens. Which furthers legitimacy and less dependence on outsiders - if a guy knows he can go to the mayor, ask for funding for a project and get it without being ripped off under the table, he's going to tell his friends to trust the government too. Everyone wins. But grassroots sustainability and project building is essential for any change to actually happen. Sure, I bet it looks great on a report to say that 100 schools were built and 1000 solar panels were installed in those schools and health facilities. But what about counting all the people that could have been trained to fix and maintain all that fancy new stuff? Not only will those facilities and panels last long enough to improve the conditions of the people they are suppose to serve, but you've just given a ton of people a way of life outside of farming - which is a big deal! A living that doesn't depend on the fickle, unpredictable and often merciless weather of Africa is always, always, a big bonus.
How is that not a priority?
And now I'm edging too close to a rant so I'll end here. (I know, it's too late already). Hope this helped illustrate a few cultural aspects and gives you all something to talk about. Another mission of the Peace Corps is to share our host culture with America, so I hope this suffices for now.
Cheers!
Christine
- Whites can't do anything
- Animals are just animals
- If breakfast is over it is time for tea
- Beat them
- I will say yes because you are a guest
Whites Can't Do Anything
"You are able to pull water?" "You can run?" "You can climb a tree?" "You can ride a horse?" "You can crack open a peanut shell?" "You can_______" Feel free to fill in the blank however you like. I am amazed sometimes that I haven't yet heard some person state with shock that I am able to breath. It is extremely annoying, frustrating and down right ridiculous. I know that people here (and around the world for that matter) are given the warped sense of what white people and Americans in particukar are like (Rambo movies, Vampire Diaries, soap operas and othersuch dregs of our media culture) but seriously, I am perfectly capable of carrying a bucket of water.
Part of the Peace Corps mission is to share our culture with our host village and any other people we meet. What I have realised is that, in reality, it isn't so much sharing our culture as it is correcting serious misconceptions. This also includes, on occassion, coming to Europe's defense when a man told me that all europeans were a bunch of rascist who would murder all Africans if America was around to stop them.
Yes. That really happened.
So explaining that, no, America is not at war with Columbia just because someone saw a "rambo" movie that said we were is not uncommon. Or having to correct them when they claim that Khadafi (sp?) was killed by US comandos - the Libyans actually did that. It was on Senegalese tv too. No, the roads in the US are not paved with gold, nor do people just hand you money once you arrive in the country. Many of the men tell me they will go to America and be floor cleaners or window washers. I've heard quite a few say they will teach Pulaar and make tons of money and then come back rich and give their family everything. I remember during my CBT stay I ended up giving a comparative economics 101 class with my host brothers and cousins. It blew their mind how expensive just my watch was (converted to CFA) let alone how much it cost for electricity, water, sewage, rent, taxes. And they nearly fainted when I told them how long people work during the day/week. I don't know if this is just the divide between semi-urban and rural populations are, but people in my village - even the educated teachers - either can't grasp the fact that no matter how much more money they make in the US (comparitively speaking) all of that is eaten up by the enormous expense of simply living. I told them how much my plane ticket was - in CFA - that got their attention for a bit, but only to the point of saying that maybe they would just be a taxi driver instead.
How does one say, nicely, that because you can't speak a word of English, and you are Muslim, your possible employment in the US at a time of high unemployment of citizens, heightened religious and racial bigotry will not help your job search? Our country, to them (aside from apparently being at war with every nation, and, as one middle school history teacher told me, willing to invade any country at the mere thought of oil), is this vast pot of money just waiting to be pillaged.
It doesn't matter how many times I tell people that it is expensive, you have to work 70 hours a week just to pay for rent, there is no 3 hour lunch or 2 hour tea breaks in them middle of the day, they just keep telling me they will go to America and be rich.
Hence their thoughts on what white people can do:
- Give money
- Buy stuff for them
- Give away everything we own because we have so much money we can just buy more
- cure them of any disease (including AIDS)
- Give them money
- Buy them stuff
But me help my dad build a fence for his horses? What? A white person? A girl? No way!
I will say that after 3 months in village there are now some people who come to my defense when outsiders mention me being a 'Toubako' and then comment on my pulling water or speaking Pulaar to someone. "Of course she can," my friend Hawa said once, "She's African just like us."
I love that woman.
Animals are just Animals
I HATE this. Animals are treated so, so terribly. Not fed (horses & cows die all the time from lack of food, even in the rainy season when grass is everywhere), fed poorly (garbage is a diet staple for way too many animals), and beaten for absolutely no reason (My brother, Ousaman, answered my question of 'why did you beat the horse?' with "because it's a horse.'), worked way too hard (horses and donkeys especially), no real veterinary service or interest in those available. The only reason I feel semi comfortable leaving my cat with my family is because they know how much I love her and they think she's funny.
But there are times when I have to leave and area and go into my hut to get away from it because I just can't take it.
Tea
"Stay for two rounds of tea."
Tea is an essential part of the social life in Senegal. People gossip, talk about problems, goals, desires, ask about my life in America, do I like Senegal, will I take their kid with me when I go home, will I marry them and take them to America....it's a lot of talking and really their version of having a couple beers with some friends. When you commit to drinking tea it is going to be about an hour and a half before you can get out of the compound or from under the shade tree or out of the boutique. So plan to not have a lot on the schedule.
I really don't mind this part of the culture. I actually really enjoy it, especially when the person making tea is really good at it and puts vanilla or mint in it. It is also a great way to integrate and just be a part of the community. Bonus when it is a group of men that get passed the marriage issue and ask me serious questions about economy and what my work is.
Problem with all this tea, though, is the sugar.
The tea leaves they use make a strong, bitter flavor after being boiled for 20 minutes. Sugar is needed.
Tons of it.
I don't even know what the typical amount is, but it is a lot and everyone does it differently. Though I've never found someone who didn't put sugar in Tea. In fact such a suggestion is as foreign and disgusting to them as my finding a cow vertebrae in my food bowl. I'm not exaggerating. I made Lady Grey tea (which I never put sugar or milk in) and let some neighbors and family taste. That was a moment where I wish I had someone following me with a camera. Their facial expressions after drinking it were HILARIOUS. My oldest sister, Kumba, turned it into a prank and told people it was coffee. We died laughing.
Back to the tea: overall, I love it and jump at the opportunity to have some, especially when vanilla sugar and mint leaves are added. BUT: 9:30 in the morning? Scalding hot sugar with tea flavored water is a bit hard on my stomach. "I've had breakfast," one man told me when I told him it was only 8:30 in the morning. "I can have tea any time after that."
One more note on the tea: the cups they use - shot sized glasses - are also shared. They are not washed - rinsed with water, but not actually washed - and after one person drinks their cup, it is refilled and handed to the next person.
And they complain to me about all the sickness in the village.
Yeesh.
Domestic Abuse/Corporal Punishment
This is another aspect of the Senegalese culture that has been hard to deal with. I can't say that I've witnessed pure domestic abuse in the sense of angry/drunk/beat on the wife or kids just because sort of thing. But, emotional abuse and beating for punishment is everywhere.
To be clear on this, from my own observations and those of other volunteers, beatings of people are not like beating animals: beating a women just because a person felt like it is not culturally acceptable. If that happens, the person who does the beating gets in serious trouble and is shamed and loses respect, etc.There has to be a legitimate reason for someone to get smacked around. But of course, as with all things here, the definition and 'legitimate' needs adjustment from our own idea of it. Dropping a bowl, getting in the way of the plow, being too close to the horse while it is being washed (and thus the danger of spooking), getting in a fight, or just even being in the way while a women is cooking is enough to have several sharp snaps of a stick, spoon or hand across a kid's face or anywhere within reach.
With this in mind, I would like to share a very disturbing even that happened about two months ago.
Boys are boys, no matter what country you are in. They tease, play pranks, blame each other for everything, play wrestle, fight and do stupid things in general. One afternoon, two of my brothers, Lemmon (around 12 years old) and Pate (around 10), were arguing over a half a mango that my grandmother gave to Pate. Lemmon wanted some and Pate didn't want to share. He only wanted a slice of it and soon enough a game of keep away started with the knife.
You can probably guess where this is going.
I was playing with my 7 month old baby brother, Alpha, and didn't actually see what happened, but the next thing I know Pate is wailing in this hoarse type of crying (that is unique to real pain, as opposed to the fake-as-cheese-wiz crying they do to get attention or get each other in trouble), holding his eye while blood poured from under his hand. The tip of his eyebrow and a bit of his temple had been sliced open. Superficial, but it hurt like hell (I'm sure) and head wounds always bleed like a burst pipe.
There was a brief moment of confusion as few others actually saw what happened either. One of those blink-and-you-miss-it moments. Lemmon stared in horror and my grandmother (who is a hard ass and also the matron at the health post) took charge, smacked Pate on the shoulder and said something to the effect of, 'suck it up and lets go to the hospital.' My other siblings were shouting, one of my host mom's, Tennan, was shouting about 'stupid boys' until finally Lemmon snapped out of it and followed my grandmother, Pate, and the huge entourage of siblings to the health post apologizing over and over again. They disappeared into the Health Post and I went back to playing with Alpha.
