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Something kept me awake last night that I just had to write a little note about.
A friend of mine recently presented about monitoring and evaluation to our new group of Health trainees. Statistics, he said, are a good thing. We want our family and friends here in Senegal to become statistics, because that means they are being counted. If they are being counted, they can’t be nobodies. To punctuate this point, he shared with them a poem by Uruguayan poet and novelist Eduardo Galeano called, “The Nobodies.” Here it is:
Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream of escaping poverty: that one magical day, good luck will suddenly rain down on them – will rain down in buckets. But good luck doesn’t even fall in a fine drizzle, no matter how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their left hand is tickling, or if they begin the new day with their right foot, or start the new year with a change of brooms.
The nobodies: nobody’s children, owners of nothing. The nobodies: the no ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, dying through life, screwed every which way.
Who don’t speak languages, but dialects.
Who don’t have religions, but superstitions.
Who don’t create art, but handicrafts.
Who don’t have culture, but folklore.
Who are not human beings, but human resources.
Who do not have names, but numbers.
Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the police blotter of the local paper.
The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.
The reason this poem pulls at my heartstrings is pretty transparent, I’m sure. I was in the back of the room during this presentation, sniffling to myself. After the reading, I was left thinking about activism, about solidarity, about what it means to be a family, about what it means to be a human family.
There are “nobodies,” according to Galeano’s definition, all around us – in the States and in the developing world. It is certainly not up to me to chide people into “action” in whatever way would make them feel better. That is not the point. The point is that the idea of “activism” – this “let’s-go-get-the-bully” Kony-style activisim – needs to be reworked, because we’re going about it all wrong. Solidarity is a better approach. Solidarity means nobodying no one. It isn’t an action necessarily, not at first anyway, but a feeling. It means looking at a person and seeing a somebody – specifically, not allowing yourself to see a nobody. Whatever “activism” comes from this first step, will undoubtedly be better than that which is forced, or for publicity, or for anything else that is disingenuous.
I’m going home in six weeks. What a strange time. Thank you, Senegal, thank you for this time you’ve given me here, surrounded by so many wonderful somebodies.
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I’m alive! I’m still here! All my apologies for the lack of updates lately. Hopefully I’ll adequately present my excuses in the blurb to follow. Or maybe not. Maybe I’ll just reiterate my laziness. Here goes nothing!
In April I moved to Dakar. Let’s just say that during my COS (close of service) conference sometime back in March (or was it February?) I had a prise de conscience or an anxiety attack or SOMETHING that made me think it was a good idea to stay here for another year. I’m still riding that wave via my new job in the Peace Corps office which has been great. Just absolutely great. I really can’t mince words here. Right now my job title is Health and Environmental Education Program Assistant…. which boils down to a lot of volunteer support, training organization, and other piecemeal things that give me a reason to stay very busy as I’m sitting in an air-conditioned room for almost 8 hours a day. I’ve loved working here for the past few months and I’m consistently pleased at the new opportunities and challenges that this line of work has given me. Could I have found this satisfaction in the States? That, I do not know. My only complaint, really, is about the shoes.
My new apartment, in which I and my new roommates (roommates! yay!) live, is almost exactly a three minute walk from our office. Its rainy season now and pretty much the only time that Dakar is uncomfortably hot and uncomfortably puddle-filled. Not necessarily from the rain, but also from the raw sewage gurgling up from the bowels of my neighborhood through manhole covers and into the streets bringing a new color to the landscape: the neutral brown water and mud, bordered by a lovely emerald green where its had the opportunity to grow new life, accented by the brilliant shades of trash that has washed up from God-knows-where. Truly a feast for the eyes. Or something like that. Try putting your tootsies into that kind of environment. Even your sandal-clad tootsies. Its pretty gross and enough to send any self-respecting shoe into retirement. Thankfully, I bought rain boots and thankfully, some sweet (or very clean) people in my neighborhood have strategically placed stones in the puddles so as to provide a way to navigate through it all. Even with boots, I’ve tried to stifle the urge to go jumping through the puddles because sewage splattered clothes is not a good look.
