Maybe the best thing I've done in my entire life

This is Adama. He lives in a village about 40 km away from mine. I saw him once when I was in his village to do some health education activities, and then coincidentally just a short time after that I got an email about an NGO called Operation Smile coming to Senegal to do free operations on kids with cleft lips and cleft palates.

So once I had all the information about Operation Smile, I decided to go back to his village to talk to his family about taking him to Thies to get the operation. I knew they probably wouldn't have the money for the car ticket up there (about $20 one way, per person), so I decided if they couldn't afford it I would just pay for it myself.

So I went to his village and talked to his mom, Fili. She said they'd taken Adama to the hospital in Tamba when he was a baby, but they couldn't do anything for him there, and his father is deceased and he has seven brothers and sisters, and the family can't afford to do anything else. And his mom has never been farther away from her village than Tamba, which is about a four hour car ride away. But we talked it over, and finally agreed that if Fili's older brother, who lives in Tamba, agreed, then I would take Adama, his mom Fili, and baby sister Penda (who is still breastfeeding and so has to stay with her mom) up to Thies to see if he could get the operation.

So we went up to Thies, along with my friend Mariama Keita, who was going to help out as a translator at the hospital. It was a pretty stressful few days for me, being responsible for a family who've never been out of Tamba and who only speak Mandinka, which hardly anyone in Thies speaks. Poor little Adama was scared about the operation and kept asking his mom when they could go back to their village.

But in the end, it all worked out great: Adama got his operation, everyone was happy, and after a few days they got to go back home.



The day after the operation, when Adama was released from the hospital, I took the family to spend the day with my Thies host family, who also speak Mandinka, because I thought they'd be more comfortable there (plus my host mom is an amazing cook). At one point it occurred to me that Adama probably hadn't seen his new face in a mirror yet, so I offered him a little compact from my purse. He took it over to the doorway for better light, and then just stared at his face for about two minutes.

Then when we were at the garage in Thies waiting for our car to be ready to go to Tamba, Adama said that he wanted to spend the 1000 CFA ($2) that my Thies host mom gave him for the trip on buying sunglasses and a mirror. So Mariama and I helped him buy those things from the vendors wandering around the garage. So then Adama was all spiffed up and ready to go back to his village and impress his friends with his new look:

I can't think of anything better I've done in my entire life than taking Adama to get that operation. I just wish I was going to be in Senegal long enough to see him when his face is completely healed up.

My ancestors are Pulaars!

Written Wednesday, 26 November 2008

 

 

On my way up to the Futa, the northern, really Sahel edge-of-the-desert part of Senegal, to visit a friend and celebrate Thanksgiving, we passed a village called Semme.  Which is what my family's last name was, hundreds of years ago when my ancestors immigrated to America.

 

Which leads me to think that maybe my ancestors were Pulaar!  Or, a little more seriously, maybe relatives of my ancestors colonized this part of Senegal!

 

Or, much more probably but also much less interestingly, maybe semme is a word in Pulaar that I don't know, and it has nothing to do with my family.  But I like my first explanation the best.

Universal experience

Written Saturday, 22 November 2008

 

 

I just finished reading a book about a (Canadian version of Peace Corps) volunteer in Bhutan.  It's funny to read about someone in such a different place and discover that our experiences have been almost exactly the same – the strangeness of the place at arrival, being scared of weird diseases and parasites, thinking you'll never find anything in common to talk about with the locals… and then gradually, gradually getting so comfortable that it's America that begins to seem like the alien place, and how will I ever fit in there again?

 

So when I got to the middle of the book I found myself anxious to find out what happened as if it would tell me how things are going to turn out for me here.  But at the end in the story the volunteer gets married to a local Bhutanese man and has a baby, and that is definitely not what I'm going to do.

 

So I guess I'm just going to have to figure out the next six months for myself.

Letter to President Obama from the villagers of Cour Bambey

Written Friday, 14 November 2008

 

 

Here is the letter composed by the villagers of Cour Bambey (which I also emailed to Obama on his campaign website):

 

13 November 2008

 

Dear Mr. President Obama,

 

The day of the 13th of November is the world day of the celebration of Obama.  We are behind you.  You touch us in our hearts.  All of the population of Cour Bambey is very happy and congratulates you on your victory.  Before we did not know you, but you have touched our hearts and it is as if we are all in America.