This was an accident. Everyone knew that. They were stupid, but it was a total accident.
About ten minutes later the worst screaming and shouting I had heard to date exploded from the general direction of the health post. Out bursts Lemmon, who stumbles to the ground and barely managed to stand up before a guy streaks out after him - HUGE stick in his hand - grabs on to his shirt and proceeds to beat the living daylights out of him.
I have no clue - to this day - who the hell that guy was, but he wailed on my brother, ripped his shirt to bits as he tried to escape and ended up slicing open his nipple. The cut was probably three inches long. Lemmon managed to get away - thank GOD - and sprinted into the fields before returning to our family compound some time later crying so hard he couldn't breath and holding his hand over the bloody cut.
My grandmother had returned from the health post by this time and it took her, my host mom Tennan and my oldest brother Ibrihima to literally drag him to the health post to get stitches. He screamed and wailed. What if that bastard was still there? If I were him I wouldn't want to go back either.
During the actual beating people all over were shouting at the man to stop. "Enough!" they yelled. But not once person tried to physically stop him.
It was an accident. A total accident. But my brother, after apologizing and already having the worse punishment of shame and guilt take over his senses, he got the crap beat out of him. So what happened at the end of the day? Pate is cut but totally fine. He went back to eating another mango. Lemmon? He curled up, nearly in the fetal position, under the shade structure, didn't talk and didn't eat for the rest of the day. All I wanted to do was give him a hug and tell him how sorry I was and that I knew it was all an accident. But I didn't know how to really say that and hugs...hugs just aren't done here. He wouldn't understand what it really meant because they don't have the same significance to these kids as it does to us.
This was an over reaction, but I think the lack of response to the over reaction is a testament to the practice of beating in general. People will actively and quickly break up a fight between children (and then beat the crap out of the kids for fighting) but rarely does anyone step in to stop an adult from beating a kid unless it goes to the real extreme.
Another aspect of beating that is extremely hard to watch is the encouragement of it. I can't even begin to count the number of times one of my siblings has told me, 'Lapi mbo' ('beat him/her') for something as ridiculous as trying to sit on my lap.
My little brother, Kala (who is my pal and around 4 years old) went out one day a few weeks ago to help bring the goats in. Moussa, another one of my brothers went as well. Some time later, goats in tow, they return crying, shoving each other and each blaming the other for something I couldn't understand. (I never can when it's young kid talk while wailing/crying. English or not). Kala ran over to me. Moussa to my grandmother. There was a lot of confusion about what happened until my host dad showed up. Apparently Kala had lost grip on of the ropes that was tied to a goat and the goat ran off and knocked over Moussa. Moussa probably slapped and hit Kala for it, but they (like all children) ran back to the family to get the other brother in even more trouble.
Once it all came out, my dad ordered Kala to come to him, shouted at him about losing control over the goat and then handed a stick to Moussa and told him to beat Kala. Moussa refused, so my dad shouted at him for refusing and then started hitting Kala with the stick himself.
I went into my room, shut the door and turned on my music to drown in out.
A last note: some of you may ask why there isn't just denial of privileges, 'grounding' or just taking away beloved items. Maybe these kids just need a 'stern talking to', after all, this kind of punishment - and to the same severity - was practiced not all that long ago in our own 'enlightened' western world before we started these other practices. In response, let me ask you just what sort of privileges you think these kids have? What beloved items? There is no tv, no playstation, no special outings to restaurants, no iPod, no cell phone, no toy (all things are community owned within a group of children; no toy is only one kid's toy, it is all the kids' toy), no possession period that can be used as a punishment. Well, then, why aren't they grounded - who is going to watch this kid and make sure he doesn't leave an open compound that has no locks and no physical way of closing them in? The women go out to the fields during the rainy season. So do the men. During the school year, the older kids go to school (and they wouldn't care about enforcing the parent's mandate anyway). With five, ten, fifteen kids to watch while they cook, clean, do laundry, how can a woman keep track of who is where? The kids lie for each other all the time. Sending kids to play with their friends is how women can do their work during the day. Community raising of children is how these kids don't end up killing each other or having serious accidents - they are watched all over the village. But it is nigh impossible to confine them.
And a talking to? Words, while they evoke emotional pain and cause a kid to cry and run into a corner in shame for a short period of time, don't actually mean anything. When a person can promise to be at a meeting, just so they won't upset who they are talking to (see the next section), and then not show up, what does a person's word mean? Nothing.
Isn't this the prevailing complaint people have about the lack of disciplining of children in America? No swat on the butt to emphasize a 'No, you cannot take the stuffed tiger from the shelf', or what have you. Kids don't know there are repercussions to their actions.
Already I can hear the arguments: "Spanking is not the same as what these kids get!" No kidding. Which is why I hate it and can't watch it/have to tune it out somehow. It is horribly excessive and by the time they are older, it also starts to mean nothing in terms of it being a real repercussion of behavior and instead becomes 'just part of being an African kid'. (See 'defeatist attitude') But in a culture where there is nothing to take away and where words mean nothing in the long term, it is all they have to control their mass of children: fear of pain.
Say 'Yes' To The Guest
As I mentioned in my previous post, the first 7 weeks of being in village (more, if you count the site visit back in April) I believed I could have a dog. My host dad told me it wasn't a problem, he knew where I could get a dog and I didn't need to worry about it. I won't repeat the circumstances of how I found out the truth - that he, in fact, didn't want one and actually doesn't like dogs - but it is a perfect example of the culture of hospitality and not denying things to guests. He didn't want me to be sad, upset, disappointed or angry, so he said yes.
Senegal is known for its hospitality, generosity, tolerance and political stability on a continent rife with chaos (which stems from those attributes). Just take a look at all of the countries that surround it and you'll see what I mean. The last ten years have not been kind to Senegal's neighbors. But the people here will literally give you the shirt off their back if you ask, give you food, water and shelter if needed and even ask for those things from a neighbor if they can't afford to buy it/get it themselves. (Which is probably why they don't really have words for 'please' and 'thank you' - only words that can mean those things, but primarily mean other things in other contexts. Sharing is just expected. Why say thank you when you have no doubt it will happen?) They want to please you, to give the answers you want to hear and keep you happy because that gives them greater respect within the community. It's also a big part of the Koran. Islamic terrorist bastardize a truly good religion, just as all extremists in any belief do (Crusades? Witch trials? KKK? Mao? Stalin? ring a bell to anyone?)
Problem is, when they don't want to do something, don't agree or don't like something, they won't actually tell you (see the dog issue). This creates a HUGE problem for volunteers when they are trying to get projects set up, have meetings or get to the base issues underlying a problem. If a time is a set, but it doesn't actually work for the Senegalese you are talking to, they will still say it is fine, they'll be there. And then they won't show up.
Being direct is not an attribute to be found in the Senegalese make up and to the typical American (who doesn't have to tip toe around being politically correct or kiss their boss's behind) who has no problem saying, 'hell no that is not okay', getting the run around and being lied to is extremely frustrating. No matter how good the intention might be.
Miscellaneous
Like I said in the beginning, there is a ton of cultural aspects that I could talk about and fill up a book. I won't though (I can hear your sighs of relief already since this post is novel-like enough). But I want to comment briefly on a few other topics.
Food: Rice is the staple in this country - as it is in most of Africa - and it comes from all over the world. NGOs provide it, it is grown here in Senegal and people flip their lid if they don't have it. Rice is used, among other things, to fill up a child's belly. Like chinese food, it creates the illusion of being well fed and full while in fact the person is malnourished. Just because a belly is full and a kid says he can't eat anymore, doesn't mean he/she is a healthy child. Quite the contrary. I often feel sick seeing all the young kids (who don't work in the fields or the girls too young to pull and carry water) with huge protruding stomachs that are in stark contrast to their stick thin arms and visible ribs. These kids don't eat vegetables - and if they do they are NEVER raw, but instead boiled to the point of having no point at all - despite the fact that they are sold in every market. Yes, money is an issue. It takes money to buy them from a market, and it takes money, labor and time to grow them yourself. But the colossal amount of money adults spend on tea makes that argument moot. And EVERYONE drinks tea. Several times a day.
Meals are also pretty much arranged in a hierarchy. Men and boys over ten eat in a well supplied bowl. When there is meat, they get most of it. Women eat separately (in my family they share the bowl with the younger kids, but in other compounds kids have a separate bowl even from women) and have less protein. The kids get even less, even though they are the most in need of calories and food for their growing bodies.
Defeatist Attitude: "This is Africa. It is just how it is." This was spoken by one of the teachers at the elementary school during my first site visit back in April after Chelsea, the volunteer in Mampatime, told him the kids get sick from drinking untreated water from the well. People here either don't understand, don't care or don't see the possibility that they have an influence on their position and influence on their food quality, water quality and health. They also rely heavily on how things have gone in the past. It is and has always been, this way. "God wills it," is another favored phrase which is used just as often. It's a cop out, because the God I know - which is the same as theirs, thank you very much - gave us a brain and the intuition and curiosity to better ourselves for a reason.