Though my shoes haven’t been welcomed to Dakar, I certainly have. And I hope to write more about my new life here so you all can get acquainted as I’m getting acquainted. Miss you all and write more soon. And this time I mean it.
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June 23, 2010 might have turned out to be a night like any other night. It was about 8 pm. An eerie almost full moon back-lit the sparse clouds making them seem to pop off the grey sky. Ok enough. I guess I’ve provided sufficient atmosphere: It was on this night that I passed one of the most important milestones in my life. I killed my 20th scorpion.
After living in my tiny cinderblock/tin roofed hut for over a year, I still haven’t found the scorpion magnet, though I know it’s there somewhere. I say this because there is always and without fail a scorpion waiting for me there. Time has allowed me to recognize the scratching sound of the exoskeleton against the metal trunks where I keep my clothes, the tiny form curled into any available crevice, hoping that I won’t notice.
And so the night of the 23rd started normally. I crossed the threshold of my door, blissfully ignorant of what evil lurked within. Then I saw him. Or her. Whatever. It was crawling slowly – oh the audacity – across the middle of the floor. I reached behind me to the right side of the door where I keep my trusty “scorpion killing stick.” It knew its days were numbered, but I tried to make it quick and painless. There you have it folks, straight from the source.
On this momentous occasion, there are a few people I’d like to thank:
First, I extend my greatest appreciation to my brothers and honorary brother for their love of scaring me to death with monster masks as a small child. Their sheer disregard for my potential emotional scarring while telling stories of ghosts or things coming out of the woods to get me, have almost given me an affinity towards all things creepy. They have helped make me the woman I am today.
Also, how can I forget my Senegalese brother Mbarou, who tought me everything I needed to know about scorpion killing and who also designated the “scorpion killing stick,” because really, there’s no way I would have thought of that myself. Without him, this would not have been possible.
Last but not least, I would like to acknowledge the loving support of my mom and dad.
Thank you all.
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Curious children in Barmathial
children chasing after our charrette in Gana Balol
Bathing in the Senegal River. The opposite coastline is Mauritania.
- Mbido waawi wombude!
- Mudstove tourney in Deiba
I have another interesting Alham tale for you. Hope you enjoy it.
The cold season has arrived, and oh, how I love it. I can actually sleep inside. I can work for more than one hour without becoming drained and tired. I can actually enjoy the scalding hot “coffee” that my Senegalese mom gives me every morning for breakfast. And, I can wear my hair down – without that pesky neck-sweating problem, because for the first time, it isn’t unbearably, excrutiatingly hot!
I’ve been taking full advantage of the fact that I can wear my hair down comfortably for the first time in 8 months. But what I didn’t realize was that I get more attention this way. Mostly unwanted attention.
Tabaski just passed, the Muslim holiday which my family explained as being the time when they all buy new clothes and kill a sheep. I used this holiday occasion to travel to see my sister. On an Alham of course, only because I had no other choice.
I took my seat next to a window, in front of an elderly Pulaar woman. Nothing out of the ordinary. The trip was bumpy as usual, because of the poor maintenance of the roads. I sat back and listened to music. All of a sudden, I felt the sharp pain of a singular strand of my hair being jerked out of my scalp. I thought my hair, which was down - taking full advantage of the “cold” weather, might have gotten caught on exposed metal from the seat or something. Half-turning for an inspection of the seat, I found that it was not shreaded to its metal frame as I had imagined. It was normal: a new-ish looking brown vinyl bus seat with no jagged metal corners or anything else suspicious. I turned around again. Resumed listening to music.
A few moments later, another prick of pain in my scalp. I whipped around, looking for anything that could have caused the not horribly painful, but still annoying loss of hair. Nothing. Just the little old Pulaar lady, looking blankly forward. But when I overheard her whispered conversation, which included the words “secundu puccu” (horse hair), the cold, hard truth hit me. The benign looking woman sitting behind me was not as innocent as I had thought. She was in fact pulling out strands of my hair. Thought I hated doing this (really I did), I turned and gave her the “I know what you’re doing” death stare and that seemed to put an end to her illicit activity. Or maybe she had gotten enough for her purpose (feel free to imagine creepy horror movie music here).
