So I'm going to deviate from my usual posting MO and focus on one particular facet of Senegalese culture: namely the struggle for girls' education. This isn't unique to Senegal by any stretch of the imagination. I'm sure all of you have read, watched or listened to reports on the push to increase girls in schools around the developing world. I know there has been an emphasis on Muslim countries in recent years, but this is a big issue in all poorer countries with predominantly rural communities.
Senegal just happens to fall under all of those categories.
I should start by explaining that the education system here in Senegal is not funded by taxes or supported by a well equipped/funded national department. For kids to go to school their parents have to pay an 'inscription' fee each year, for each child. The price of which varies by grade level. For example, it costs about $8 for a kid to go to the equivalent of 6th thru 8th grade, and $10 for the equivalent of 9th grade. This may not seem like a lot, but when you have four or five or maybe say fourteen kids in school (as my host dad has) the cost becomes huge.
So obstacle number one to girls' continued education, if you hadn't guessed it yet, is an economic one.
Another lies in the basic cultural practices with regard to girls/women. Men rule in this country (as they do in most and used to overwhelmingly in all). Girls 'belong' to their fathers and are utterly at the mercy of their whims. Early [forced] marriage (pre-16) is still very common here in the rural parts of Senegal, despite the fact that it is actually illegal. Enforcement of such laws, unfortunately, is nearly impossible because of the egregious under-funding of the police force, lack of basic roads and communication lines to 'middle of nowhere' rural villages, and the huge disparity in deployment of forces. So if a father wants to marry off their daughter, there is little that can be done.
Further, the role of women in the larger cities is much more 'western' than their rural counterparts. Working for NGOs, the regional government, in stores and boutiques is way more common and possible. In a farm village (like all communities outside of regional capitols and the few large cities that are not capitols) the opportunity to make a living on your own is pretty much non-existent. You either get married and live with your husband or you live with your parents. There are a few exceptions of those girls who can go live with wealthier relatives in larger cities, but it is extremely rare.
Women raise children. That is their purpose. As I have been told far too many times by far too many men, if I do not have children I am not fulfilling my role as a woman and will bring shame to my father and God. (These are the same men, by the way, who want me to find them American wives...*eye roll*)
So, how does all of this apply to girls' education? Let's add up the issues.
Education is expensive. Girls belong to their fathers and their purpose in life is to have children. Enforcing current law is nearly impossible in rural communities where men typically have more children than those in cities (and more wives, which helps increase the child count).
Now, with these issues in mind, let's set up a scenario:
A man, whose only source of income is the peanuts, corn, millet and cotton he plants and harvests, has six children by two wives. The oldest is a girl of 14, followed by a 13 year old boy, a 10 year old girl and three younger boys of 9, 8 and 7. School year is coming up and his last harvest wasn't so great. His oldest kids are both going into sixieme (basically 6th grade). He cant afford to pay for both. The daughter (we'll call her Mata) is extremely smart and has been first in her class for the last three years. The son, on the other hand, is a lazy lout who has only barely managed to scrape by a pass each year.
There is a young man in the village who has expressed interest in Mata. She can cook well and is obedient. She's also physically well developed for her age. In the viewpoint of the father, Mata's greatest contribution would be to get married and start producing children. The boy, no matter how lazy he might be academically, can at least become a farmer in his own right, or perhaps move to a city and be a driver in the 'public transportation' system and support the family that way. Neither of which requires any more education than 'the school of life'.
What do you think the outcome of this scenario is?
How do we prevent Mata from being married off (illegally, I will add) and keep her in school?
Enter the Michelle Sylvester Scholarship run by the Peace Corps Senegal Gender Development program. This is one of the few projects in Peace Corps that has immediate, quantifiable results that has the real potential for 100% success rate. Nine of the top girl students in middle schools across the country (basically every single one that has a volunteer and any other that a volunteer can get to) are picked to have their inscription fees paid for the following school year, three of whom (one from each candidate grade of sixth, seventh and eighth) will be chosen for additional funds to buy supplies like notebooks, pens, pencils and erasers.
Since I returned from my sister's wedding in May I've been working with some amazing teachers and a great principal at my middle school to get this project done. It's been one of the most rewarding (if not the most) things I've done since I arrived in this country. The girls are all amazing, driven, incredibly smart and personable. Two of whom have recently (as in one as recent as two weeks ago) barely escaped forced marriage, only stopped by the fierce interventions by the principal and Sous Prefect (local official with the most power in the 'county' my village is in) who openly threatened the father with arrest if the marriages continued.
I was present at the recent 'intervention' meeting for this particular girl and I felt physically sick with rage and disgust at the attitude of her father. His entire reason for desiring the marriage was that he married his own wife when she was 15, so it was good enough for his daughter. This girl, who is first in her class and wants to be a math teacher, is terrified of her father and I couldn't find a single reason for her not to be. He was insulted and acted indignant at the mere idea that anyone had any right to 'barge in' on his family. She is his daughter after all. No one else had any say in the matter. When at last she had the opportunity to voice her opinion - that she did NOT want to get married - and the principal declared the matter over, he stood up in a rage, stormed from the meeting and left his wife and daughter behind as he rode his bike back to his own village.
[It should also be mentioned that this girl did not want to be married so much that she herself instigated the intervention meeting: she called her math teacher and asked him to take her to Mampatime - the nearest road town at 25km away - so she could talk to the police and find out her options. 99.9% of the time, this does not happen.]
For this next school year, at least, she will not be a financial burden to her father. Her inscription fee will be paid for and I've recommended her for the additional award to pay for supplies as well. Anything to keep her father from having an excuse to keep her out of school.
It costs about $180 to fund the 9 girls for each school. If you are interested in helping out, please go to this link: https://donate.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=685-CFD and put in the comments section of the donation page 'This donation is to support MSS scholarships in PCV Christine Smith's village of Badion”.
Any money over the needed $180 received will be spread out to all other MSS scholarship projects that are still in need of funds, so the more people who donate the better chance a couple hundred girls will be able to go to school when they may not otherwise have been able/likely to.