Inertia is the greatest force to overcome and these people - as a collective group - are nearly impossible to move. Change must come from within, but when they cannot conceptualize long term projects, goals or effects (because their family needs money to buy rice now not in three years) why should they cover a well or wash their hands? If they don't see it, it isn't happening or it can't be changed.
I did a big USAID survey on sanitation and water quality before I left for IST (in service training, which I am currently at right now). I had to go to every single compound and see the latrines, find out how many families lived in the compound, ask how many people lived there, where all the wells were, and what kind of issues the people saw in the community. I then had to compile that info, so I was in my hut for the majority of a few days. People in my village either thought I was sick or that I was sleeping because they couldn't see what I was doing.
Malaria is a big problem in the southern regions of Senegal. It is part of being here, they tell me, and if their child gets it and dies, 'God willed it.' I call BS on that. The sad thing is, they know exactly what to do. They know they should sleep under a mosquito net, get tested if they have a fever (and they call nearly all sickness Malaria) and that kids are especially vulnerable, but it doesn't matter. They don't like the mosquito nets and/or don't use them at the critical times. They stay out side until midnight, the nets aren't put outside on the sleeping structure and kids always fall asleep outside waiting for dinner and so don't sleep under them either. What they do want, though, is medicine to be given to them when they are sick, which leads me to my next point.
NGOs And Most Foreign Aid In General: Before I got here I was a huge supporter of foreign aid and NGOs.Those who complain about how much we spend: get real. Get the facts. The US spends less than 1% of GDP on foreign aid. http://foreignassistance.gov/ So stop whinging about how we spend all this money abroad to feed kids when we have starving kids at home. No kidding. I agree we should take a serious look at how we help ourselves (or don't for that matter) but take a look at the other parts of government spending that are down right obscene ( billion dollar military contracts that fall through and are never recouped, lifetime cheap medical insurance for a one term senator or congressmen, wars that should never have been fought and billions lost in subsidies for companies that don't effing need them, etc)
Back to the point: I still am a supporter of foreign aid, but my view has shifted a great deal (as my poor unfortunate parents and sister can attest after many phone conversations). Money isn't a problem. Dear God, the amount - globally - that is spent in Africa alone is enough to make your head spin, but that money rarely ever makes a sustainable difference because it is just dumped on communities in varying forms (if they are lucky and their own horribly corrupt government doesn't shove it in their own pockets) and then left there without support. No one is trained on how to repair these fancy new toilets or well pump that UNICEF just installed. They break down - as all things do - and the money and materials is wasted. No education on why using latrines is better than pooping in the bush. They are built, the NGO leaves and no one uses the latrines. Diseases persist.
Many people in my village don't understand why I can't build them a huge water tower, bring electricity or pave their horrible, horrible roads (as many NGOs do). Or why I am not bringing western medicine to cure them of diseases (I was told by one man that America had found a cure for AIDS and wanted to know when I would be stocking the health post with it.)
Teaching them to help themselves, to better their own lives gets increasingly difficult while NGOs waltz in with a million dollars and build whatever they want and/or whatever the village asks for. This just re-enforces the 'hand out' mentality and makes our jobs harder. It also ultimately undermines the very purpose of aid: temporary assistance to the country until they are self reliant. Why struggle and pay for it yourself when someone else will do it for you, for a few empty promises?
And how can skilled labor increase if no one teaches these people how to maintain the infrastructure or new technology put in place? USAID, UNICEF, the Japanese, Austrians, French, Chinese - they don't leave behind mechanics or trained personnel to fix what breaks. It is unsustainable and everything just ends up taking 10 steps backwards once it does break.
Don't get me wrong, big money and big plans are needed and governments (legitimate governments that are not on the UN's list of ten worst for corruption) are often vital in order to get their own distribution/supply lines built, trust built between them and their citizens. Which furthers legitimacy and less dependence on outsiders - if a guy knows he can go to the mayor, ask for funding for a project and get it without being ripped off under the table, he's going to tell his friends to trust the government too. Everyone wins. But grassroots sustainability and project building is essential for any change to actually happen. Sure, I bet it looks great on a report to say that 100 schools were built and 1000 solar panels were installed in those schools and health facilities. But what about counting all the people that could have been trained to fix and maintain all that fancy new stuff? Not only will those facilities and panels last long enough to improve the conditions of the people they are suppose to serve, but you've just given a ton of people a way of life outside of farming - which is a big deal! A living that doesn't depend on the fickle, unpredictable and often merciless weather of Africa is always, always, a big bonus.
How is that not a priority?
And now I'm edging too close to a rant so I'll end here. (I know, it's too late already). Hope this helped illustrate a few cultural aspects and gives you all something to talk about. Another mission of the Peace Corps is to share our host culture with America, so I hope this suffices for now.
Cheers!
Christine
Friday, August 3, 2012
Two Months Down, Twenty-Two Left
The price of living in a village with no electricity and having a tablet without the ability to use an internet key is that updating the fact that I am alive is very difficult. I am entirely dependent on the Kolda house for internet, which isn't the best idea because the internet here is very finicky. For example, right now I am using another volunteer's computer because my tablet for some reason won't go online and the physical desktop computer that is plugged in to the router won't go online either. So a big thanks to Lisa for letting me steal her computer for a while so I can update my friends and family on life in my village beyond facebook photos and quick status updates.
I've been trying to figure out how I would put this blog together for the last couple weeks. So much has happened in the last two months - physically, emotionally - that it is hard to really relay everything, nor do I think it is possible to actually do that. So I'll get as much across here that I can, and the rest will have to stay in the pages of my journal and the little black book I carry around in village to write down words I don't know and observations.
My plan is to write two posts: one for my personal experiences and feelings, the other for cultural/village observations. Please forgive me for leaving things out, or even glossing over details as the first five weeks of my village life are a bit of a blur of unbearable heat, tons of frustration, lots of confusion and homesickness.
And it was two months ago, so escuse my poor memory as well.
So here goes.
I arrived in Badion in the afternoon of May 23rd, got out of the air conditioned truck and wanted to pass out from the heat. The hottest part of the year here is April thru Mid June. So I arrived right in the middle of crazy heat and had to unpack everything. That whole day was a bit of a blur. It is strange to think back on it. I didn't know anyone, could hardly speak the language (which still holds true today) and I was extremely self conscious. It didn't help that my family only knew that I was coming about two hours before I arrived, that particular fact made me very upset because the week before my counterpart had called me on the day I was originally supposed to install and asked why I didn't show up. I called the man responsible for informing our families and he swore he told my family. Obviously not. So this time I called the same man two days before I installed and asked if they told my family when I was installing. He said yes. So I thought everything was a-okay.
Obviously not.
My APCD, the man in charge of the Health sector of volunteers, called me on the way to my village and said he couldn't get ahold of my counterparts or family. So I had to find the number of the middle school principle from my village and ask him to inform my family (he speaks very good English, which is how I managed it).
So, with two hours notice, I didn't get the same kind of big fanfare that most other volunteers got upon their arrival. For my own personal preferences, I am glad of it because I felt uncomfortable and awkward enough as it was. The women kept asking me to dance (and their kind of dancing is not at all like Western and I can't dance anyway) so I resisted, telling them I couldn't dance, but at last I relented and just did this spinning thing in the middle of the circle. They all laughed and now they know for sure that I can't dance. So now when they asked me to dance, it is far more of a joke and they don't expect me to dance. Thank God.
That first night I was visited by giant spiders and an army of black ants crawled up my walls the next day. Freaked me out and I ended up running to my host dad, Mamadou, who is the chief, and asking for help. He just used my broom to sweep them off the walls and stuck a rock in the whole to their empire. Always a good experience.
Insects are the bane of my existence right now, but that is jumping ahead a little so I'll hold off for the moment.
Chickens, roosters, donkeys, cows, sheep and goats wake me up each morning. I know when most people think of Africa and its animals, they think of lions and hyenas, zebras and giraffes, but they don't exist here. Senegal, really, is one giant farm. There are monkeys, but it isn't like they are hanging from every tree. All the wildlife is in fact domesticated or just birds. So sorry folks, no pictures of lions on the prowl.
Also during those first few days random people would come into my room and just look around. Really awkward and very uncomfortable, but that is just part of their culture. Privacy and private property really doesn't exist - at least among family or friends - so it has been really difficult to set boundaries to my hut and get people to respect those boundaries. It also didn't help that in the beginning I didn't have a curtain across my door, so everyone could see in all the time. That was remedied after the first market day - Sunday - where my dad helped me get a hammer, nails, curtain and he bought meat (which was not a pleasant sight) for lunch that day.
A scorpion crawled through my room the second night and my neighbor, the elementary school principle, helped me kill it.