What she planned on doing with my hair, I have no idea. Perhaps she wanted to make it into a gris-gris, a little trinket blessed by a marabout (kind of like a mix between a shaman and an Islamic “priest”), maybe for an addition to her very own toubab voodoo doll. Or I guess she could have just let it fall to the ground, though this is the least interesting of the possibilities and I prefer not to take it seriously. In any event, my horse hair seems to be a hot commodity here, in ways that I never expected. And I think I’ll go back to wearing it up.
1. People here really like writing their phone numbers on the side of their homes and businesses. They write it in marker in bold letters on exterior walls, they pencil it in on the sides of doorways or in inconspicuous places, I’ve even seen it traced with a finger into wet cement.
2. Pink is not just for girls. My sister’s new little baby boy, Ngaari (which means ‘bull’ in Pulaar, by the way), has a fuzzy pink blanket with “Fairy Princess” embroidered on it.
3. Pulaars typically have two vertical scars on each temple, each about an inch long, called pesode. It was once thought to ward off childhood illnesses. There’s nothing like 4 bloody gashes on your face to keep the flu away!
4. Men hold hands as a sign of friendship.
5. People say “Inch’allah” or “So allah jaabii” (“god willing”) to get out of almost anything. I once had a conversation with a school director that went something like this: “We’ll have the meeting inch’allah next week inch’allah and we’ll get everything organized inch’allah.” My response: “Ok, I’ll be here next week, so allah jaabii.”
6. Men fall in love with you in less than 5 minutes. I talked to a Random Senegalese Guy (RSG) in the market once and it went a little something like this:
Random Senegalese Guy: Are you Italian?
Me: No, I’m American
RSG: Oh! I have a friend in Portugal, he has a girlfriend that’s French.
Me: That’s cool.
RSG: Are you married? Because I love you.
Me: Yes, I’m married.
RSG: Oh that’s too bad. Then can I have 500 CFA? I want to buy some coffee.
7. People close to you will constantly brag about your ability when you’re not around. I helped my sister sweep the house for all of 5 minutes and I heard my mom telling my dad later: “Did you see Nene? She swept the entire house!” One can be considered exceptional with very little effort.
8. Conversely, it is completely normal to make fun of someone as a way to encourage them. There’s no positive re-enforcement here.
9. People are shoved into public transportation like cattle. On a bus that is supposed to seat 15 comfortably, they will somehow fit 30. With baggage. And chickens tucked under the seats.
10. Any way of getting someone’s attention that is considered rude in the States is acceptable here…hissing, snapping, yelling. The good part is, I can do this too and no one gets offended. Liberating.
11. Animal body parts litter the streets. During a walk home, I might see a goat leg, cow horns, or a tail. At first, I thought it was disgusting. Now I just step around them.
12. Quite possibly my favorite thing about Senegal, is that you are considered a great guest if you go to someone’s house and fall asleep.
13. A large percentage of Senegalese women seem to be afraid of kittens.
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What would I do with myself if it weren’t for unexpected little reminders? They keep me sane…
I was confronted with just such a reminder, one that came in a most unlikely package, in the form of the inndeor baptism for the newest member of the Lam family, Sada. Originally, I was extremely excited about the event. It was a party after all, and I am not one to turn down a party. The innde is a day long event, during which the hosts invite family and friends to spend the day lounging in the shade, eating beignets and drinking bouye(boabab fruit juice), and enjoying the entertainment of griots who dance and sing both traditional and improvised songs. For some reason that is still unknown to me, my family decided to keep all of the “refreshments” in my little hut, which stands apart from the main family house. According to the original plan, only a few family members were allowed entrance to my hut and when it was unoccupied, it was to remain locked. The original plan was probably followed for all of five minutes, before an entire gaggle of women descended on my hut, making juice and little gift bags of beignets, haphazardly spilling things everywhere. My feeble cries of protest were drowned out by the gossiping ladies, who continued on happily in their booming voices as if everything was perfectly normal. For them, I’m sure it was perfectly normal.