I've learned a lot about myself in the last 16 months, including all those things I took for granted. Our American education system is far, far from perfect, but I didn't have to walk/ride my bike 4 - 8 miles to get to school and there was never a question of if I would be able to go to school the next year. None of my girl friends in school had to compete with their brothers on who would get to go to school. As I look ahead to my return home and plans to take the GRE's (this November) and LSAT's (next June) so I might go to law school, all I can do is count my blessings that I was fortunate enough to be born in a society that makes my goals within my grasp rather than a pipe dream.
Cheers to all and a very Happy Fourth Of July!
-Christine
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Friday, June 7, 2013
15 Down, 10 To Go
It's been quite a while since I last posted. Three months (shy a couple days) and a lot has happened in that time. Had my second birthday in country, my sister got married (which also had the added bonus of providing 3 days in Disneyland) and the rains have started with quite a bang.
Or perhaps I should say it has started with a hurricane.
Case in point:
I don't remember the season being like this last year, but then again it would be incredibly naive for me to expect all seasons to be the same. But I hadn't expected the severity. Two storms with these kinds of results in a 72 hour period reeks havoc on a culture that has so little to work with and so little cash on hand to pay for any materials the natural environment can't provide. But three days in a row of rain (as there was a small shower in between the storms) got the farmers pulling out their plows and taking inventory of tools. Huge truckloads of seed (corn, millet, peanuts, sorghum, etc) having been pulling into my village and being stored in the newly built 'warehouse' that was built during the cold season.
Another new addition to this rainy season is my cat, Talata, who has never experienced the terror that can be induced by sitting in a thatched roof mud/cement hut while a hurricane is blowing overhead. Last Friday night (the first storm) he got so freaked he jumped out of my window - which is a new addition to my hut and a welcome one for ventilation - and didn't come back until some hours later. Saturday night he vanished off into the darkness and I haven't seen him since. With all the debris from the crazy storm on Sunday I am extremely concerned about his well being.
Yes, I know, he is after all just a cat, and I have another one but (and I hide from all pet owners out there) Talata is my favorite. He is my snuggle buddy. My baby that I literally got up at midnight to feed when he was only a few days old. I look for him every time I go into my hut; my head swivels like a top at every sound that might be a cat and Tennan (my older, girl cat) misses him as well.
Never having a pet before in my life, I haven't faced the prospect of losing one and it is emotionally nerve wracking. I pray everyday that when I get back from my brief stay here in Kolda, upon my arrival back in village my siblings will run up and tell me that Talata has returned.
In other news:
I've been working on the Michelle Silvester Scholarship for my middle school. You can find info here: http://senegad.org/scholarship.html. Thankfully I've got a couple awesome teachers that are super motivated to get these girls the support they need to be able to continue their education. One of my candidates has already faced - and barely managed to avoid - an early marriage. It's been great talking to them and getting their opinions and views on the struggles and obstacles that young women face in their community. Also what they want to do with their lives. Lots of them want to be teachers themselves and talk about how much they want to continue their education even if they do end up married.
The process includes interviews, an essay, copies of grades, teacher recommendations and a home visit. All but the grades and the home visits are done, the latter of which I'll be doing with my closest neighbor, Julia Bowers. It's been super nice to be able to do something that actually has some visible results and is much more under my personal control than waiting for my work partners to get their crap together.
Which is what is going on with both my well projects.
New middle school is supposed to built at some point so they can't dig the well until they know where the buildings are going to go. This makes this more and more difficult now that the rains have started and are only going to get more frequent. It's hard to dig a well and get cement to dry when it is pouring down rain.
Second - potential - well project is for a village about 25 km away. This village is in dire need of wells (they want 2). Over 220 people share one well with cattle, donkeys, sheep, goats and horses. And this one well is over 200 m from the village. So not only do women have to carry that water back and forth, they do all their laundry there at the well. Soap, bleach seeps into the ground. Stagnant pools of water draw insects - primarily mosquitoes - around the well, upping the odds of malaria cases.
It's a bad deal all together and they chief of the village asked me for some help.
So there is some possible work on that front, but only if this village gets their stuff together so I can fill out the paper work, submit the grant, get the funding and dig both wells before March. I know, 9 months sounds like plenty of time. But it is in fact a tight squeeze. I'll just have to see how it goes.
I really can't believe that 15 months has already gone by. In some ways it feels like so, so much longer than that and in others it feels like I flew into this country just a couple weeks ago. I now really have less time ahead than behind and I catch myself thinking about what I've done and how I might have made a difference in this time.
Have I? No idea. Being here has certainly changed me and I've learned more about myself than I ever thought possible. But what of my impact on the community I live in? Positive? Negative? Does it even exist? Will there ever be any way to know if I made any difference at all?
Should I even worry about it?
Lots of lovely questions that I will probably never get the answers to, or at least not while I am here. Hindsight and perspective are requisite, I think, to make any conclusions about a term of service like this. So maybe this time next year when I'm agonizing over my looming LSATs and grad school/law school applications I'll be able to look back and make a real decision.
As for now, I'll keep one eye out for my cat and the other on getting my work done in the ever shrinking amount of time I have left.
Cheers!
Christine
Or perhaps I should say it has started with a hurricane.
Case in point:
 |
| This is the remains of the compound next to mine. See the roof on the ground? That was the kitchen. |
Another new addition to this rainy season is my cat, Talata, who has never experienced the terror that can be induced by sitting in a thatched roof mud/cement hut while a hurricane is blowing overhead. Last Friday night (the first storm) he got so freaked he jumped out of my window - which is a new addition to my hut and a welcome one for ventilation - and didn't come back until some hours later. Saturday night he vanished off into the darkness and I haven't seen him since. With all the debris from the crazy storm on Sunday I am extremely concerned about his well being.
Yes, I know, he is after all just a cat, and I have another one but (and I hide from all pet owners out there) Talata is my favorite. He is my snuggle buddy. My baby that I literally got up at midnight to feed when he was only a few days old. I look for him every time I go into my hut; my head swivels like a top at every sound that might be a cat and Tennan (my older, girl cat) misses him as well.