 

The population is ready to invite you to Cour Bambey, which is found 47 kilometers from Tambacounda.  We want development, including natural resources, education, health, potable water, water towers and faucets, and above all we want a strong relationship between our village and America.  Cour Bambey is in the locality of Sinthian Coundara in the region of Kolda.

 

We wish you much success with your work, that you work hard and listen well to the people of America.  We ask that you help the women with their gardening projects.  And above all we hope that you bring peace in the world.  The economic crisis hits us here too – the rice and gas are very expensive.  You must help us.  In the village here, there is no one in America.  Help us to send two or three people to go to America to see the conditions there.

 

Now we understand American democracy thanks to Peace Corps.  We really hope that in Cour Bambey it continues to have much success.  Thank you very much for having sent us Mariama Keita (Holly Packard), who has given us a party.  And also Khadija Tandian (Rebecca Semmes).  They have done a lot to help us.

 

We were not able to vote on paper for Obama, but we have voted for you in our hearts.  We all greet you.  We are very tired with work, but we all greet you and we hope that you can help us to be less tired.

 

Sincerely,

 

The People of Cour Bambey

Obama victory party in Cour Bambey

Written Friday, 14 November 2008

 

 

Yesterday my friend "Mariama Keita" and I held an Obama victory party in Mariama's village, and then we decided to write an article for Sabaar, Peace Corps Senegal's volunteer-run newsletter, about it.  Here is the article:

 

Senegalese Villagers Sacrifice Goat for Obama

 

Cour Bambey, Senegal – In celebration of the election of America's first sorta-black president, the villagers of Cour Bambey sacrificed a scrawny goat, danced to Beach Boys music, and wrote a letter inviting their quasi-African brother to visit the village.

 

The fete was first conceived one sleepless, sweltering night sitting around the radio.  PCV Holly Packard vowed that if Senator Obama won on election night, she would provide livestock and dance tunes to celebrate.  Since this required no effort on their part and could result in meat in the bowl, the villagers were vraiment d'accord, quoi.

 

So when the election results were finally announced in the wee hours of the morning November 5, the Cour Bambeyans' joy in the renewed proof of democracy and equality in America was augmented by the knowledge that they would soon be getting some good eatin'.

 

True to her word, PCV Packard and her trusty accomplice PCV Rebecca Semmes rolled up on their metal horses a few days later with all the party fixins.  (PCV Mary O'Brien was supposed to complete the celebratory trifecta, but she didn't come because she hates freedom).  Strapped to the backs of overloaded velos were ten kilos of vegetables, six bottles of bubbles (generously donated by PCV Tracy MacDonald), various decorative Obama paraphernalia, and some tunes with a tiny, tiny speaker.

 

The smallish goat chosen to be sacrificed on the alter of American democracy sat tied to a post, anticipating the outcome of its glorious martyrdom. (70 virgin lady goats?)  The villagers spent the day dancing to the sounds of the '60s and extolling the virtues of America and its first sorta-kinda-black president elect.

 

PCV Packard, unwilling to lose even one day in her mission to develop the shit out of Senegal, continued her work as a playground extension agent by teaching the children how to blow bubbles.  Terrified at first, the kiddies soon acclimated to the wondrous new game, and then started a small riot in their quest to pop as many bubbles as possible.

 

PCV Semmes recorded the event for posterity and the Sabaar using her mad photography skills, and then aided the village elders in composing a congratulatory letter to President-Elect Obama with her incroyable orthographic abilities.

 

Through no fault of PCVs Packard and Semmes or of the Beach Boys, lunch wasn't ready until 7 p.m. (It is unclear at this time whether fault lies with freedom-hating PCV O'Brien).  When lunch was finally served, it was met by enthusiastic chants of "O-BA-MA! O-BA-MA!"  After the meal, the village men adjourned to the mosque to pray for the success and long life of the new American President.

 

Their mission of spreading democracy and freedom to the people of Cour Bambey accomplished, PCVs Packard and Semmes retired to Packard's hut for a celebratory meal of instant mashed potatoes and lukewarm Tang.  At the late late hour of 8 p.m., they closed their eyes, full of starch, Jadida, and the sense of a job well done.