(Later, in a completely unrelated conversation with a town government official, I was informed that in Senegalese culture, all private spaces become public when there are guests. It would have been nice to know this during the innde…)
After 7 months of being here, I am continually learning new things each day. Mostly, I’ve seen that though we share many commonalities, people across cultures can differ in the most unimaginable ways. All of these differences, for me, seemed to manifest themselves during the innde. Taken individually, I can normally overlook them, but put them all together and it becomes a most unpleasant experience.
For example, the word “please” doesn’t exist in Pulaar. Instead, demands are given in the form of orders, sometimes accompanied by a snap. Smiles don’t translate exactly either. It is more polite to greet with a scowl than to smile without greeting. All of the niceties that I am accustomed to were noticeably absent as my innde “guests” dribbled syrupy juice in my personal space and then left me to clean up the fly encrusted mess…
I keep a journal here, as do most volunteers I’m sure, where I record my cheesiest thoughts and most ridiculous ideas each night during what may be my first moments alone for an entire day. After the innde guests had gone home and I was finished scrubbing the bouye from my floors, I was ready to complain. I had outlined every complaint in my mind, ready to take it all out of my small leather-bound outlet. As I opened the page, pen poised, I saw the dot.
So before I left, I took my little journal, opened it to a random page, and made a dot in the corner. At the time I was thinking to myself, “Wonder what I’ll be doing by the time I reach the dot?” Or something like that. After seeing the dot, I started thinking… thinking about all of the things I’ve seen or done since the day when I serendipitously put it on the page. I’ve ridden on a cart, pulled by a donkey, driven by a child. And I’ve almost fallen off of a cart, pulled by a donkey, driven by a child. I’ve attended “professional” meetings, during which the person leading was wearing a shirt that said “Wanna see my tatoo?” I’ve seen herds of camels and troupes of monkeys and played in the pool below a waterfall. I’ve been bitten by spiders and eaten goat brains over millet (not kidding, Pulaars are not known for their delicious cuisine). But most importantly of all, I’ve been completely welcomed in to a community that is frustrating and fascinating and filled with people who are genuinely happy that I’m here and working with them, that would give me the shirt off of their back (or the pagne off of their waist) if I asked for it. Thanks to the dot for reminding me to stop taking myself so seriously and enjoy this experience for what it is.
Silly, I know. That’s all.
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It’s the hot season here in the Fuuta, which means that almost everyone choses to sleep in the cooler outdoor air. Adjacent to my hut is a small walled area… my “bathroom,” I like to call it. It’s where I take my bucket baths and also where I sleep, comfortably even, on my little wooden bed with my foam mattress. Every night I suspend my mosquito net from the clothes lines that criss cross this bathroom and every morning I wake up to the chorus of farm animals: the throaty bass of the cows, the tenor sheep and the shrill soprano of the rooster. My life has settled into a rhythm such that most nights pass into day in this way… That is, until last night.
Wind is usually a good thing during hot desert nights, unless of course, it carries copious amounts of sand along with it. These dust storms aren’t very frequent but they do happen, perhaps 5 times each hot season. So last night, I woke up a little past midnight because of the howling wind. I immediately got out of bed and stood in the relative safety of the doorway and watched the dirt swirling in the sky. For a nanosecond I debated bringing my mattress inside, until I felt the radiating heat coming from inside my hut compared to the cooler breezy outside. After about 20 minutes there was considerably less wind, so I thought it was safe to go back to sleep.
About 5 hours later, I woke up after what may be the best night of sleep I’ve had since I’ve been in country. The night had been cool and comfortable…. I was also completely covered in sand. Maybe a quarter of an inch deep. It was everywhere… it coated my sheets, it was in my hair, I felt it in my teeth.
