Rural Visits: Why I Will Never Join the Peace Corps

This one's really long...

Two weeks ago we took our landmark (landmark because upon our return we would have exactly one month left in Senegal) rural visit trips. I got my first choice of site- a village near the populous city of Kaolack, with a Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV) who made it clear that she was expecting her student-visitor to ease the workload. This was perfect because our program director had thoroughly prepped up to be bored, sitting or napping in the middle of the day with nothing to do. I was determined that this would not be my experience, and indeed, it was not.

Monday we got up obscenely early at 4:45 to get to the gare (train station, except that there are only run-down cars and no trains at all- nonetheless this is what they call it) before the weekend rush. We certainly did beat it, arriving almost three hours early at 9:30 and waking up most of our hosts when we called them to come pick us up. We spent the morning scouring town for eggs and onions (the lady at the boulangerie was out of bean sandwiches) and then whipping up the most delicious egg sandwiches, a Senegalese favorite. After that we passed an agreeable few hours reading smutty American magazines like People and Star and drinking beer in the bastion of Americanness that is the Peace Corps house. As soon as all of our PCVs could lift their hearts enough to head back to their sites we left for the market in the burning heat of midday. Imagine walking even just a block in the scorching inland weather- it was over 100 F every day. We made our purchases quickly- a soccer ball for the girl’s group, and kola nuts and oranges for gifts- and headed to the Frenchiest restaurant in town for pizza before a week of plain rice and millet.

After an interesting lunch- did I mention that one of the PCVs bought two chickens as gifts for her host family and consequently laid them on the floor under her table, where they pooped?- we headed to the gare once more to face the noisy, stressful, and ultimately frustrating process of negotiating a car to our villages some two hours distance away. My PCV Kate and I got out at a random crossroads where we made polite small talk with the other women waiting there (in Wolof of course) until a vehicle with four wheels came by. I describe it that way because out in the villages there are no schedules or buses, just random (public) automobiles that drive around haphazardly depending on where their passengers need to go.

A short ride later we arrived at Kate’s compound, put down our stuff, and immediately went to go fetch water at the well. Yes, that is correct: my refined city-slicker behind pulled water and carried it on my head from the well to the hut, which was no small distance mind you! We We had to get there quickly before it got dark because there is, of course, no electricity, no street lights, and candles only if you’re lucky. We took moonlight showers and headed down the street to Kate’s family’s compound for dinner, which I can count as my first run-in with the infamous cheri. This is a smooth, salty puree of millet, usually topped with sauce or mixed with milk (the even more infamous cheri ak meew [milk]) that is a staple in the villages. I found it quite tasty. Soon thereafter it was off to bed for us because we had a long day ahead, whose first scheduled activity was fetching water again…

Tuesday was an absolutely exhausting day and I must admit that we didn’t actually even do that much! The day started out with a trip to the well, which I must describe in detail this time. Kate and I got there in our rattiest clothes- this is dirty work- with our pannes (large, brightly-colored plastic tubs) ready to face the strenuous physical labor that awaited us. What we were not ready to face was the ridicule of every woman at the well. You see, Kate has a faucet in her compound which she usually uses for all her water needs- drinking, washing, and watering the garden- but it was broken so she was pulling water for the first time. She, therefore, was just as new and awkward at it as I. The women tried every kind of mischief from pointing and laughing to skipping us in line to straight-up ignoring us. I don’t know what their goal was, but they certainly succeeded in making me feel wholly unwelcome, a feeling I could not shake for the rest of the week.

After that, we were off to the luma (the specific name for a once-weekly market) to poke around and buy bean sandwiches for breakfast. Despite how they sound, I swear they are actually amazingly good. After that, we wandered through the village with only a vague sense of direction greeting all the important people who would need to know that a visitor (me) had arrived. On they way, we ran into a number of people who either wanted to shout “Toubab!” at me, or talk to Kate about some project they wanted to undertake with her magical Peace Corps resources and skills. We spent the whole morning thus house hopping, sitting for a few moments at a time, exchanging the exact same words each time, and then parting for the next place. When we arrived at the school to say hello to Kate’s Wolof tutor (he is also a teacher) we saw the World Food Program truck delivering food for the children; it was nice to see such a program in action, actually doing what it claims to do in theory! We firmed up plans for the afternoon- we were to give a presentation on the importance of trees and plant a mini tree nursery with the students- and sped home for a quick lunch of cebbu jen. Yum!