To escape the onslaught of children and people the first couple days I just escaped to a Mango tree behind my hut and brought my Pulaar flash cards with me. I ended up building some credit with the kids by doing that actually, because I could pick mangoes and throw them down. Ended up spending the first week following the kids when they asked me to come so I could climb into the trees they couldn't get into. I'll tell you right now there is nothing compared to picking a mango and then eating it right there in the tree.
I know I'll miss the mangoes when I do get home. The season is over - or very nearly - and I already miss them.
The kids taught me some of their games, including a variation on Jacks, hopscotch and a game that is played in the dirt with rocks that reminds me a bit like checkers. I'll talk a bit more about these games in terms of the culture in a second post, but it was a bit disturbing to find that there is no strategy or tactics in these games. It is all about scoring. Nothing else.
Language was the foundation of every frustration, coupled with the heat, is just made for some extremely hard first weeks. My community counterpart was in the Gambia for the first 7 weeks of my service, so instead of having a guide to the village, I wandered around from compound to compound on my own and greeted people, wrote down words that I didn't know and endured the constant, ceaseless comparisons of my language skills to Chelsea's (she's the volunteer at my road town and the volunteer who has spent the most time in my village as they were preparing for me to come). They laughed at me, found out a few of them were calling me an idiot - there is a boutique owner who knows some English and he helps me with things I don't know - and my self esteem, already low from having failed my Pulaar test - took blow after blow.
As I look back at it now I honestly don't know how I managed to survive five solid weeks in village. The kids in my family are nuts, and there are two that I absolutely hate.
I was never a very 'kid friendly' person in terms of wanting to have my own or be a babysitter and such. I just don't have patience for it. This country has transformed that impatience to really just despising children. I know full well that the circumstances of their lives - including having 3 moms and that there are 14 of them in one family - makes everything completely different, but in some ways I feel like this setting for child raising just brings out the worst aspects of children to the nth degree. They don't really get to be kids - as they work in the fields or are doing dishes or taking care of their younger siblings, depending on their gender - and they aren't really parented because their mothers are so busy cooking, pounding grain, and doing so many other things. They are left to their own devices from a very early age and responsible behavior and discipline is not taught. Punishment is having the crap beat out of them. So kids are brutal to each other, sneaky in their transgressions against each other so they don't get beat and free to indulge in their cruelest vices.
After telling my family over and over again that I couldn't eat fish or palm oil and them ignoring it, I ended up getting very sick for three days. Only after that miserable experience did they finally believe me when I said I can't eat certain items, and I added this rice porridge that they eat for breakfast and occasional dinner. The porridge with peanuts was also added to the list along with the drive version of the latter. No idea if those things really made me sick, but it was what I was throwing up for 3 days until it was nothing but oil coming up my throat. So I don't eat those things and I haven't been sick since.
More heat, language problems and bad phone reception filled those five weeks, though I got far more comfortable in Badion, got to know people and my language did improve a bit. I am still woefully dismal at it, but at this point I've decided that I don't really care. There are enough things that cause stress that if I continue to bluster and worry over my language skills I'll go insane. At this point, it is what it is and if I end up - at the end of 2 years - being the worst Pulaar speaker in the history of Peace Corps Senegal and I'm not going to care. My replacement can be amazing at it. Right now I just figure my job is to teach my village what it is like to have a white person in the village, what their language sounds like coming from a westerner and that not all Americans are rolling in dough.
That helped with my self esteem and I relaxed at bit more and just kind of went with the flow. I still get irked when people criticize my language or say I am not as good as Chelsea. Sometimes it hits me so hard I just have to get up and leave. I don't care if it is rude, I just can't let them think they can say those things without some kind of reaction. Leaving is the best method, because then they know they have actually given offence.
Another form of stress relief has been watching the thunderstorms. Those started around mid June, though it didn't actually rain in Badion until the 19th. There really isn't anything like the sound of rain that reminds me more of being home or helps to settle my nerves. It cools down the air and gives me an excuse to stay in my hut. Everyone else does too, so I don't have to feel guilty about it.
Around this time was when I first met with the womens groups. 53 Pulaar women, nearly all of them type A personalities, trying to talk over each other. It was intimidating as hell and really overwhelming. Found out that they don't want just a garden, they want to do some serious crops and a cashew tree nursery. Not my expertise. They were also disappointed when I told them I would not be bringing 'Toubakou' medicine, to which one lady responded, 'then what good are you for us?'
Always nice.
Phone calls from home have really sustained me through the last two months. As well as my new kitten. As this post is always turning into a novel I'll try to truncate the story.
Dauda, one of the Peace Corps officials, came to my village after the 4th of July - where I went to Kedougou as my celebration for successfully making it through the 5 week challenge - as part of a first year torney of visiting the new volunteers to see how things are going. My host father had promised from the beginning that I could have a dog. "There is no problem," he told me. He even told me of villages he knew of that had some pregnant dogs. So what happens? Dauda comes and he, my host dad and my one health post counterpart, Aliou, have a discussion - in Wolof, which I don't understand - and out comes that I cannot in fact have a dog because it would be inappropriate for my dad. Or something to that affect. Big problem with having host nationals come do the visits is that they really aren't very good English speakers so a ton, a ton, is lost in translation. For 7 weeks I thought I could have a dog. Now, let me make this clear, I did not come to my village or to Senegal with the intention of having a dog. I just know a lot of volunteers who have a dog and the companionship is invaluable. My thought was, if it was okay with my family, I would get a dog. So my host dad, at volunteer visit back in April, said it was okay to have a dog. So I started planning for it.
Then to find out I could not have one after being told I could was extremely frustrating. I was disappointed. And when I asked why he didn't tell me before, the answer was that in the Senegalese culture you don't deny things to guests. So they just let me think I could have one. I can't help but wonder what would have happened if I had come back to Badion one day with a puppy. Would he have said 'no'? Or just continued on the same 'guest' route and said it was okay. I didn't come here wanting to offend anyone or doing things that were culturally inappropriate. My friend Julia, who is the closest volunteer to me, had three puppies reserved for herself, me and another volunteer. Within a week of that conversation with Dauda, I would have had a dog.
Sufficed to say, I told Dauda that he had to tell my dad that this sort of 'guest' mentality had to stop. If I ask to do something, or want to have something, he had to be direct and tell me yes or no directly. Apparently he agreed, but we'll see how it goes. Because when I hear 'yes' I assume that is exactly what it means.
So I have this cat. I mentioned once to my sister, Kumba (who is 15, or so she thinks, as age really isn't kept track of here), that a cat would be useful for the mouse who scurries around my room at night. The next thing I know, I get back from Kedougou and my younger siblings say "your cat is at a compound near the lumo. When do you want to get it?"
Her name is Tennan (which means Monday in Pulaar, and is also the name of one of my host mothers), and she's earned her keep by killing a mouse fairly early on in her stay. Not to say she hasn't been difficult or that haven't asked myself why I ever said anything in the first place, but at the moment I wouldn't trade her playful cuteness for anything. I love how she'll crawl up onto my bed and fall asleep on my stomach. I've never been a cat person before, but when it comes to companionship over here, I'll take anything. And she killed a mouse, so it isn't like she isn't useful.
I guess I've been a bit negative so far, so let me try and round out this post with some positive:
- My dad and I have a really great relationship. He's protective, kind, loving towards his kids (though harsh when he catches them doing things wrong) and he and I have become fairly good friends. He gets really upset when people call me 'Toubako' and when the Euro cup was going on we'd sit together and listen and I would tell him if someone scored (the radio transmission came from the Gambia and was thus in English)
-Jarta, the Elementary school principle, is one of my best friends in my village. He is so nice, so helpful (he built my bed and helped me put up my mosquito net and tarp above my bed), and always has a great attitude and always has a smile for me to cheer me up. He also has bought me like a million mangoes, alway appreciated.
-My Siblings: despite the fact that two of them are hellions, I really do like most of them and it's great when I come back from Kolda or when I came back from Kedougou and I was gone for a week, they always run up and shout, "Aisatou Arti" (Aisatou came back!). Had some great moments of me falling in the mud or them trying to speak English. They always want me to play games with them and love it when I chase them accross the compound.
-Hawa Sen - a woman who lives in a hut nearby. She makes breakfast sandwhiches and she's really become another one of my friends. Her son, Saliu, is a pudgy bundle of squirming cuteness that has only just started to walk. I love playing with him and she occasionally gives me free coffee or a sandwhich (which is either butter or bean. Don't get confused, there really aren't any sandwhiches that we think of them. It is a baggett with beans or mayo or butter or chocolate sauce)
-My American Family - I can tell you right now that I don't think I would still be here if it weren't for all of my family that has supported me through cards, letters, pictures and packages. I can't even begin to properly thank all of them for everything.