Never having a pet before in my life, I haven't faced the prospect of losing one and it is emotionally nerve wracking. I pray everyday that when I get back from my brief stay here in Kolda, upon my arrival back in village my siblings will run up and tell me that Talata has returned.
In other news:
I've been working on the Michelle Silvester Scholarship for my middle school. You can find info here: http://senegad.org/scholarship.html. Thankfully I've got a couple awesome teachers that are super motivated to get these girls the support they need to be able to continue their education. One of my candidates has already faced - and barely managed to avoid - an early marriage. It's been great talking to them and getting their opinions and views on the struggles and obstacles that young women face in their community. Also what they want to do with their lives. Lots of them want to be teachers themselves and talk about how much they want to continue their education even if they do end up married.
The process includes interviews, an essay, copies of grades, teacher recommendations and a home visit. All but the grades and the home visits are done, the latter of which I'll be doing with my closest neighbor, Julia Bowers. It's been super nice to be able to do something that actually has some visible results and is much more under my personal control than waiting for my work partners to get their crap together.
Which is what is going on with both my well projects.
New middle school is supposed to built at some point so they can't dig the well until they know where the buildings are going to go. This makes this more and more difficult now that the rains have started and are only going to get more frequent. It's hard to dig a well and get cement to dry when it is pouring down rain.
Second - potential - well project is for a village about 25 km away. This village is in dire need of wells (they want 2). Over 220 people share one well with cattle, donkeys, sheep, goats and horses. And this one well is over 200 m from the village. So not only do women have to carry that water back and forth, they do all their laundry there at the well. Soap, bleach seeps into the ground. Stagnant pools of water draw insects - primarily mosquitoes - around the well, upping the odds of malaria cases.
It's a bad deal all together and they chief of the village asked me for some help.
So there is some possible work on that front, but only if this village gets their stuff together so I can fill out the paper work, submit the grant, get the funding and dig both wells before March. I know, 9 months sounds like plenty of time. But it is in fact a tight squeeze. I'll just have to see how it goes.
I really can't believe that 15 months has already gone by. In some ways it feels like so, so much longer than that and in others it feels like I flew into this country just a couple weeks ago. I now really have less time ahead than behind and I catch myself thinking about what I've done and how I might have made a difference in this time.
Have I? No idea. Being here has certainly changed me and I've learned more about myself than I ever thought possible. But what of my impact on the community I live in? Positive? Negative? Does it even exist? Will there ever be any way to know if I made any difference at all?
Should I even worry about it?
Lots of lovely questions that I will probably never get the answers to, or at least not while I am here. Hindsight and perspective are requisite, I think, to make any conclusions about a term of service like this. So maybe this time next year when I'm agonizing over my looming LSATs and grad school/law school applications I'll be able to look back and make a real decision.
As for now, I'll keep one eye out for my cat and the other on getting my work done in the ever shrinking amount of time I have left.
Cheers!
Christine
Saturday, March 9, 2013
One Year In
A year ago today I woke up for the second time in this country, befuddled, hot and suffering from a miserable head cold. Apparently my body decided to mark the occasion by having me relive the head cold part. Well, okay, it is really hot too, but I can deal with that. Head cold just makes it all that much worse.
But I'm not writing this blog to talk about head colds.
I remember having my site visit in April last year, looking at my host and all those other volunteers that were already a year in and thinking: they've got it together and they are so lucky they are half way done. Now I'm in that position - at least so far as that I have 12 months under my belt - and I do not feel at all that I have 'it together'. Perhaps they did not either, last year, but because of their ease of moving through the country and speaking to locals that I just thought they did. Impression is everything.
Will the new volunteers that come for their own visits next month think I have it all together?
I look at the year or so ahead of me (13 1/2 months to be more specific) and I wonder how I will fill it. I finally got the Malaria program put together for my health post which starts this month with murals and goes through June (one thing a month). But my plans for getting a well for the middle school are now over. A real school is actually going to be built by an NGO in the next couple months, which will include a well and latrines. So I will need to figure out some new ideas - perhaps some hygiene games on hand washing and such? - to fill up my time.
So, what will the next 400 days involve? What will I be doing? Who will I meet? How many more times will a man tell me that I need to have a husband and children or else I will dishonor my family? How many mangos will I manage to eat in one day? Will I ever win the battle against mosquitoes? Will my new computer survive the desolation of African weather? (My laptop that I brought from America has just recently given up the ghost. It is old - at 5 years - but I thought it would last a bit longer than 2 months. So now I will get a new one in California and pray to God a brand new, young thing will survive 11 months in this environment)
In the same way that I do not feel old enough to be a month shy of 26, I do not feel ready to be the '2nd year' volunteer that is supposed to help guide and aid new volunteers. But then, maybe the volunteers that are leaving now felt the same way last year when us newbies came. It is said that nothing is new under the sun; my feelings certainly are not unique on this particular subject. Perhaps there is some consolation in not being alone feeling the way I do.
Then again, there is a certain feeling of: "What? 12 months? Well, if I can do that, what's another 13 more? I'm still alive aren't I? Bring it on!" Despite all the downs in the last year, there have been quite a few ups and days of feeling like I have actually made some difference in my little village. So why not try to make one or two more differences - no matter how small - in the time I have left?
The school that is being built could provide a great opportunity for those little differences. The reason why this middle school is at last being built is because the bamboo structures that served as classrooms and the 'office' for the director burned down. To ash.
It happened a couple weeks ago and apparently ended up in the news. I was away in Dakar for my knee so I didn't know anything had happened until the Security guy for the Peace Corps came and told me about it. Afterwards there was this big to-do, where the national minister for education came to Badion.
Yeah, that's right. The big wig from Dakar who had never been south of the Gambia in his life came down in an entourage of cars to speak to my little village. There he promised to get a real school built and then talked about the importance of keeping kids in school, etc. The usual stuff. My interest in this particular event revolved around two people I met during the Minister's visit.