Election reactions

I've been in Dakar this week for meetings, so Tuesday night I was able to go to an expat election party in town.  I wanted to stay up all night and watch the election, but I just didn't make it.  (Plus I had an important meeting the next day I didn't want to be too exhausted for).

 

So I went to bed around 2:30 am, by which time Obama was significantly ahead, but it still wasn't a sure thing.  I happened to wake up sometime between 4:00 and 5:00, so I quickly checked the computer, saw that Obama won, thought "Yay!", and went back to sleep.

 

Wednesday morning I decided not to change out of my Obama t-shirt (given to me by a PCV who got a couple while on vacation in America) because I was just too happy.  So walking around the neighborhood to get breakfast and do some errands I attracted a lot of "congratulations!" and "good job!" type comments from Senegalese, plus a lot of typical "give me your shirt!" comments, which I am choosing to interpret as "I like Obama too".

 

I only met one dissenter, a security guard at the Peace Corps office who I am friends with.  He congratulated me, but said he supported McCain.  When I asked him why, his answer was basically that he likes to root for the underdog.

 

Reactions from the village coming next week (or at least, as soon after next week as I can get back to the internet).

Financial crisis in Senegal

NPR has a story about how the global financial crisis is affecting Senegal.  I haven't managed to listen to it yet (technical issues), but it's NPR, so I'm sure it's good.

Article about sexual exploitation in African schools

Here is a good article from the UN's news service about sexual exploitation in African schools - a big problem here in Senegal.

Video about girls' education in Senegal

Now available on the web: a (really great) documentary created by Peace Corps Volunteers about girls' education in Senegal.  It's called "Elle Travaille, Elle Vit" (She works, She lives); it's in French with English subtitles.  Watch it here!

Woohoo!

I am so excited about the election!!!

Potential disaster

I'm in Dakar this week for some meetings, and as usual, I was super excited about coming to Dakar for two reasons: unlimited free internet at the Peace Corps office (although it's still slow and clunky), and great food options.

 

So yesterday in pursuit of food happiness, I went to a little Indian grocery store down the street from the office and stocked up on some food to eat over the next couple days.  I got some ramen noodles, some microwavable Indian food meals, and some other odds and ends, including real milk to put in my tea (I always use powdered milk in Tamba and the village). 

 

And then I discovered that whenever I consume the milk, which tastes AMAZING and has definitely not gone bad, it upsets my stomach.  So now I am worried that in my year and a half of hardly ever having any real milk I might have become lactose intolerant.  Which would be a disaster, because having hot tea with milk is very important to my sanity.  All the other dairy stuff I could give up, but not milk in my tea. 

 

So now I am really, really hoping that this is just a temporary thing (like maybe I've got parasites again and they don't like milk) or else that I just need to get used to dairy again.  The alternative is just too sad to contemplate.

Bucket down

Written Thursday, 30 October 2008

 

I just went to the well to get water, and as I always do, I set my empty bucket on the concrete ledge of the well. Maybe I'm psychic, because I noticed that the ledge in that spot wasn't quite flat, and I thought how easy it would be for the bucket to fall into the well.  Psychic maybe, but not smart enough to move it to another spot.  Sure enough, a second later the rope knocked into it and it fell in.

 

I'd been all alone at the well, but as soon as the bucket fell in, even though it hardly makes any noise, I was suddenly surrounded by women laughing at me, asking how I'm going to get my bucket back and offering to toss me down the well to go after it.

 

Luckily, I have a backup bucket, so I was still able to get water for my bath, although It's going to be a little complicated next time I have to do laundry.  So the real outcome of this is that I am once again left feeling ridiculous, with what seems like half the village laughing at me for my inability to do simple village-woman tasks.  Poo.

Bye bye, Rain

Written Tuesday, 28 October 2008

 

Rainy season is finally over.  The grass is turning brown and dying, which makes me sad, but my clothes no longer smell perpetually like mildew, which is definitely good.  The plague of frogs should end soon (also good), but then there will be the harmattan wind that gets dust in my eyes and makes biking even short distances a miserable chore (bad).  I'm looking forward to cold nights and drinking my coffee in the morning without sweat pouring down my face, but not to taking cold showers in cool weather.