My days in village are pretty humdrum. The work hasn't really started yet as the first three months are really just for learning the language and the village, so there isn't a lot to report on that end. Made a garden, that may or may not survive since all the seeds came from America and the bugs here are pretty intense. Termites are horrible, ants are relentless and with the rainy season flies and mosquitos are horrible. I am a moveable feast for mosquitoes and fire ants. My legs are in fact currently wrapped up in guaze and ace bandage to try and heal the sores (because I scratch) and protect from further bites.
Ramadan began 2 weeks ago and that always proves a challenge. I'll go over it in more detail in the other post, but it is a very tense month of no eating or drinking water from sunup to sundown. In this heat, while everyone still works in the fields, I can't believe the health post isn't overrun by heat stroke victims. It is tough on those who sell food for a living and it just sort of depresses the whole atmosphere because people get very cranky - understandably so - and their tempers are short. I am not fasting and loving all the food that was sent to me in the packages I have received. It helps me a ton and I feel no guilt in not fasting. Though I was told by three separate women that I should fast because I'm fat.
I've lost nearly 20 lbs while being here. I'm far from fat, thank you very much.
IST - in service training - starts August 23rd, so I'll be back in Thies for a week and a half. Going to raid the Bon Marche of cereal, ice cream and other luxeries. Already planning a pizza dinner with other friends.
I know I've missed a lot, hopefully I can remedy it in future posts, but I'll leave this novel how it is. I do appologize for how all over the place it is.
Cheers for now,
Christine
I've been trying to figure out how I would put this blog together for the last couple weeks. So much has happened in the last two months - physically, emotionally - that it is hard to really relay everything, nor do I think it is possible to actually do that. So I'll get as much across here that I can, and the rest will have to stay in the pages of my journal and the little black book I carry around in village to write down words I don't know and observations.
My plan is to write two posts: one for my personal experiences and feelings, the other for cultural/village observations. Please forgive me for leaving things out, or even glossing over details as the first five weeks of my village life are a bit of a blur of unbearable heat, tons of frustration, lots of confusion and homesickness.
And it was two months ago, so escuse my poor memory as well.
So here goes.
I arrived in Badion in the afternoon of May 23rd, got out of the air conditioned truck and wanted to pass out from the heat. The hottest part of the year here is April thru Mid June. So I arrived right in the middle of crazy heat and had to unpack everything. That whole day was a bit of a blur. It is strange to think back on it. I didn't know anyone, could hardly speak the language (which still holds true today) and I was extremely self conscious. It didn't help that my family only knew that I was coming about two hours before I arrived, that particular fact made me very upset because the week before my counterpart had called me on the day I was originally supposed to install and asked why I didn't show up. I called the man responsible for informing our families and he swore he told my family. Obviously not. So this time I called the same man two days before I installed and asked if they told my family when I was installing. He said yes. So I thought everything was a-okay.
Obviously not.
My APCD, the man in charge of the Health sector of volunteers, called me on the way to my village and said he couldn't get ahold of my counterparts or family. So I had to find the number of the middle school principle from my village and ask him to inform my family (he speaks very good English, which is how I managed it).
So, with two hours notice, I didn't get the same kind of big fanfare that most other volunteers got upon their arrival. For my own personal preferences, I am glad of it because I felt uncomfortable and awkward enough as it was. The women kept asking me to dance (and their kind of dancing is not at all like Western and I can't dance anyway) so I resisted, telling them I couldn't dance, but at last I relented and just did this spinning thing in the middle of the circle. They all laughed and now they know for sure that I can't dance. So now when they asked me to dance, it is far more of a joke and they don't expect me to dance. Thank God.
That first night I was visited by giant spiders and an army of black ants crawled up my walls the next day. Freaked me out and I ended up running to my host dad, Mamadou, who is the chief, and asking for help. He just used my broom to sweep them off the walls and stuck a rock in the whole to their empire. Always a good experience.
Insects are the bane of my existence right now, but that is jumping ahead a little so I'll hold off for the moment.
Chickens, roosters, donkeys, cows, sheep and goats wake me up each morning. I know when most people think of Africa and its animals, they think of lions and hyenas, zebras and giraffes, but they don't exist here. Senegal, really, is one giant farm. There are monkeys, but it isn't like they are hanging from every tree. All the wildlife is in fact domesticated or just birds. So sorry folks, no pictures of lions on the prowl.
Also during those first few days random people would come into my room and just look around. Really awkward and very uncomfortable, but that is just part of their culture. Privacy and private property really doesn't exist - at least among family or friends - so it has been really difficult to set boundaries to my hut and get people to respect those boundaries. It also didn't help that in the beginning I didn't have a curtain across my door, so everyone could see in all the time. That was remedied after the first market day - Sunday - where my dad helped me get a hammer, nails, curtain and he bought meat (which was not a pleasant sight) for lunch that day.
A scorpion crawled through my room the second night and my neighbor, the elementary school principle, helped me kill it.
To escape the onslaught of children and people the first couple days I just escaped to a Mango tree behind my hut and brought my Pulaar flash cards with me. I ended up building some credit with the kids by doing that actually, because I could pick mangoes and throw them down. Ended up spending the first week following the kids when they asked me to come so I could climb into the trees they couldn't get into. I'll tell you right now there is nothing compared to picking a mango and then eating it right there in the tree.
I know I'll miss the mangoes when I do get home. The season is over - or very nearly - and I already miss them.
The kids taught me some of their games, including a variation on Jacks, hopscotch and a game that is played in the dirt with rocks that reminds me a bit like checkers. I'll talk a bit more about these games in terms of the culture in a second post, but it was a bit disturbing to find that there is no strategy or tactics in these games. It is all about scoring. Nothing else.
Language was the foundation of every frustration, coupled with the heat, is just made for some extremely hard first weeks. My community counterpart was in the Gambia for the first 7 weeks of my service, so instead of having a guide to the village, I wandered around from compound to compound on my own and greeted people, wrote down words that I didn't know and endured the constant, ceaseless comparisons of my language skills to Chelsea's (she's the volunteer at my road town and the volunteer who has spent the most time in my village as they were preparing for me to come). They laughed at me, found out a few of them were calling me an idiot - there is a boutique owner who knows some English and he helps me with things I don't know - and my self esteem, already low from having failed my Pulaar test - took blow after blow.
As I look back at it now I honestly don't know how I managed to survive five solid weeks in village. The kids in my family are nuts, and there are two that I absolutely hate.
I was never a very 'kid friendly' person in terms of wanting to have my own or be a babysitter and such. I just don't have patience for it. This country has transformed that impatience to really just despising children. I know full well that the circumstances of their lives - including having 3 moms and that there are 14 of them in one family - makes everything completely different, but in some ways I feel like this setting for child raising just brings out the worst aspects of children to the nth degree. They don't really get to be kids - as they work in the fields or are doing dishes or taking care of their younger siblings, depending on their gender - and they aren't really parented because their mothers are so busy cooking, pounding grain, and doing so many other things. They are left to their own devices from a very early age and responsible behavior and discipline is not taught. Punishment is having the crap beat out of them. So kids are brutal to each other, sneaky in their transgressions against each other so they don't get beat and free to indulge in their cruelest vices.
After telling my family over and over again that I couldn't eat fish or palm oil and them ignoring it, I ended up getting very sick for three days. Only after that miserable experience did they finally believe me when I said I can't eat certain items, and I added this rice porridge that they eat for breakfast and occasional dinner. The porridge with peanuts was also added to the list along with the drive version of the latter. No idea if those things really made me sick, but it was what I was throwing up for 3 days until it was nothing but oil coming up my throat. So I don't eat those things and I haven't been sick since.
More heat, language problems and bad phone reception filled those five weeks, though I got far more comfortable in Badion, got to know people and my language did improve a bit. I am still woefully dismal at it, but at this point I've decided that I don't really care. There are enough things that cause stress that if I continue to bluster and worry over my language skills I'll go insane. At this point, it is what it is and if I end up - at the end of 2 years - being the worst Pulaar speaker in the history of Peace Corps Senegal and I'm not going to care. My replacement can be amazing at it. Right now I just figure my job is to teach my village what it is like to have a white person in the village, what their language sounds like coming from a westerner and that not all Americans are rolling in dough.
That helped with my self esteem and I relaxed at bit more and just kind of went with the flow. I still get irked when people criticize my language or say I am not as good as Chelsea. Sometimes it hits me so hard I just have to get up and leave. I don't care if it is rude, I just can't let them think they can say those things without some kind of reaction. Leaving is the best method, because then they know they have actually given offence.
Another form of stress relief has been watching the thunderstorms. Those started around mid June, though it didn't actually rain in Badion until the 19th. There really isn't anything like the sound of rain that reminds me more of being home or helps to settle my nerves. It cools down the air and gives me an excuse to stay in my hut. Everyone else does too, so I don't have to feel guilty about it.
Around this time was when I first met with the womens groups. 53 Pulaar women, nearly all of them type A personalities, trying to talk over each other. It was intimidating as hell and really overwhelming. Found out that they don't want just a garden, they want to do some serious crops and a cashew tree nursery. Not my expertise. They were also disappointed when I told them I would not be bringing 'Toubakou' medicine, to which one lady responded, 'then what good are you for us?'