One was a personal adviser for the Minister who lived in America for 15 years, studied in Boston for is Bachelors and Master's degrees. He had only returned to Senegal in January and was still getting back into the swing of things. Since I'm white and I stick out like a sore thumb, he instantly approached me and asked me about my life, my work and what it is like to live in a rural community. But he also asked about the every day lives of the people in the village. What are their lives like? he asked me. What do they eat? What problems and challenges do they face? Do parents encourage their kids to go to school? Or do they keep them at home?
This man grew up in Dakar before going to America. He didn't know what it was like to live in the Senegal beyond Dakar and he loathed the fact that officials, students and everyday people in Dakar didn't have the slightest idea how the other 95% of the population lived. I've never heard anyone from Dakar talk this way so openly about the egregious disconnect between Dakar and the rest of the country so I was elated and eager to talk to him about his own impressions and goals in his new work. "Dakar is just like America," he told me. "At least in mentality and expectations. They care only about themselves and don't even think about the rest of the people who live here. I want the Minister to continue these visits. Maybe on a monthly basis. To go out all over to a few communities; to hear their concerns; see the way they live; how difficult it is to move around and get access to essential needs."
I could have hugged him.
He also mentioned the existence, at least on paper, of a national youth civil service program. Theoretically high school students from big cities - especially Dakar - would be required to spend a certain amount of time during their rainy season vacation in poor, rural communities doing volunteer work, education and trainings with younger students in the rural setting. It is a program that does not actually operate in real life but this adviser wants the Minister to resurrect it and put it into practice. "These kids in Dakar and St. Louis and other well off cities, they will go to University and will end up in charge of the country. Perhaps if they spend some time building relationships with families and communities outside of the riches of Dakar, they will remember and do something to help them once they are in a position to do so."
If only there were 1000 more of this man.
Delighted by this conversation I next ran into a man who was the director of supplies for the schools. A more opposite specimen of Senegalese than the man I just spoke to could not be found. "I am a real Senegalese," he told me in his strained English. "I'm not like these Pulaars. I only speak Wolof, French and some English." It took all my strength not to lash out and perhaps shove his pompous head into the window of his air conditioned car. "These people are better than you," I said in Pulaar, enjoying his confused look. "You don't understand?" I asked him, this time in English. He said no, of course not. "Too bad," I said with a shrug and walked away.
Even after all the grief I've been given by the people in my village, I will defend them to the last. They can be rude, obnoxious and down right mean, but they opened their homes, their lives, their faults and their dreams to me. There is little pretension or arrogance (at least that they can get away with now that know them so well). Their lives are a hardship every day and they've taught me how to live the same. We make fun of each other, play pranks and drink tea together.
'Real' Senegalese? Puh-Lease. That statement proved he wasn't really Senegalese at all. He's from Dakar. Dakar is not Senegal.
And I've lost track of my original purpose for mentioning the school. Woops.
Once the school is actually built, with the well and latrines and all, I have a pretty good in with the teachers and hope to talk about using the latrines, washing hands with soap and other hygiene subjects. It's a big problem in my village, one I'd like to address more forcefully with those that may be more open to my advice and knowledge than the adults who are so ingrained in the ways of 'It's Africa. It is how it is.'
Will also, with the help of my friend and closest fellow volunteer, Julia, be working with the middle school to do what is called the Michelle Sylvester Scholarship which provides money and supplies to one deserving middle school girl student. So that will be going on in the next three months as well.
Then to my sister's wedding!! After which I'll have less than a year to go: the much awaited moment when I can say I have less time ahead than behind and check off months as the 'last _____' of my service.
The last year has taught me a lot about life, myself and how development aid does[n't] work. It's a real eye opener. While perhaps - if given the chance and foresight - I would not have made the same decision two years ago to apply to Peace Corps, I cannot and will not say that this has been a waste of time or that it has all been a big mistake. Perspective is everything. Looking back a year I see myself as I was and how I am now and I am not the same. Being here gives me a new vision of the world and how I want to spend my life (globe hopping as a foreign service officer is now not on the table. Having to move and settle then move again every 2-3 years sucks. I'd like to have a home, not a home of the moment) as well as a new sense of my limits and capabilities.
So, here is to another 13 months. May there be more highs than lows and more work to fill my days.
Cheers!
Christine
But I'm not writing this blog to talk about head colds.
I remember having my site visit in April last year, looking at my host and all those other volunteers that were already a year in and thinking: they've got it together and they are so lucky they are half way done. Now I'm in that position - at least so far as that I have 12 months under my belt - and I do not feel at all that I have 'it together'. Perhaps they did not either, last year, but because of their ease of moving through the country and speaking to locals that I just thought they did. Impression is everything.
Will the new volunteers that come for their own visits next month think I have it all together?
I look at the year or so ahead of me (13 1/2 months to be more specific) and I wonder how I will fill it. I finally got the Malaria program put together for my health post which starts this month with murals and goes through June (one thing a month). But my plans for getting a well for the middle school are now over. A real school is actually going to be built by an NGO in the next couple months, which will include a well and latrines. So I will need to figure out some new ideas - perhaps some hygiene games on hand washing and such? - to fill up my time.
So, what will the next 400 days involve? What will I be doing? Who will I meet? How many more times will a man tell me that I need to have a husband and children or else I will dishonor my family? How many mangos will I manage to eat in one day? Will I ever win the battle against mosquitoes? Will my new computer survive the desolation of African weather? (My laptop that I brought from America has just recently given up the ghost. It is old - at 5 years - but I thought it would last a bit longer than 2 months. So now I will get a new one in California and pray to God a brand new, young thing will survive 11 months in this environment)
In the same way that I do not feel old enough to be a month shy of 26, I do not feel ready to be the '2nd year' volunteer that is supposed to help guide and aid new volunteers. But then, maybe the volunteers that are leaving now felt the same way last year when us newbies came. It is said that nothing is new under the sun; my feelings certainly are not unique on this particular subject. Perhaps there is some consolation in not being alone feeling the way I do.