 

All in all I think I like rainy season and cold season about equally, but rainy season has been going on for a while and I always like change, so hurray for cold season coming!

 

Traditional names

Written Tuesday, 28 October 2008

 

Children here who aren't given Muslim (or Christian) names are given traditional names relating to the circumstances of their birth: Sunkaro, which means Ramadan, for those born during that month; Penda, third girl child; Sori, Came Early; Meeta, Took a Long Time.  Today I heard a new one which I really liked: Nyaato, Future.  Sometimes the names tell you something about how the parents felt about their new child, and this one seems very hopeful to me.

Into the Wild

Written Friday, 24 October 2008

 

Yesterday at the house in Tamba I watched a movie called Into the Wild, about a guy who decides to give up civilization and go live in the wilderness in Alaska, because he thinks that if he surrounds himself with nature he will learn something about Truth.

 

I don't care much about the search for Truth, I'm too pragmatic for that, but the movie definitely made heading off into the wilderness look like fun.  And today, biking back to my village from Tamba, I was thinking that these have been some of my favorite experiences in Africa – just biking along, looking at the beautiful scenery, dancing (the top half of me anyway) to the music on my ipod, and greeting villagers as I pass by. 

 

I want to find a way to continue having this lifestyle, lots of freedom and time outdoors, after Peace Corps.  (Has Peace Corps turned me into a dirty hippy, or "hip" as one of my guides in Morocco called it? Maybe.  But I bet lots of freedom and outdoor time sound pretty good to just about everyone, and I'm still a big fan of showers.)  I haven't had much success so far in thinking of a way to make it happen, though.  You get nice long summer vacations with teaching, but I just don't enjoy that enough.  You can write from anywhere, but I'm not talented enough to make a living at it (although if you could learn to write by reading books, I'd probably have won the Nobel Prize for Literature by now).  Living off my trust fund would work great, except that I haven't got one.

 

So for now I'm stuck.  But at least I've got another six months or so of my nice Peace Corps life left, before I have to go back to being a grown-up.

What I've been up to lately

written Friday, 24 October 2008

 

I'm still feuding with my counterpart about me supposedly not having done anything for the village (i.e. given them piles of money), so I haven't taught any more health classes, which we always do together.  I don't feel bad about it, though, because I think the women here know by now everything I have to teach them on that subject.  (Whether they're actually implementing the lessons – washing their hands with soap, etc. – is another issue, of course).

 

So instead I've been spending my time working on a proposal to get funding to buy bikes and gardening supplies for a health workers' association I've been working with for the past year.  Even though the proposal process is quite straightforward, it's requiring a lot of running around, meeting with people and visiting shops in Tamba to find out how much the equipment will cost.

 

I've also been going to schools to give Michelle Sylvester scholarships to this year's winners.  Which is also turning out to require a ridiculous amount of running around (mainly because Senegalese schools don't stick to a fixed calendar regarding when the first day of school is going to be – it's just somewhere post-Korite and at the end of farming season, whenever the principal and teachers and kids decide to show up).

 

So I've been busy, but not so much in my village.  I wish I were spending more time here with my host family and friends, but I decided it's more important to me to be doing work.

Khadija's ambulance service

written Tuesday, 14 October 2008

 

This morning after breakfast the village imam came and told me that his 12-year-old daughter is sick with malaria.  He had money to pay for the doctor, but no way to get her to the health post ten kilometers away.  Of course I offered to take her on my bike, as he was clearly hoping, so about 9 am we set off, with my passenger sitting on the luggage rack behind my seat.

 

This is the first time I've carried almost a full-grown person on my bike for any real distance, and it is hard!  Of course it didn't help that the "road" we were taking is just a dirt trail through the woods, or that it rained yesterday so the path is just a mud swamp in places.  But eventually we made it to the health post, where I paid 100 CFA (about 25 cents) for a consultation, and after not too long a wait we saw the doctor who promptly confirmed she has malaria (although he didn't bother to do a blood test to check for sure).

 

So she got a shot in her leg and about four different kinds of pills and syrups to take (which cost 4500 CFA, about ten dollars – two dollars more than her dad gave me, but luckily I brought my own money too just in case).  Then since it was midday and hot and she was clearly exhausted (besides making you feel awful, malaria causes anemia as the parasites break open your red blood cells) we went to her relatives' house in a village close by and rested for a while, and then I biked us home again.