Always nice.
Phone calls from home have really sustained me through the last two months. As well as my new kitten. As this post is always turning into a novel I'll try to truncate the story.
Dauda, one of the Peace Corps officials, came to my village after the 4th of July - where I went to Kedougou as my celebration for successfully making it through the 5 week challenge - as part of a first year torney of visiting the new volunteers to see how things are going. My host father had promised from the beginning that I could have a dog. "There is no problem," he told me. He even told me of villages he knew of that had some pregnant dogs. So what happens? Dauda comes and he, my host dad and my one health post counterpart, Aliou, have a discussion - in Wolof, which I don't understand - and out comes that I cannot in fact have a dog because it would be inappropriate for my dad. Or something to that affect. Big problem with having host nationals come do the visits is that they really aren't very good English speakers so a ton, a ton, is lost in translation. For 7 weeks I thought I could have a dog. Now, let me make this clear, I did not come to my village or to Senegal with the intention of having a dog. I just know a lot of volunteers who have a dog and the companionship is invaluable. My thought was, if it was okay with my family, I would get a dog. So my host dad, at volunteer visit back in April, said it was okay to have a dog. So I started planning for it.
Then to find out I could not have one after being told I could was extremely frustrating. I was disappointed. And when I asked why he didn't tell me before, the answer was that in the Senegalese culture you don't deny things to guests. So they just let me think I could have one. I can't help but wonder what would have happened if I had come back to Badion one day with a puppy. Would he have said 'no'? Or just continued on the same 'guest' route and said it was okay. I didn't come here wanting to offend anyone or doing things that were culturally inappropriate. My friend Julia, who is the closest volunteer to me, had three puppies reserved for herself, me and another volunteer. Within a week of that conversation with Dauda, I would have had a dog.
Sufficed to say, I told Dauda that he had to tell my dad that this sort of 'guest' mentality had to stop. If I ask to do something, or want to have something, he had to be direct and tell me yes or no directly. Apparently he agreed, but we'll see how it goes. Because when I hear 'yes' I assume that is exactly what it means.
So I have this cat. I mentioned once to my sister, Kumba (who is 15, or so she thinks, as age really isn't kept track of here), that a cat would be useful for the mouse who scurries around my room at night. The next thing I know, I get back from Kedougou and my younger siblings say "your cat is at a compound near the lumo. When do you want to get it?"
Her name is Tennan (which means Monday in Pulaar, and is also the name of one of my host mothers), and she's earned her keep by killing a mouse fairly early on in her stay. Not to say she hasn't been difficult or that haven't asked myself why I ever said anything in the first place, but at the moment I wouldn't trade her playful cuteness for anything. I love how she'll crawl up onto my bed and fall asleep on my stomach. I've never been a cat person before, but when it comes to companionship over here, I'll take anything. And she killed a mouse, so it isn't like she isn't useful.
I guess I've been a bit negative so far, so let me try and round out this post with some positive:
- My dad and I have a really great relationship. He's protective, kind, loving towards his kids (though harsh when he catches them doing things wrong) and he and I have become fairly good friends. He gets really upset when people call me 'Toubako' and when the Euro cup was going on we'd sit together and listen and I would tell him if someone scored (the radio transmission came from the Gambia and was thus in English)
-Jarta, the Elementary school principle, is one of my best friends in my village. He is so nice, so helpful (he built my bed and helped me put up my mosquito net and tarp above my bed), and always has a great attitude and always has a smile for me to cheer me up. He also has bought me like a million mangoes, alway appreciated.
-My Siblings: despite the fact that two of them are hellions, I really do like most of them and it's great when I come back from Kolda or when I came back from Kedougou and I was gone for a week, they always run up and shout, "Aisatou Arti" (Aisatou came back!). Had some great moments of me falling in the mud or them trying to speak English. They always want me to play games with them and love it when I chase them accross the compound.
-Hawa Sen - a woman who lives in a hut nearby. She makes breakfast sandwhiches and she's really become another one of my friends. Her son, Saliu, is a pudgy bundle of squirming cuteness that has only just started to walk. I love playing with him and she occasionally gives me free coffee or a sandwhich (which is either butter or bean. Don't get confused, there really aren't any sandwhiches that we think of them. It is a baggett with beans or mayo or butter or chocolate sauce)
-My American Family - I can tell you right now that I don't think I would still be here if it weren't for all of my family that has supported me through cards, letters, pictures and packages. I can't even begin to properly thank all of them for everything.
My days in village are pretty humdrum. The work hasn't really started yet as the first three months are really just for learning the language and the village, so there isn't a lot to report on that end. Made a garden, that may or may not survive since all the seeds came from America and the bugs here are pretty intense. Termites are horrible, ants are relentless and with the rainy season flies and mosquitos are horrible. I am a moveable feast for mosquitoes and fire ants. My legs are in fact currently wrapped up in guaze and ace bandage to try and heal the sores (because I scratch) and protect from further bites.
Ramadan began 2 weeks ago and that always proves a challenge. I'll go over it in more detail in the other post, but it is a very tense month of no eating or drinking water from sunup to sundown. In this heat, while everyone still works in the fields, I can't believe the health post isn't overrun by heat stroke victims. It is tough on those who sell food for a living and it just sort of depresses the whole atmosphere because people get very cranky - understandably so - and their tempers are short. I am not fasting and loving all the food that was sent to me in the packages I have received. It helps me a ton and I feel no guilt in not fasting. Though I was told by three separate women that I should fast because I'm fat.
I've lost nearly 20 lbs while being here. I'm far from fat, thank you very much.
IST - in service training - starts August 23rd, so I'll be back in Thies for a week and a half. Going to raid the Bon Marche of cereal, ice cream and other luxeries. Already planning a pizza dinner with other friends.
I know I've missed a lot, hopefully I can remedy it in future posts, but I'll leave this novel how it is. I do appologize for how all over the place it is.
Cheers for now,
Christine
Sunday, May 20, 2012
11 Hours and 15 dead cows later...
So after about 11 hours, 15 dead cows sighted on the side of the road, three Disney movie soundtracks (a couple a few times each), Beethoven's 6th symphony, Rossini's Barber of Seville and William Tell overtures, Tchaikovsky's 1812 , a few rounds of Disneyland ride themes, several hours of conversation with Adrienne and Julia (who were dropped off in Tambacounda and Koalak respectively before I continued on to Kolda alone) and some brief cat naps, I arrived in Kolda. Got all my stuff unloaded and finished the book I had begun at my volunteer visit.
One thing I was not expecting was that apparently this is the time of the year that termites are born. They are as thick as flies at an open air fish market, and love to swarm around artificial light like moths. Who can worry about mosquitoes when there are termites flying EVERYWHERE!!! On the drive down, the landscape was full of giant termite mounds, some easily 15 feet tall, and the air was so thick with them the windshield looked like a thousand birds had pooped on it. The driver tried to wash them off with the washing fluid and wipers - about an hour after we got through the worst of it - and all he ended up doing was spreading bug guts across the windshield and made the visibility worse.
Oh well.
Tomorrow we are going out to the bank so I can get money - the Peace Corps just gave me a checkbook because apparently only the bank can give me a debit card - and then go buy lots and lots of stuff. Looking forward to that, though it is extremely hot down here. Muggy too since it has rained a bit the last two days.
A note on the whole 'dead cow' thing: I mentioned it because it is a really big deal. People here do not put their money in banks. It is extremely expensive (bank fees for us are nearly $200 a year, which is more than some people make in a year) and it just isn't feasible when the nearest bank is 75 or maybe 100km away. So their savings - their 'emergency cash fund' - is in livestock. Cows, depending on the type and where you are in the country, can cost anywhere from 100 to 300 dollars. Unlike in the US, the Senegalese don't sell their cows for slaughter as a profit generating business. They only sell and/or butcher their cattle if they are desperate and have completely run out of money. So if their cows get hit by, say, a giant semi truck, they could easily be bankrupted.
So fifteen cows dead on the side of the road. Someone may have lost their entire savings.
I am extremely nervous but also excited to finally get to my village, actually unpack my stuff and make my own little home here in Africa. Will also take this moment to say that even though it will just be a hole in the ground, I am really looking forward to having my own toilet/shower area. The privacy (such as it is living in a fish bowl) will be greatly appreciated.
Cheers to all,
Christine
Oh well.
Tomorrow we are going out to the bank so I can get money - the Peace Corps just gave me a checkbook because apparently only the bank can give me a debit card - and then go buy lots and lots of stuff. Looking forward to that, though it is extremely hot down here. Muggy too since it has rained a bit the last two days.