Then again, there is a certain feeling of: "What? 12 months? Well, if I can do that, what's another 13 more? I'm still alive aren't I? Bring it on!" Despite all the downs in the last year, there have been quite a few ups and days of feeling like I have actually made some difference in my little village. So why not try to make one or two more differences - no matter how small - in the time I have left?
The school that is being built could provide a great opportunity for those little differences. The reason why this middle school is at last being built is because the bamboo structures that served as classrooms and the 'office' for the director burned down. To ash.
It happened a couple weeks ago and apparently ended up in the news. I was away in Dakar for my knee so I didn't know anything had happened until the Security guy for the Peace Corps came and told me about it. Afterwards there was this big to-do, where the national minister for education came to Badion.
Yeah, that's right. The big wig from Dakar who had never been south of the Gambia in his life came down in an entourage of cars to speak to my little village. There he promised to get a real school built and then talked about the importance of keeping kids in school, etc. The usual stuff. My interest in this particular event revolved around two people I met during the Minister's visit.
One was a personal adviser for the Minister who lived in America for 15 years, studied in Boston for is Bachelors and Master's degrees. He had only returned to Senegal in January and was still getting back into the swing of things. Since I'm white and I stick out like a sore thumb, he instantly approached me and asked me about my life, my work and what it is like to live in a rural community. But he also asked about the every day lives of the people in the village. What are their lives like? he asked me. What do they eat? What problems and challenges do they face? Do parents encourage their kids to go to school? Or do they keep them at home?
This man grew up in Dakar before going to America. He didn't know what it was like to live in the Senegal beyond Dakar and he loathed the fact that officials, students and everyday people in Dakar didn't have the slightest idea how the other 95% of the population lived. I've never heard anyone from Dakar talk this way so openly about the egregious disconnect between Dakar and the rest of the country so I was elated and eager to talk to him about his own impressions and goals in his new work. "Dakar is just like America," he told me. "At least in mentality and expectations. They care only about themselves and don't even think about the rest of the people who live here. I want the Minister to continue these visits. Maybe on a monthly basis. To go out all over to a few communities; to hear their concerns; see the way they live; how difficult it is to move around and get access to essential needs."
I could have hugged him.
He also mentioned the existence, at least on paper, of a national youth civil service program. Theoretically high school students from big cities - especially Dakar - would be required to spend a certain amount of time during their rainy season vacation in poor, rural communities doing volunteer work, education and trainings with younger students in the rural setting. It is a program that does not actually operate in real life but this adviser wants the Minister to resurrect it and put it into practice. "These kids in Dakar and St. Louis and other well off cities, they will go to University and will end up in charge of the country. Perhaps if they spend some time building relationships with families and communities outside of the riches of Dakar, they will remember and do something to help them once they are in a position to do so."
If only there were 1000 more of this man.
Delighted by this conversation I next ran into a man who was the director of supplies for the schools. A more opposite specimen of Senegalese than the man I just spoke to could not be found. "I am a real Senegalese," he told me in his strained English. "I'm not like these Pulaars. I only speak Wolof, French and some English." It took all my strength not to lash out and perhaps shove his pompous head into the window of his air conditioned car. "These people are better than you," I said in Pulaar, enjoying his confused look. "You don't understand?" I asked him, this time in English. He said no, of course not. "Too bad," I said with a shrug and walked away.
Even after all the grief I've been given by the people in my village, I will defend them to the last. They can be rude, obnoxious and down right mean, but they opened their homes, their lives, their faults and their dreams to me. There is little pretension or arrogance (at least that they can get away with now that know them so well). Their lives are a hardship every day and they've taught me how to live the same. We make fun of each other, play pranks and drink tea together.
'Real' Senegalese? Puh-Lease. That statement proved he wasn't really Senegalese at all. He's from Dakar. Dakar is not Senegal.
And I've lost track of my original purpose for mentioning the school. Woops.
Once the school is actually built, with the well and latrines and all, I have a pretty good in with the teachers and hope to talk about using the latrines, washing hands with soap and other hygiene subjects. It's a big problem in my village, one I'd like to address more forcefully with those that may be more open to my advice and knowledge than the adults who are so ingrained in the ways of 'It's Africa. It is how it is.'
Will also, with the help of my friend and closest fellow volunteer, Julia, be working with the middle school to do what is called the Michelle Sylvester Scholarship which provides money and supplies to one deserving middle school girl student. So that will be going on in the next three months as well.
Then to my sister's wedding!! After which I'll have less than a year to go: the much awaited moment when I can say I have less time ahead than behind and check off months as the 'last _____' of my service.
The last year has taught me a lot about life, myself and how development aid does[n't] work. It's a real eye opener. While perhaps - if given the chance and foresight - I would not have made the same decision two years ago to apply to Peace Corps, I cannot and will not say that this has been a waste of time or that it has all been a big mistake. Perspective is everything. Looking back a year I see myself as I was and how I am now and I am not the same. Being here gives me a new vision of the world and how I want to spend my life (globe hopping as a foreign service officer is now not on the table. Having to move and settle then move again every 2-3 years sucks. I'd like to have a home, not a home of the moment) as well as a new sense of my limits and capabilities.
So, here is to another 13 months. May there be more highs than lows and more work to fill my days.
Cheers!
Christine
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Christmas and Welcome Home Rocks
It's warming up over here and I do not welcome the change. I loved curling up in my sleeping bag at night, with socks, flannel pj pants and my thick UW hoodie on. How quickly those days slipped by. Apparently the cold season doesn't go on hold while you're away for a month. More's the pity.
Though I certainly wouldn't give up being home in America for a few extra cold nights/mornings in my hut.