So there had been a dust storm. And I slept through it. Go figure.
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In a dusty village in the north of Senegal, 7 kilometers from the nearest paved road, there’s a woman draped in black sitting on her bed. She is a mother and a widow. It is for this second reason that she is customarily required to stay in her bedroom, always in black, for four months after the death of her husband. Time for mourning, I’m told. Only at night can she take the perhaps 10 footsteps to a little open terrace to sleep in the cooler night air because staying in her cement hut would be unbearable. Those walls trap the heat from the relentless sun so much during the day that even at night the air seems to throb with it. On that morning when I took those tentative steps into her room to meet her, she had been there for 3 months.
This woman’s husband was a teacher and was Marisa’s community counterpart. Myself and and another voluneer were hosted by Marisa, a health volunteer in Goudoude Diope. Our “volunteer visit” allowed us to see the day to day work of a Peace Corps Volunteer. The first major difference between this area (called the Fouta) and the coast, where I have spent much of my time so far, is the heat. During our visit, Marisa’s thermometer INDOORS read 119° F. People have effectively become nocturnal because during the middle of the day, between perhaps noon until 5 pm, it is so hot that all activity stops and everyone just lays around, fanning themselves, waiting for the cooler evening. There’s no electricity there. The speakers from the mosque are powered by a few solar panels. Every morning the women take their huge buckets (baignoirs) to one of the two public faucets (robinets) in the village to get all of their water for the day. Those faucets only work for 3 hours per day, from 9 am until noon. Sometimes they don’t work at all.
Traveling to the road to get to the nearest town also presents it’s own challenges. We had to take a charette, which is basically a flat cart with two planks on each side above the wheels on which you put your feet (if you’re lucky). My first charette ride was particularly terrifying. Our cart was driven by a boy that I’m guessing was about eight year old, though it is difficult to say difinitively because the children are so much smaller here. This boy was wielding a wooden pole about the thickness of my wrist, which he used to beat the pregnant donkey that was pulling us slowly along. It is just a different world.
Frankly, I’m quite regularly shocked at something I see on the street, or in the market, or anywhere… but I don’t mean to sound so negative because there are really many wonderful things about this country and this culture. For example, I’ve never before seen people that have so little that would very willingly give you everything. Their hospitality seems limitless. In the local language it is called teranga. And Senegal is justly so the land of teranga. Another volunteer put it best when he told me: ”You know how in the States, people will offer you something, but secretly they’re thinking ‘Please don’t take it, please don’t take it.’ Well in Senegal, they really want you to take it.” So true.
In other news, I swear in as an official volunteer on April 24th in Dakar. Then on the 27th I go to my site, the town of Kanel which is in the north east of the country, extremely close to the border with Mauritania and reasonably close to Mali. I will even have running water and electricity! Many changes are coming up, so please send good vibes my way from time to time. I am certainly thinking about all of you!
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Doors don’t exist here the way they do back home. Structurally, there are doors of course, just not the same kind of doors functionally speaking.
My front door in Mboro is made of solid iron on the bottom half with artisinal iron bars on top. The space between each bar is about 2 inches, or something like that. There’s no glass, so only this lovely iron decoration separates us from the outside. In breezy Mboro, the entire house is usually filled with swirling fresh air that ruffles curtains and hemlines, even in the most secluded corners.
The lock on our iron door is the sliding barrel kind, the kind that in the States we might often see latching a public restroom door. There’s no place for a key. There’s no dead bolt. There’s no ADT.
My new perception of the idea of a door was further shaped by the fact that this paticular one, and indeed many other doors across this country, are rarely ever closed. Only for a few hours each night when the family is sleeping is that metal cylinder secured into the position that gives it purpose. For the rest of the day, the door is instead a passageway for what seems like the entire town. Neighbors and friends come and go, send their greetings, stay for a meal or for tea or for the nightly episode of Coeur de Peché (every night at 7!) and then leave again to join other families or to rejoin their own.