The afternoon is really just a blur of screaming children. They listened semi-attentively while Kate talked but after she gave them tasks any semblance of order melted into complete chaos! The older boys sifted manure while the younger kids dug a hole, spread ash (to prevent against mold) and pulled leaves off a nearby tree (to prevent termites). Afterwards it was a fight for tree sacks; every student wanted one and they ripped them- literally- out of my hands. Happily, it was all over relatively quickly and Kate and I were able to retreat to her hut (having, again, pulled water), shower, and make it over for dinner before dark. As dinner is the last major event of the day- it is after all, eaten around 10, when there is no natural light- we generally went right to bed. After indulging in some good old-fashioned girl talk that is…

Wednesday was another full day that began with us- what else?- fetching water to bathe and water the huge garden in Kate’s compound. After that we wandered around for approximately 2-3 hours in the searing sun, viewing gardens in the nearby villages, commiserating with the farmers (all of their tomato plants are dying of the same disease), buying lettuce, getting lost, and finally, reaching the river. One high point during the day was when we stopped in a village to stand for a moment in the shade and someone- I still have no idea who- shouted my name. Apparently word spreads fast when there is a new Toubab in town, because they knew who I was. Just like a celebrity!

Anyway, Kate and I spent the hottest part of the day sitting in the shallow and muddy river giving ourselves mud masks. The bottom of the river is covered in thick, clay-based mud which is disgusting to step on, but good to pull up in chunks and clean out your pores. Haha. After a hellish walk back to Kate’s hut, we were surprised by a health conference going on in a nearby building. It was a good surprise though because they offered us their leftover yassa poulet (delicious dish made of chicken in a lemon/onion sauce over white rice- SOOO good) which we promptly inhaled. Dinner was like déjà-vu because I bought (by which I mean I donated the money to buy, about $4) two chickens to make chicken salad, Senegalese-style. It was quite a treat after a week of the same old rice and millet, and a good last meal with the family.

I feel as though Thursday was probably the most typically “Senegalese” of my five days outside of Dakar. We woke up at the crack of dawn to rot (that is the verb in wolof) water and catch a charette (a horse drawn cart) to take us to the luma (weekly market) in Pakane Toucouleur (another village with a PCV). After a bumpy ride during which I definitely almost fell off once, and some humorous moments like when the children ran after us shouting “Bonjour! Bonjour!” or when the woman next to me tried to talk to me in Pulaar despite the fact that I don’t speak a word of it. At all. But we arrived no worse for the wear, dropped our things in Kyla’s (the PCV) hut, greeted her family, and walked to the market. There we bought bananas as seritchia (thank-you gifts) for Kyla’s family and mangos at a ridiculous price- a kilo (that’s 2.2 pounds) for 150 FCFA (that’s 35 cents, rounded up). I also bought bin-bin (the beads women wear around their waist to attract husbands), a purchase that was greeted by hoots, playful shoves, and calls of si-si (flirt).

The rest of the afternoon was spent in pleasant relaxation in Kyla’s hut which boasted a tropical garden in the back. Seriously, it had a palm tree, a mango tree, a huge hammock, and a bike in a space the size of your bathroom! We ate cebbu jen for lunch, followed by the deliciously strong and sweet tea called ataya, and talked in English! Eventually we wandered out to sit in the shade of a giant tree by the main road and chatted with some kind villagers. It was, however, a Pulaar village which meant they spoke Pulaar and not Wolof, and our attempts at communication were virtually unintelligible. Only Kyla could talk with them, and she put forth a valiant effort to translate everything everyone was saying. I also got to hold a chubby and cheerful baby while his mother fetched water, which I took a turn at as soon as she came back. Dinner was a bowl of plain white rice with no accompaniment, but the fantastic view of the stars more than made up for the slight tug of my stomach later that night. I have never seen stars so bright; you could see every constellation as if it were painted on the ceiling. I feel asleep outside, but was woken up around 11 and crawled into the hut to pass the night in peace (fananal ak jamm).

The next day was swallowed up by travel again, and rather uneventful except for the mean apranti on the car back to Kaolack who tried to cheat us by charging us an artificially high price. He even had everyone else in the bus nodding along with him, insisting the price he named was right, but we stood our ground and eventually they left us alone. Incredible how men in their best bubus, holding their prayer beads, and heading to the mosque for Friday prayer can be so deceitful towards a couple of innocent American students…

A Health Update

I haven't been up to writing lately since I've been very sick- enrhumée as they say here- as of late and just found out on Friday that I have a punctured ear drum. Also, finals are coming up and I've been writing pages and pages of reflective and critical French.

Don't lose patience- I'll be updating soon...!