A note on the whole 'dead cow' thing: I mentioned it because it is a really big deal. People here do not put their money in banks. It is extremely expensive (bank fees for us are nearly $200 a year, which is more than some people make in a year) and it just isn't feasible when the nearest bank is 75 or maybe 100km away. So their savings - their 'emergency cash fund' - is in livestock. Cows, depending on the type and where you are in the country, can cost anywhere from 100 to 300 dollars. Unlike in the US, the Senegalese don't sell their cows for slaughter as a profit generating business. They only sell and/or butcher their cattle if they are desperate and have completely run out of money. So if their cows get hit by, say, a giant semi truck, they could easily be bankrupted.
So fifteen cows dead on the side of the road. Someone may have lost their entire savings.
I am extremely nervous but also excited to finally get to my village, actually unpack my stuff and make my own little home here in Africa. Will also take this moment to say that even though it will just be a hole in the ground, I am really looking forward to having my own toilet/shower area. The privacy (such as it is living in a fish bowl) will be greatly appreciated.
Cheers to all,
Christine
Friday, May 18, 2012
Off To The Bush....After a hitch or two
Just as my first language test in French when PST began, I came back from my last host family stay in Mbour with a very bad cold that just got progressively worse as the two days passed between returning to Thies and taking the second LPI. At 10 in the morning, my body aching, brain fuzzy, throat burning from a night of coughing so hard I nearly threw up several times and my nose like a snot faucet, I sat in a little room with two language teachers being asked questions in Pulaar while I struggled to think in English.
Sufficed to say, I failed.
I got Intermediate Low as my score.
That alone would not have caused the complete emotional breakdown that proceeded after I had a small chat with the program and language coordinator. The not so hidden suggestion that the reason why I didn't pass was because I didn't really want to be here so I didn't really try was not lost on me. And I got royally pissed. When I am sick and can barely breath and have only had a few hours of sleep, I sob uncontrollably when I get angry. Because of course I left a perfectly good job, cut my savings in half to pay off a loan and put off grad school and came 7000 miles just for a nine week summer camp in Africa.
No one asked me if I wanted to be here. They just decided I failed because I didn't want to be here.
Let's make something very clear: if I didn't want to be here, I would not have applied let alone done everything else to be here. There were a thousand and one times when I thought about leaving and didn't. Because I bloody well want to be here.
Anywho, long story short (too late, I know) I had to stay another week for more language classes, with another test set for today. As they told us in the beginning of PST, if we didn't pass our language proficiency tests, we couldn't stay. You have to pass.
They should put an astrix on the 'have to' part. Before we even had our test today the language coordinator came and told me and Adrienne (the other girl in my language group who also only received an Intermediate Low score) that we'd be leaving for Kolda tomorrow morning and install on Monday (Adrienne) and Wednesday (me).
Seems to me that it didn't really end up mattering if we formally passed or not.
Oh well, after 10 weeks of stressing on PST and language tests, now I get to worry about actually getting to my village and how the real Peace Corps work will be. It is going to be a whole different kind of hard/challenging/frustrating/rewarding/crazy. But it is what I want to do and why I came here in the first place. So in a wacko sort of way I'm actually looking forward to it.
And really, this last extra week I've had at the center has been extremely beneficial. I'm over my cold, got to have some real sleep, changed malaria medication, found out I've lost 12 pounds since arriving and had some solid language training my my awesome LCF, Jieba, at her house. We even made some EXTREMELY good spaghetti at her house. Also made cheese sauce that, mixed, was really really good. Never would have mixed them in the States, but I have a feeling this is not going to be the first 'would never usually do that in the States' food moments in the next two years.
I'd like to take this moment to thank all of my friends, fellow new volunteers and family for all of their support. Not just for this last week (though, really, THANK YOU for the last week) but for this entire process. From application to departure, from miserable moments in Mbour to the happy play time with the cute little twins at my host family's house. Thank you, thank you, thank you a million times. I'll never truly be able to thank you guys enough.
I'll have internet at the regional house in Kolda until Tuesday, as I install on Wednesday. I'll try to post some pictures of swearing in and perhaps a last little, 'see ya in a few weeks' post. There is what is called the 5 week challenge. Basically it's a challenge to stay in village for 5 weeks without spending a night at the regional house. I'd like to make that goal. So it'll be, probably, that long until I get to post again.
Thank you again.
Cheers!
Christine
Sufficed to say, I failed.
I got Intermediate Low as my score.
That alone would not have caused the complete emotional breakdown that proceeded after I had a small chat with the program and language coordinator. The not so hidden suggestion that the reason why I didn't pass was because I didn't really want to be here so I didn't really try was not lost on me. And I got royally pissed. When I am sick and can barely breath and have only had a few hours of sleep, I sob uncontrollably when I get angry. Because of course I left a perfectly good job, cut my savings in half to pay off a loan and put off grad school and came 7000 miles just for a nine week summer camp in Africa.
No one asked me if I wanted to be here. They just decided I failed because I didn't want to be here.
Let's make something very clear: if I didn't want to be here, I would not have applied let alone done everything else to be here. There were a thousand and one times when I thought about leaving and didn't. Because I bloody well want to be here.
Anywho, long story short (too late, I know) I had to stay another week for more language classes, with another test set for today. As they told us in the beginning of PST, if we didn't pass our language proficiency tests, we couldn't stay. You have to pass.
They should put an astrix on the 'have to' part. Before we even had our test today the language coordinator came and told me and Adrienne (the other girl in my language group who also only received an Intermediate Low score) that we'd be leaving for Kolda tomorrow morning and install on Monday (Adrienne) and Wednesday (me).
Seems to me that it didn't really end up mattering if we formally passed or not.
Oh well, after 10 weeks of stressing on PST and language tests, now I get to worry about actually getting to my village and how the real Peace Corps work will be. It is going to be a whole different kind of hard/challenging/frustrating/rewarding/crazy. But it is what I want to do and why I came here in the first place. So in a wacko sort of way I'm actually looking forward to it.
And really, this last extra week I've had at the center has been extremely beneficial. I'm over my cold, got to have some real sleep, changed malaria medication, found out I've lost 12 pounds since arriving and had some solid language training my my awesome LCF, Jieba, at her house. We even made some EXTREMELY good spaghetti at her house. Also made cheese sauce that, mixed, was really really good. Never would have mixed them in the States, but I have a feeling this is not going to be the first 'would never usually do that in the States' food moments in the next two years.
I'd like to take this moment to thank all of my friends, fellow new volunteers and family for all of their support. Not just for this last week (though, really, THANK YOU for the last week) but for this entire process. From application to departure, from miserable moments in Mbour to the happy play time with the cute little twins at my host family's house. Thank you, thank you, thank you a million times. I'll never truly be able to thank you guys enough.
I'll have internet at the regional house in Kolda until Tuesday, as I install on Wednesday. I'll try to post some pictures of swearing in and perhaps a last little, 'see ya in a few weeks' post. There is what is called the 5 week challenge. Basically it's a challenge to stay in village for 5 weeks without spending a night at the regional house. I'd like to make that goal. So it'll be, probably, that long until I get to post again.
Thank you again.
Cheers!
Christine
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Two Months In
Three more days. That is all that is left of training. We've been in country for two months now, learning a new language, living in a totally new culture, trying to adapt to the environment, change in diet and the occasional EXTREME frustration at so many little things that there are too many to list here. Two whole months.
And it comes down to four more days until swearing in.
Oh, and a little language test on Wednesday.
But we're not worried about that, are we?
Nervous. As. Hell.
The required level to move into our permanent site is Intermediate Mid. From what I can understand - as they really don't explain it to us that well - that level indicates that you can carry on a basic conversation, ask some basic questions, don't need to ask people to repeat what they say and explain why you are in Senegal, what the Peace Corps is and what you are going to do in the country. Perhaps it doesn't seem like a lot. Or maybe it does. All I know is that from the point of view of my host family in Mbour, I speak the worst Pulaar out of the three of us in my language group.
I tend to agree with them.
But I suppose I'll find out just how bad I am tomorrow afternoon when they tell us our results. My test is at 9:40 am. I probably won't sleep much tonight either.
I suppose I need to tell myself now - and continue to tell myself afterwards - that what I know already is an accomplishment and I should not compare myself to all the other trainees who are learning their respective languages as well. Way easier said than done, but hey, I'll give it a shot anyway. Peace Corps is supposed to be famous for those personality/life altering things. Maybe I'll be turned into an optimistic while I'm here.
Doubtful, but considering two months ago I got embarrassed when a woman was breastfeeding while sitting next to me and now it's just normal and I don't even seem to notice, I think anything is possible in the next two years.
Speaking of the next two years...
My install day is May 15th (as long as I pass the language test and don't have to spend an extra week at in Thies doing intensive language study in order to get up to the right level). So we swear in on the 11th. Drive to Kolda on the 13th, have ONE day to buy everything I need (the 14th) and then move in the next day. A note on the buying what I need - and this is a rant: the Peace Corps differentiates between new site volunteers and replacement volunteers by adding 20 thousand CFA to our move-in allotment. That is about 40 dollars. 40 bucks. Even in this country, 40 dollars doesn't go far to set up a house you'll live in for 2 years. So, for those of us who need everything from a bed frame, to cooking supplies, sheets, buckets for water storage, cups, a rug for our floor and a mattress, etc, the amount of money they give us is not enough. But for those who get to inherit the bed, buckets, chairs, tables, etc..they have an inordinate amount of cash to spend on the luxuries we - as brand new volunteers in a brand new site without even the basic tools - may never get to have because the Peace Corps also pays us all nearly the same per month, with only few differences between those in super rural areas who will have to travel a lot to get places we are required to go and those who live very close to cities/resources.