 

I'm really glad that my villagers come to me when they're sick and need help getting to the doctor, but I wish we had a better way to get people out than by donkey cart, which takes forever, or on the back of a bike, which is just exhausting. 

Sick

written Saturday, 4 October 2008

I take it back about the Korite meat not making me sick.  Apparently it was just taking a while for the bacteria to multiply enough in my body to make me miserable.  Poo.

Korite

Written Friday, 3 October 2008

 

Yesterday was Korite, or "prayer day" as it is called in Mandinka, the holiday marking the end of Ramadan.  We celebrated a day later than we had been hoping to because the moon didn't come out on Tuesday night to mark the end of Ramadan.  (I am told that the Koran says that either you or someone you trust must see the moon, so now there is a debate about whether the government or a meteorologist on the radio or TV can count as someone you trust.  My village, at least this time around, decided that since no one in the village had seen the moon we would wait an extra day.)

 

So we celebrated yesterday, but everyone complained that it wasn't much of a party this year because no one has any money – higher food and gas prices and a poor global economy have translated into no Korite bonus from the banana plantation owner for my villagers this year.  So instead of slaughtering a sheep my family just bought a few kilos of meat from somewhere (which tasted really bad – I'm relieved I'm not sick today) and I bought them vegetables.  In the evening there was a soccer match (my friend's team won!), and that was it for our holiday.

 

I'm really glad to get back to a normal, non-fasting schedule.  I was really missing being able to buy bean sandwiches during the day when I'm in town.

Alternate Universe

written Tuesday, 30 September 2008

 

Today was one of the rare days here when the night's rain continued into the morning, which meant that I could sleep in an extra 30 minutes (because you can't do anything here when it rains) and then enjoy a leisurely morning of fixing my own breakfast (French cereal I bought in Tamba at the bargain price of $9 a box, with powdered milk and a cup of instant coffee) and listening to the news on BBC World Radio.  In other words, this morning was what passes for heaven in my current life.

 

Until the chief's sister, the oldest woman in my village – whose actual age could be anywhere between 50 and 100 – passed by my hut in the middle of a loud argument with one of the men in her family.  Before long, half the village was gathered 100 feet from my hut, watching and taking part in the argument.

 

So much for my peaceful morning.

 

Then my "tooma", namesake, a girl about my age with two (illegitimate) children, was taken into one of the huts, and then I could hear her screaming.  She was being beaten.  Not too badly, though, I think – they sounded more like screams of protest, or for attention and pity, than screams of real pain.

 

The beating didn't last long, and then the crowd broke up, off to do their usual morning chores.

 

Since my tooma appeared to have been the focus of the argument I had a pretty good idea what it was about, but I still wanted to find out for sure, so later I asked my sister.  She said, "You know she's not married and she's got two kids already? Well now there's going to be a third baby.  That's very bad.  That's why they beat her."

 

"Okay," I said, "maybe having babies when she isn't married isn't good, but beating women is bad.  In America you can go to prison for that."

 

"Why is it bad? She shouldn't be having kids without a husband to provide for them.  She's making more mouths to feed, more expenses that her father and brothers will have to pay for.  Of course they have the right to beat her."

 

And for a minute, I thought that argument made perfect sense.  She's making extra expenses for the family, not so different from if she'd run up the credit cards.  Of course they'll punish her.

 

And then the American, non-Senegalized portion of my brain kicked in: she is an adult! And it is wrong to beat women!

 

But even now, having had all day to think about it, I still can't think of a good argument to make to my sister or anyone else here for why it is wrong.  All I can come up with is that it just IS.

 

Some days it really scares me when I realize that this alternate universe I am living in, known as Africa, seems normal to me.  Of course I pull all my water from a well and carry it back to my hut on my head.  Of course I eat leftovers out of complete strangers' bowls at restaurants – they left vegetables!  Of course I only wear skirts long enough to at least cover my knees.  Of course a woman's family has the right to beat her if she gets pregnant and she isn't married…

 

I'm going to need some cultural reintegration therapy when I get back to the US.