Let Me Introduce You to Bamba…

Okay, I know most of you are dying to hear all the dirty little details about my boyfriend Bamba so here is your chance to indulge in a little gossip…

Bamba Toure and I actually met by chance one fateful night when I thought nothing could go right. I was out with friends at a neighborhood bar/restaurant for their regular Friday salsa night, but was feeling a bit tired and grumpy after a long week so after someone spilled beer all over me, I decided to call it a night. I walked home with another girl, and we ended up sitting outside her house talking for quite some time. While we were there Bamba, who I did not know then, wandered by with two friends, and they stopped to talk with us, probably intrigued by the site of two white girls sitting outside in the dark chatting in English. We had a nice conversation, establishing that he knew my host brother, lived in the same quarter as me, and is currently a student. Eventually, we said goodbye and I went home without another thought about Bamba.

A couple of days later my host brother called me down from my room to tell me that Bamba had called; he wanted to talk with me and was waiting in the garden that is roughly a block from my house. My brother escorted me there and then discreetly melted away into the gathering darkness of dusk. We discussed niceties- not much of substance. In fact, Bamba, being somewhat shy, didn’t say much of anything, instead letting his friend direct the conversation, but I did promise them an outing to the beach after I came back from spring break in Guinea. That date came to fruition and the rest, I guess, is history…

So, what is he like? He is tall (almost 6ft.), dark and handsome. (Would you expect any less from me?) He just turned 23 on April 4th and he is studying at the Institut Superieur de Transport, a private university that feeds into Cabinet-level positions in the government. He is also an avid footballer, playing with one of the top training centers in Dakar and being scouted by teams in France, Switzerland, and Italy. Sorry, do I seem to be bragging…? No, but he’s really quite amazing. I mentioned before that he is shy, but once he gets to know you he can talk forever! We discuss everything from the day’s events to the political situation in Senegal, and I must say that his approach to many topics is very different than mine. At the same time, however, we share a lot of important qualities, like devotion to our families, patience, ambition, and above all, honesty. He is a very serious and a completely sincere person, and he treats me incredibly well.

Now the answers to a few frequently asked questions:
1) But isn’t he Muslim? Yes, he is indeed Muslim. I never foresaw having a Muslim boyfriend, but I don’t feel as though the difference in beliefs should prevent our relationship. If anything, the conservativeness of his faith has made it easier for us to relate to each other.
2) Does he speak English? Not yet, but he will if I have anything to say about it! We speak mostly in French, with Wolof sporadically mixed in.
3) What will happen after you leave? Those of you who know me know that I do not tend toward flings. On the contrary, I prefer serious relationships with a future. That said, I plan on continuing our relationship after I leave, with a view to come back in December to visit/do research for my thesis. If things work out (inchalla), I may also come back after I graduate to work in Dakar.

I feel like that’s a pretty good summary, and about all I want to share with the entire world about my personal life, but I’m sure I’ll talk a lot more about Bamba with many of you individually. Until then, contain your curiosity as best as you can, and know that I’ll keep you posted…

Easter in Africa

Easter Sunday was precipitated by lots of excitement and much preparation, mostly by me, and only because I insisted on making a big deal about it. Because, well, it IS a big deal! Most people here, although they repeat often to anyone who will listen that they live in peace with their Christian neighbors, have no idea what Easter signifies. So anyway, I laid out my beautiful yellow dress Saturday night before I went to bed early (11pm) like a 6-year-old waiting for the Easter bunny. It was very strange and a bit lonely because my American roommate was spending the night at a hotel with friends and my host family made no effort whatsoever to make the event special for me.

At any rate I got up early on Easter, slipped on my dress, perfected my makeup and tiptoed out the door. I caught a cab and picked up my friend Cara in her neighborhood and together we headed downtown to the Cathedral. We had planned to get there early enough to find a spot for the 9am Mass but when we got there at 8, it was absolutely deserted! So we walked around in the old European quarter that houses the church and found a coffee shop. There I had the most delicious- REAL!- cup of coffee, the first time my mouth had tasted such a wonder since I got to Senegal. There were a bunch of Toubabs getting their regular Sunday croissants and coffee, and newspapers. By the time we finished the Cathedral was filling up so we snatched up seats in a middle pew.