It is bull shit - in my very small opinion - and it is completely and totally unfair to those volunteers who have to try and find the very basic necessities to be able to sleep and bathe everyday from day one. Especially when a lot of us who are in new sites are extremely remote and do not have access to the larger towns in order to feasibly purchase and transport those needed items later on in our service if we can afford them.
Okay, I'll end the rant here.
Swearing in is televised here in Senegal and one person from each language group speaks in front of all the assembled important people to say a little in the local language about the training and such. Julia Bowers is speaking for the Pulaars. She is amazing at the language and will totally rock the speech. Look for the video to be posted on Youtube. I'll try to post the link on my facebook page if I get the chance.
My counterparts both told me before they left Thies to study hard and get intermediate mid so I can install on time. I told them 'inchalla' -which means 'God willing'.
We went to Dakar for a quick tour of the Peace Corps office and got the most amazing ice cream ever at this place called N'Ice Cream. They even had an Obama flavored ice cream. They love Obama here. They've got Obama underwear, Obama mattresses, t-shirts and baseball hats. It's hilarious.
We also went to a very popular tourist beach called Popenguine. It was gorgeous, glorious, and all things wonderful. Really didn't want to leave. It was so great to go swimming, wear my swimsuit and work on getting some sun to those parts of my arms and legs that are always covered.
We also made some pretty darn good spaghetti and I snacked on some candy I have fallen in love with here. It was a nice break to have before returning to CBT and then back here to Thies for the last stressful stint to swearing in. My last stay in Mbour was a bit weird and the goodbye was a little hard only because I will miss some of the members of my new little family - though I happily said 'good riddance' to that damn city. We exchanged phone numbers before I left so I hope when they do call me I'll be able to understand them.
Hardest thing was knowing that I won't be there to see the twins, Abby and Hamed, grow up a bit more. I would have loved for them to be an age where they could remember living with a white person and perhaps have them not call other white people 'Toubabs', but that is probably asking too much. They are also really close to being able to crawl. Their eyes would rove the compound, seeing all these places they want to explore and being soooo close to being able to go there. Abby is going to be hard to keep an eye on for sure and I don't even want to think of the things she'll get into once she starts walking.
Perhaps I'll be able to visit further down the line in my service, but neither of them will remember me. That will be hard.
We went to Dakar for a quick tour of the Peace Corps office and got the most amazing ice cream ever at this place called N'Ice Cream. They even had an Obama flavored ice cream. They love Obama here. They've got Obama underwear, Obama mattresses, t-shirts and baseball hats. It's hilarious.
We also went to a very popular tourist beach called Popenguine. It was gorgeous, glorious, and all things wonderful. Really didn't want to leave. It was so great to go swimming, wear my swimsuit and work on getting some sun to those parts of my arms and legs that are always covered.
We also made some pretty darn good spaghetti and I snacked on some candy I have fallen in love with here. It was a nice break to have before returning to CBT and then back here to Thies for the last stressful stint to swearing in. My last stay in Mbour was a bit weird and the goodbye was a little hard only because I will miss some of the members of my new little family - though I happily said 'good riddance' to that damn city. We exchanged phone numbers before I left so I hope when they do call me I'll be able to understand them.
Hardest thing was knowing that I won't be there to see the twins, Abby and Hamed, grow up a bit more. I would have loved for them to be an age where they could remember living with a white person and perhaps have them not call other white people 'Toubabs', but that is probably asking too much. They are also really close to being able to crawl. Their eyes would rove the compound, seeing all these places they want to explore and being soooo close to being able to go there. Abby is going to be hard to keep an eye on for sure and I don't even want to think of the things she'll get into once she starts walking.
Perhaps I'll be able to visit further down the line in my service, but neither of them will remember me. That will be hard.
I'll try to post either after my language test or before I move to the land of no internet to give a last update before 'going dark' for who knows how long.
Cheers!
Christine
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Two Weeks to Go
 |
| Me with a new born goat. I named him Oreo. |
Only two weeks remain of PST and my nerves are starting to get the better of me. Today our community counterparts - respected, skilled, enthusiastic members of our villages - started to arrive for two days of sessions on what their job will be, getting to know what our training has been, get some of their own, and also getting to know each other. That last one is particularly important because we'll be working with them and relying on them for our projects, language learning, cultural interventions (ie - no, wearing pants does not mean she's easy), and friendship for the next two years. Mine showed up this morning around 10 or so. Did not expect that. They took the night bus apparently.
Nothing says, 'go study your Pulaar' like having your counterpart ask, 'you still don't know Pulaar?'
I'm doomed.
The last long stay in Mbour ended on a very tired note. The malaria medication I am on, called Mefloquine (no, I have no idea if that is really how it is spelled), does not agree with my system very well. At first I had dreams so vivid I didn't know if I was really asleep or awake, so when I would actually wake up (my alarm going and everything) I felt like I hadn't slept at all. I think I've finally moved passed that point, so now every Thursday night (as Thursday is the day I take the pill), I can't sleep until around 4 in the morning. So Friday's are extremely sluggish, and Friday is the day we left our site for Thies. I know my host sister in law, Asu, thought I was a little more sluggish than usual. Granted, I was up at 5:45 to pack nearly everything and the car picked me up at 7 - so it was earlier than usual anyway. We've only got a brief two and a half day stay left in the CBT site before we swear in, so I needed to get as much stuff as I could out.
The night before one of my other sister's in law, Nogoy, made me 'espaget' (their pronunciation of spaghetti), with just noodles, a hard boiled egg, carrots, onions and a greenbean-ish veggie. She only made it for me, so when her daughter came in with the plate and said 'Aan, goto' (you only/alone) I was both surprised and dissappointed. I never realized just how accustomed I had become to eating with other people until that moment. Every lunch and dinner I have shared a bowl with at least one other person. Breakfast is always eaten alone and I don't mind it at all. But dinner? NEVER. I felt lonely. I know she did this as a special dinner for me. I know she was trying to make something she believed I would actually eat (as I am fairly sure that they ALL know that I really can't stomach most of what they make - literally. I get the worst stomachaches and nausea after some meals), but the eating alone caught me off guard.
As did the sudden depressed feelings I had when I had to eat alone in my room.
Me, a girl who always prefers to eat by herself (as my parents can attest to), hated eating by myself.
I guess that is one of those personality changes the Peace Corps is famous for.
Another may now be my enjoyment of looking for, bargaining for and purchasing fabric. Never been a fabric person (I know my grandmother is probably laughing herself silly at the change in my reality), but to get clothes made and stuff that actually fits in with the culture it's what needs to be done. I do have my clothes made, but I have yet to get pictures of me in them. Will get those done and post them.
Haggeling is how business is done in this part of the world and when you're white, the quoted price is always at the very least twice what it should be, though usually three to four times higher. Arguing over price is awesome. From taxis to fabric, food to jewelry, haggle, haggle, haggle. So much fun. Friday I found that I needed a new duffle bag to pack some food in (for when I move in, I'm going to the supermarket and loading up). So I went to the market, found a bag I liked and got the guy to bring down the price from 3700 CFA - about $7.50 - to 2000 CFA - about $4. My language teacher said I did a good job, so I felt happy about it.
Turned out to be fortuitous timing as the same day I received two much awaited care packages and I had no other place to store all the food other than that new bag. (A big thanks to my parents and cousin, Cory, for the awesome food load!) I'm contemplating buying a second.
I've been struggling to figure out what to put down in these blog posts. Once I am at site, I will have no electricity and the nearest internet access will be about a 30km bike ride. Perhaps that will give me more of an incentive to plan out these posts ahead of time and make them a little more meaty/substantive and less 'daily activity'-ish.
At the moment nerves over my language and how I'll integrate in my village are overrunning all other emotions. Heat, dust, bad food - don't seem to matter when I have a test coming up next week and the prospect of moving into a village with high expectations and little ability to communicate.
 |
| From left to right: Mama, Umu - who is holding Abbey and Mohammed , Asu's twins |
 |
| My host sister in law, Asu, and Jobar (in yellow) |
 |
| My 'birthday cake' |
 |
| Getting ready to find out our new home. The map of Senegal is painted on the basket ball court. They blindfold us and take us to the spot on the map where we will be |
 |
| Back yard that has yet to be walled. Tree in background in a Mango tree |
 |
| Back of my nearly done hut |
 |
| A bird I saw on the bike ride to my village |
 |
| The bunny in my care package |
Cheers,
Christine
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)