 

Peanut sheller

Finally got pictures of the peanut sheller in action posted at http://picasaweb.google.com/aidworkr/PeanutSheller#.  Enjoy!

Also there are photos of my trip to Morocco at http://picasaweb.google.com/aidworkr/Morocco#.  I'd been waiting for Sira Ba, my travel partner, to upload hers (because she has all the pics of me riding Bobby the Camel, but despite the fact that she is now in America apparently she doesn't have much internet access, so she hasn't posted them yet), but I will just put another post up when Bobby the Camel photos are available.

computer problems

The computer at the Peace Corps house in Tamba (which wasn't hooked up to internet, but which I could type things on, save on a flash drive, and copy onto a computer at an internet cafe) has died and been taken off to Dakar to get fixed.  Which means that to use a computer I have to be in an internet cafe, which is inevitably full of guys playing video games and blaring Akon music, and where the keyboards are French style, so the letters are all in the wrong place, which slows me down and drives me nuts. 

 

Which is all to say that I'm sorry I'm not posting much right now, but I'm writing things in a notebook to copy onto a computer whenever I have access to one in a more conducive environment, so you'll be hearing from me again someday (probably around Nov. 3 when I have to be in Dakar for a meeting). 

 

Arranged marriages

Written Sunday, 28 September 2008

 

 

I read an article recently in Atlantic Monthly magazine (from March 2008) that says that a study has found that in India, where arranged marriage is still common, the groom's parents tend to prefer an uneducated daughter-in-law over an educated one.  The study's author believes that this preference is because the parents-in-law will have an easier time controlling an uneducated woman and will thus be able to get a larger share of the household's resources. 

 

Arranged marriage is very common here in Senegal as well, and men here often say that they do not want to educate their daughters because it will reduce their prospects for marriage – they say men won't want to marry an educated woman because she will be less likely to accept his authority as head of the household.  This study makes me wonder, though, is it really the men who object to having an educated wife, or is it his parents, and particularly his mother, who under traditional family rules will have her share of the household chores taken over by her daughter-in-law?

 

The study has an interesting idea, I think, but really I think it is probably all wrong.  The difference in education level of the wife that the author finds between arranged marriages and "love matches" can probably be almost entirely explained by educated people being less likely to accept an arranged marriage at all.

 

 

What?

Written Sunday, 28 September 2008

 

 

From the packaging of an "Omnipotence Travel Charger" that one of my friends received in a package recently:

 

Creative technology: Can to in the world the cellular phone lithium battery proceeds to refresh mostly can circumscribe to link the line to in the world the cellular phone refreshes directly mostly this charger can circumscribe to link the line, direct opponent machine to refresh.  Can refresh the pond with the charger cellular phone at the same time.

 

Operation step:

1. Play the slice the charger first to aim at the plus or minus pole of battery, good battery of cover.

2.  Press the "test" the key, "confirm" the bright elucidation of light is normal to refresh.  If the "confirm" the light is not bright, press "the conversion" the key convert the power supply's pole, then normal refresh.

3.  Normal refresh, refresh the light flicker; battery saturation hour.  The saturated light is all and bright, and refresh the light to put out.  Refresh time general for 4 hours, add result of an a 1-2 more good.

4.  this charger can circumscribe link the line, direct opponent machine to refresh.  Can refresh the pond with the charger cellular phone at the same time.

 

 

 

Peanut shelling machine

Written Sunday, 28 September 2008

 

 

My village has recently received a peanut shelling machine from a very generous American donor (Thanks, Lanny!).  Up til now, women had to shell peanuts one by one, by hand.  It takes hours.  Most of the time the women do it after lunch, during their "resting time".

 

But now, with the machine, they can just dump the peanuts into it and push the handle back and forth, and voila! the peanuts are shelled.  It still takes a while to do a large batch of peanuts, but since now there is a machine involved in the process, it has suddenly become a much cooler chore and the men and kids are willing to do it.  (It still remains to be seen whether if this will last once the novelty of the machine wears off, though). 

 

But for now, at least, I think it will make a big difference for the women.  Maybe they will even actually be able to rest for a bit during their resting time!  It could be a revolution!

 

Okay, maybe I am exaggerating a little, but I am excited about it, and so are the women.