Three weeks at home. Three weeks that flew by faster than should be allowed. I remember sitting on the plane on the return flight thinking it had all just been a dream like any other I've had in my village: being home in my own bed, eating my mom's spaghetti, seeing friends and family and being able to open a refrigerator and pull out the makings of a turkey sandwich. It wasn't a dream of course. The extra suitcase full of food and gifts and the ten pounds I gained were no flight of fancy. And if that wasn't enough proof, all the changes in my cats and babies back in village was certainly proof enough.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
There is nothing to make a person appreciate even the smallest convenience more than to be deprived of it for an extended length of time.While the usual suspects of running water, electricity, limitless internet access and enclosed bathrooms with normal toilets are on that list, there are many other things I never thought of before I couldn't have them.
Like making my own decisions. Food decisions is primarily - what I am going to eat, or not eat. The ability to say, "This really does not taste good." But also decisions on work. I've been in Senegal for 11 months now and I haven't done a single thing in terms of work. In America, working is pretty much life. One works to live (and for some, live to work). In some ways it is the same here: farming is essential since there is no other means of income or putting food in the mouths of children - outside of charity rice - so during the rainy season and harvest people are in the fields every day working their butts off in the hot, hot sun. But once that is over, work dries up as fast as the grass. People struggle to find other small means of making money so they can buy tea and food. Since arriving in my village I have been asked (and pestered and demeaned) about my work. "When are you going to work?" "Why aren't you going to the fields to work your father's crops?" "If you aren't a farmer, what use are you?" (That last question has made me dabble in the possibility of being replaced by an agriculture volunteer once my service is up)
Now, I've tried to explain up, down, sideways and until I am blue in the face that my work is different from theirs. It is asking questions, finding needs and working with the community to address those needs and help people have healthier lives. They'll laugh, or nod their heads, shake them or shrug and continue on with their work and leave me to mine.
While a 8-5 job may seem monotonous or mechanical, at least one knows what to do and has something to do every day. Being able to go to work in the morning and pick the project I am going to prioritize and get started right a way is a blessing compared to waking up every morning knowing that I'll be doing the same thing I did yesterday: nothing.
Another aspect of life in America (and in 'western' 'developed' nations as a whole) that I never truly appreciated was my privacy. No shouts across the street asking, indignantly, why I didn't greet a total stranger. No constant pestering about what I bought, where I went or why I am doing this, or this or this. Reading a book outside doesn't illicit questions of 'what is that?' 'Can I see?' or the ever present 'Give it to me' demand. When I shut my door in my room, my parents didn't come banging on the door asking for the stuff in my room or assume I'm sick or angry. Not to mention seventeen siblings which don't exist in my little home town that walk into my room and just stare at me.
The freedom to just be, without any explanation or excuse. It is amazing. There is no way to understand what life in a fish bowl is really like until you live it.
I now pity my childhood goldfish.
But about my actual vacation:
It was wonderful. My sister and her fiance flew in. We went to Seattle and found her wedding dress in under an hour before heading down to a small family gathering at my cousin's house. Saw the Hobbit (twice), Les Mis and Lincoln (if that film doesn't sweep the oscars then there is no justice in the world). The first two weeks were a flurry of traveling to see family, shopping and Costco going (which nearly gave me a heart attack from pure joy). Mom and I had fun searching for baby clothes for the babies in my village family. I got my bride's maid's dress after much searching and purchased the plane ticket to get to California in May for the wedding. Mom, dad and I had our usual New Year's eve movie marathon and junk food eating night. Got to catch up with my former coworkers and best friend whose wedding I missed back in August.
Surprise snow capped off a great vacation and I took pictures to show my family back in village. And then much too soon it was over and my alarm was going off at 4am so I could get to the airport on time.
The flights were unduly uncomfortable, but I arrived in Dakar, met up with one friend who had just returned from America and another who was leaving that day before starting the long trek back to Badion. I forgot how heavy my laptop is and how annoying traveling through this country is with more than one bag. Arguing prices from taxis to sept places is another blessing in America - that they don't exist. But before long I made it back down to Kolda, unloaded some food and the items a friend requested I bring from America and tried to call my host dad to tell him I made it to Senegal.
Couldn't get through. To anyone. I tried and tried, but no answer. Couldn't call to let my family know that I would be arriving a day later than I anticipated because I was getting a ride from a USAID car that was going to my area. Tried over and over but never got through. Only found out why after I arrived.
The cell phone tower closest to my village is down.
So I couldn't even let my parents know I made it to my village alive and well. It was not a pleasant feeling. (Not to mention my internet key is worthless since it depends on phone reception. Oi)
But my family was overjoyed at my return. I got crushed by a wave of kids and all my host mom's were smiling and saying how happy they were I was back. I broke out the almonds and lifesavers mints and more smiles and crush of hugs. It was a bit surreal.
I ended up spending nearly three weeks in village after arriving. Greeting my friends, handing out gifts, cleaning my hut and worrying about my cats (Tennan is very pregnant and Talata is a crazy, energizer bunny on crack who likes to eat cockroaches in my hut). The well project for the middle school is stalled thanks to a very greedy well digger so they are looking for another one and the pump fixing could end up not happening since that particular program is shutting down in April and we are nowhere near close to getting the required money. I got back into the swing of things, starting spending my mornings studying math for the GREs I plan to take in November (it's been ten years since I studied geometry) and going for long random walks in the late after noon.
Then last week happened.
Wednesday night around 830 or so two of my brothers got into a fight about a soccer ball - or so I think; I wasn't exactly paying close attention. Anyway, arguing, name calling and mean spirited pushes and smacks from my older brother Ibrihima to the younger Moussa (at 6 or 7 years old). One host mom was yelling at them to stop but they didn't until Ibrihima decided he was done.
Rocks have a very distinct sound as they are flung through the air.
Blinded by anger and humiliation Moussa decided to throw a large rock at Ibrihima. In complete darkness. Towards a group of people which included my 15 month old brother Alpha. He missed, as usual for total darkness and 7 year olds, and hit me in the knee instead.
In the split second before the pain registered I had a wacko, almost out of body, experience where I distinctly remember thinking to myself, "Holy crap that is a big rock". And then the pain hit me like a train and I started cursing up a storm. To my knowledge I've never felt that much pain before. Like my knee had exploded. I tried to get up (I was sitting) and promptly went to the ground. I couldn't move my leg, could hardly breath and too surprised to be angry.