The Bishop presided over the Mass, which was one of the most extraordinary I’ve ever experienced. First of all, the music was phenomenal; a traditional organ mixed with all kinds of drums- which I know sounds terrible, but is actually a unique and beautiful sound- and that indescribably African form of song which is slightly hoarse and shouted, but so utterly joyful. I loved it. Also, Easter Sunday is apparently so unusual that there were TV crews from every major station there filming the entire Mass. I think there was actually a government minister in the parish…

After the service Cara and I walked around the city for awhile enjoying the pleasant weather and working up our appetites until we came to consensus on what exactly we felt like eating. It was, after all, Easter so we were going to treat ourselves to whatever we wanted! We ended up at a place called Le Viking which had delicious French sandwiches and pizza! We both started out with drinks- wine for Cara, a martini for me- and didn’t have to wait long for our sandwiches either. We shopped while we ate because vendors were constantly passing by with goods, calling out to us. It was great when they came by with something I wanted, but it definitely got a bit annoying by the end of the meal. There was also a Nigerian soccer player with his Senegalese friend who sat near us and tried really hard to buy me a drink. I steadily refused (I know all you American girls are saying to yourselves “Why would she ever refuse a free drink?!”) because I knew what it would mean to him: I’m interested, I want his number, and probably to sleep with him as well. African men (sorry to generalize, but I’m gonna go there) are absolutely relentless and quite unaware of the difference between male-female interaction in African and US society.

The day ended quietly as no one was home when I got back because they were at a friends house celebrating Easter- what irony, I know. So I spent a quiet afternoon watching TV, reading, and napping. It was a little strange to be all alone on a day I usually celebrate with my entire family, but I can’t say that I didn’t appreciate the quiet time…

A New Recipe for Your Cookbook

A couple of weeks ago it was the prophet Mohammed’s birthday, a celebration that is called Gamul here in Senegal. Of course, as this day is one of the most joyful holidays in the Muslim faith, there was much preparation and a grand fete all over the country. My mother, for example, spent two full days- two FULL days- making beignets for her trip to Tivaouane.

I’m getting a bit ahead of myself however; first of all, I have to explain how Islam is divided in Senegal. There are four Muslim brotherhoods- the Mourides, the Tijanes, the Layene, and the Hadriyya. It’s a bit difficult and complicated to explain exactly what separates these sects, but they are certainly not anything like Christian denominations. In fact, they all believe and practice the same precepts of Islam, they just have different religious leaders, or marabouts. At any rate, the Mourides follow the spiritual guidance of their founding father and greatest leader, Cheikh Amadou Bamba. During the month of February they pilgrimaged en masse to Touba (the second holiest city in Islam) to celebrate his return to Senegal from exile. Literally millions of people travel there to pray in the mosque, to see relatives, and of course to party!

Well I suppose the Tijanes (the second largest brotherhood) got a little jealous of this awesome celebration and decided that they would pilgrimage as well- to Tivaouane for Mohammed’s birthday. The celebration in Touba is rivaled by this voyage which counts hundreds of thousands of participants and unimaginable amounts of food and goodies. Mama made her contribution to this by gathering all her neighborhood friends in the house one day- Tijane or not!- to help her make 40 kilos of beignets. Yes, that equals approximately 90 pounds of greasy, sugary, fried goodness. Let me explain how it was done…

Saturday evening all the woman from the block assembled in our back courtyard with Costco-sized amounts of every baking supply known to man. Then, with mathematical precision they began to mix. Pounds and pounds of butter were slowly melted over the portable gas tanks that everyone uses (like the ones we use for gas grills in the US) while exactly 62 eggs were cracked into an enormous bowl and sugar beaten in. Meanwhile countless packets of baking powder and vanilla sugar (which is very popular here but has no equivalent in the US) were sifted in with 14 pounds of flours, 7 for each batch. Then the dry and wet ingredients were mixed together by hand in a tub the size of a monster-truck wheel. The same kind of tubs they use to do full loads of laundry. And understand that when I say “by hand” I mean that Maman was sitting over the tub, with her entire forearm plunged into the sticky batter, heaving. Absolutely heaving.

The batter was left covered overnight in the kitchen until the next morning when a few select women came back to help fry the dough. I don’t know what to say about this stage of the baking except that they started frying around 6am and were only halfway through when I returned from Mass (it was Palm Sunday) at 1pm. Truly an experience unlike any other I’ve ever had…

Yes, I'm Alive

Just a quick posting for those of you who rely on my blog to assure you that I am indeed alive:

I'm very behind on my journaling, but I'll be posting soon about Mawlaud (the prophet Mohammed's birthday), Easter (the day of Jesus's Resurrection- you'd be suprised how many people here have no idea what Easter represents), our trip to the beautiful Sine-Saloum river delta, and my boyfriend.