As I look back on it now there was another strange part of the whole incident: no one did anything. It was so dark out, no one saw what happened. To the minds of everyone there (save Moussa and perhaps Ibrihima) I had spontaneously burst out in cursing and cries and fell to the ground. I kept hearing 'what happened?' being asked all around me. Neighbors came by, drawn by my very loud cries, yells and curses, and asked the same questions. Finally one of my host moms started to piece things together, and helped me get up. "Get up, Aisatou," she told me. "Let's go to your room." So I hopped to my hut and promptly collapsed on my floor. Several men came by, someone apparently went and got my host dad because he showed up a bit later. We pulled up my pant leg to see the damage and I wanted someone to knock me out right there.
My knee cap was too far to the left (this is my left leg, by the way) and I had a small gash where the rock had hit me. My brain was not in Pulaar mode at that time, so I kept asking for someone to go get my counterpart Penda, who can speak pretty darn good English, so I could explain things better.
I know, this is turning into a novel so I'll try to wrap up the ending.
My host dad searched around on his motorcycle for reception and then came back for me so I could call the Med Office. When I got on the motorcycle and straightened my knee so I could get my other leg over, the worst scrapping feeling I've ever felt along with another nauseating wave of pain shot through my leg. Knee cap now back in its rightful position.
Got to the middle of a field and after several attempts at getting through to the doctor on duty it was decided that I would leave for Dakar the next morning (where I am now) to get xrays and figure out just what happened.
Verdict: bad contusion. No permanent damage. Cure: rest, massage of the contusion and slow and easy exercise as the swelling goes down and to re-stretch the muscles and tendons. No biking or running for a while. That was a week ago. Tomorrow I will have one last check to make sure everything is okay (which other than some soreness and hard time bending my knee all the way without pain, it is ) and I'll be out of the med hut in the Dakar office and move to the regional house as I wait for the All Volunteer conference and WAIST (West African Invitational Softball Tournament) to begin next Wednesday. I may not be able to play in the softball game, but I will be able to eat the hot dogs and nachos served.
Gone for a month, in village for two and a half weeks and then gone for another three. February will nearly be done by the time I get back. Then two months and a smidgen more and I'll be in California for Julisa's wedding. By which time I'll have less than a year left in service.
God, please let me have work to do by then.
So there it is. Christmas and my return to village and my unexpected absence from village. The last week has been a nice, relaxing experience of good food and watching Game of Thrones (to which I am now firmly addicted) and I bought the series of books to read on my kindle as well. Now on the third book and firmly engrossed. Can't wait until the third season of the HBO series comes out to see it all come alive.
So, peace to you and yours and take a moment to look in that refrigerator and maybe make a turkey sandwich in my honor.
Cheers!
Christine
Though I certainly wouldn't give up being home in America for a few extra cold nights/mornings in my hut.
Three weeks at home. Three weeks that flew by faster than should be allowed. I remember sitting on the plane on the return flight thinking it had all just been a dream like any other I've had in my village: being home in my own bed, eating my mom's spaghetti, seeing friends and family and being able to open a refrigerator and pull out the makings of a turkey sandwich. It wasn't a dream of course. The extra suitcase full of food and gifts and the ten pounds I gained were no flight of fancy. And if that wasn't enough proof, all the changes in my cats and babies back in village was certainly proof enough.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
There is nothing to make a person appreciate even the smallest convenience more than to be deprived of it for an extended length of time.While the usual suspects of running water, electricity, limitless internet access and enclosed bathrooms with normal toilets are on that list, there are many other things I never thought of before I couldn't have them.
Like making my own decisions. Food decisions is primarily - what I am going to eat, or not eat. The ability to say, "This really does not taste good." But also decisions on work. I've been in Senegal for 11 months now and I haven't done a single thing in terms of work. In America, working is pretty much life. One works to live (and for some, live to work). In some ways it is the same here: farming is essential since there is no other means of income or putting food in the mouths of children - outside of charity rice - so during the rainy season and harvest people are in the fields every day working their butts off in the hot, hot sun. But once that is over, work dries up as fast as the grass. People struggle to find other small means of making money so they can buy tea and food. Since arriving in my village I have been asked (and pestered and demeaned) about my work. "When are you going to work?" "Why aren't you going to the fields to work your father's crops?" "If you aren't a farmer, what use are you?" (That last question has made me dabble in the possibility of being replaced by an agriculture volunteer once my service is up)
Now, I've tried to explain up, down, sideways and until I am blue in the face that my work is different from theirs. It is asking questions, finding needs and working with the community to address those needs and help people have healthier lives. They'll laugh, or nod their heads, shake them or shrug and continue on with their work and leave me to mine.
While a 8-5 job may seem monotonous or mechanical, at least one knows what to do and has something to do every day. Being able to go to work in the morning and pick the project I am going to prioritize and get started right a way is a blessing compared to waking up every morning knowing that I'll be doing the same thing I did yesterday: nothing.
Another aspect of life in America (and in 'western' 'developed' nations as a whole) that I never truly appreciated was my privacy. No shouts across the street asking, indignantly, why I didn't greet a total stranger. No constant pestering about what I bought, where I went or why I am doing this, or this or this. Reading a book outside doesn't illicit questions of 'what is that?' 'Can I see?' or the ever present 'Give it to me' demand. When I shut my door in my room, my parents didn't come banging on the door asking for the stuff in my room or assume I'm sick or angry. Not to mention seventeen siblings which don't exist in my little home town that walk into my room and just stare at me.
The freedom to just be, without any explanation or excuse. It is amazing. There is no way to understand what life in a fish bowl is really like until you live it.
I now pity my childhood goldfish.
But about my actual vacation:
It was wonderful. My sister and her fiance flew in. We went to Seattle and found her wedding dress in under an hour before heading down to a small family gathering at my cousin's house. Saw the Hobbit (twice), Les Mis and Lincoln (if that film doesn't sweep the oscars then there is no justice in the world). The first two weeks were a flurry of traveling to see family, shopping and Costco going (which nearly gave me a heart attack from pure joy). Mom and I had fun searching for baby clothes for the babies in my village family. I got my bride's maid's dress after much searching and purchased the plane ticket to get to California in May for the wedding. Mom, dad and I had our usual New Year's eve movie marathon and junk food eating night. Got to catch up with my former coworkers and best friend whose wedding I missed back in August.
Surprise snow capped off a great vacation and I took pictures to show my family back in village. And then much too soon it was over and my alarm was going off at 4am so I could get to the airport on time.
The flights were unduly uncomfortable, but I arrived in Dakar, met up with one friend who had just returned from America and another who was leaving that day before starting the long trek back to Badion. I forgot how heavy my laptop is and how annoying traveling through this country is with more than one bag. Arguing prices from taxis to sept places is another blessing in America - that they don't exist. But before long I made it back down to Kolda, unloaded some food and the items a friend requested I bring from America and tried to call my host dad to tell him I made it to Senegal.
Couldn't get through. To anyone. I tried and tried, but no answer. Couldn't call to let my family know that I would be arriving a day later than I anticipated because I was getting a ride from a USAID car that was going to my area. Tried over and over but never got through. Only found out why after I arrived.
The cell phone tower closest to my village is down.
So I couldn't even let my parents know I made it to my village alive and well. It was not a pleasant feeling. (Not to mention my internet key is worthless since it depends on phone reception. Oi)
But my family was overjoyed at my return. I got crushed by a wave of kids and all my host mom's were smiling and saying how happy they were I was back. I broke out the almonds and lifesavers mints and more smiles and crush of hugs. It was a bit surreal.
I ended up spending nearly three weeks in village after arriving. Greeting my friends, handing out gifts, cleaning my hut and worrying about my cats (Tennan is very pregnant and Talata is a crazy, energizer bunny on crack who likes to eat cockroaches in my hut). The well project for the middle school is stalled thanks to a very greedy well digger so they are looking for another one and the pump fixing could end up not happening since that particular program is shutting down in April and we are nowhere near close to getting the required money. I got back into the swing of things, starting spending my mornings studying math for the GREs I plan to take in November (it's been ten years since I studied geometry) and going for long random walks in the late after noon.
Then last week happened.
Wednesday night around 830 or so two of my brothers got into a fight about a soccer ball - or so I think; I wasn't exactly paying close attention. Anyway, arguing, name calling and mean spirited pushes and smacks from my older brother Ibrihima to the younger Moussa (at 6 or 7 years old). One host mom was yelling at them to stop but they didn't until Ibrihima decided he was done.
Rocks have a very distinct sound as they are flung through the air.
Blinded by anger and humiliation Moussa decided to throw a large rock at Ibrihima. In complete darkness. Towards a group of people which included my 15 month old brother Alpha. He missed, as usual for total darkness and 7 year olds, and hit me in the knee instead.
In the split second before the pain registered I had a wacko, almost out of body, experience where I distinctly remember thinking to myself, "Holy crap that is a big rock". And then the pain hit me like a train and I started cursing up a storm. To my knowledge I've never felt that much pain before. Like my knee had exploded. I tried to get up (I was sitting) and promptly went to the ground. I couldn't move my leg, could hardly breath and too surprised to be angry.
As I look back on it now there was another strange part of the whole incident: no one did anything. It was so dark out, no one saw what happened. To the minds of everyone there (save Moussa and perhaps Ibrihima) I had spontaneously burst out in cursing and cries and fell to the ground. I kept hearing 'what happened?' being asked all around me. Neighbors came by, drawn by my very loud cries, yells and curses, and asked the same questions. Finally one of my host moms started to piece things together, and helped me get up. "Get up, Aisatou," she told me. "Let's go to your room." So I hopped to my hut and promptly collapsed on my floor. Several men came by, someone apparently went and got my host dad because he showed up a bit later. We pulled up my pant leg to see the damage and I wanted someone to knock me out right there.
My knee cap was too far to the left (this is my left leg, by the way) and I had a small gash where the rock had hit me. My brain was not in Pulaar mode at that time, so I kept asking for someone to go get my counterpart Penda, who can speak pretty darn good English, so I could explain things better.
I know, this is turning into a novel so I'll try to wrap up the ending.
My host dad searched around on his motorcycle for reception and then came back for me so I could call the Med Office. When I got on the motorcycle and straightened my knee so I could get my other leg over, the worst scrapping feeling I've ever felt along with another nauseating wave of pain shot through my leg. Knee cap now back in its rightful position.
Got to the middle of a field and after several attempts at getting through to the doctor on duty it was decided that I would leave for Dakar the next morning (where I am now) to get xrays and figure out just what happened.
Verdict: bad contusion. No permanent damage. Cure: rest, massage of the contusion and slow and easy exercise as the swelling goes down and to re-stretch the muscles and tendons. No biking or running for a while. That was a week ago. Tomorrow I will have one last check to make sure everything is okay (which other than some soreness and hard time bending my knee all the way without pain, it is ) and I'll be out of the med hut in the Dakar office and move to the regional house as I wait for the All Volunteer conference and WAIST (West African Invitational Softball Tournament) to begin next Wednesday. I may not be able to play in the softball game, but I will be able to eat the hot dogs and nachos served.
Gone for a month, in village for two and a half weeks and then gone for another three. February will nearly be done by the time I get back. Then two months and a smidgen more and I'll be in California for Julisa's wedding. By which time I'll have less than a year left in service.
God, please let me have work to do by then.
So there it is. Christmas and my return to village and my unexpected absence from village. The last week has been a nice, relaxing experience of good food and watching Game of Thrones (to which I am now firmly addicted) and I bought the series of books to read on my kindle as well. Now on the third book and firmly engrossed. Can't wait until the third season of the HBO series comes out to see it all come alive.
So, peace to you and yours and take a moment to look in that refrigerator and maybe make a turkey sandwich in my honor.
Cheers!
Christine
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Wait...I can see my breath???
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
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
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
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