I've been doing lots of work

As you can tell from my pictures, if you've looked at them, over the last few weeks I've been really busy: teaching health classes, English class, teaching women in my and two other volunteers' villages how to make neem lotion and baby porridge, weighing babies, and helping to plant a mango orchard (okay, really all I did was take pictures of the mango planting).

 

While I was out at the mango planting, the president of the local Association of Health Agents asked me to help the association get funding to buy some bikes, wheelbarrows, rakes, and other items, to help support their village cleanup and health class activities.  I thought it sounded like a pretty decent idea, so I'm looking into doing a Peace Corps Partnership proposal.  (Which if it goes through, means I will soon be hitting up all my friends and family for money - watch out!)

 

But the morning after the mango planting, when I saw my village counterpart and told him about the proposal idea, he got really mad.  He told me I should be bringing money to the village before I go helping anyone else get funding.  I've been in my village for a year and a half and haven't done anything for them so far!

 

Which made me really mad.  I haven't done anything?  What about all the health and English classes?  What about all the money that people (my counterpart more than anyone) have "borrowed" from me and never paid back?

That fight hasn't been resolved yet.  I'm still going to try to do the proposal, but I'm not sure right now if I'm going to bother with continuing health and English classes in my village.

I'm a real Volunteer now!

Finally I have become a real Peace Corps Volunteer: I got my first parasites of my very own - amoebas, and maybe giardia.  Not to worry, I am taking meds and they will be gone soon.  I feel like this is a Peace Corps rite of passage that I have finally made it to.

New photos!

Finally got some new photos up!  Check them out:

http://picasaweb.google.com/aidworkr/JuneJuly2008

http://picasaweb.google.com/aidworkr/August2008

http://picasaweb.google.com/aidworkr/MariamaSVillage

Man-eating rat

Written Monday, 4 August 2008

A few days ago I was sitting in the Peace Corps house in Tamba,
watching a movie, when I felt something bite my toe. Of course I
jumped and yelled, so by the time I got around to looking down to see
what it was, it had run away. I thought it was a mouse – our house is
overrun with them. But a little later, as I was finishing my movie
(with my feet pulled out of reach on my chair), it came out and hung
out long enough for me to get a good look at it – a rat! Gross,
gross, gross.

Some of the other volunteers had recently said that there was a rat in
the house now, but I thought they were exaggerating and it was a big
mouse. But this was definitely a rat. Luckily its bite hadn't broken
my skin, or I would have been high-tailing it to Dakar to get myself
some shots for rabies and bubonic plague and anything else I could
get.

When one of the boys came to Tamba yesterday I told him about the rat
and asked him to try to buy some poison or something and kill it. We
hadn't managed to find strong enough poison in any of the stores
nearby yet, but this morning when I woke up he told me that he had
trapped the rat in our garbage can. And then a little later our
security guard killed it for us.

So, the current score is: Volunteers: 1. Tamba house rodents:
approximately 1000. But I've gotten pretty used to the mice now; if
we can keep the house rat-free, I think I'll be happy. The war is
still on with the devil-cat in my hut, though.

Porridge and baby weighings

Written Monday, 21 July 2008

After I got back from Tamba last time I started bugging my counterpart that we needed to do some more health activities – baby weighings or health classes. Since it is the rainy/farming season, people don't have much free time, so we decided to forgo the baby weighings for now since they take all day, and instead do some health classes, which only take about an hour.

So after some discussion, we decided to do the classes on nutrition, and also a baby porridge demonstration, which I did once last year. I knew that the women wouldn't start making the baby porridge after I taught it to them, even though it only requires fairly cheap, easily available ingredients; we included the porridge demonstration mainly as a bribe, to get the women to come to the class – because when the demonstration is done, the women can feed the porridge we made to their babies. Also I knew that if I did a class about nutrition, telling the women they need to feed their kids a balanced diet, that they would tell me that I should be giving them the money to buy such things (even though they can fill the protein and vitamin categories with peanuts and baobab and other leaves that are readily available).

So I bought them off with the porridge demonstration, and the class went great. They even asked me when I'm going to do another baby weighing, which made me really happy.

I'm going to do the same class again tomorrow for a different group of women. Hopefully it will go just as well.

Rain!

Written Monday, 21 July 2008

The rain has finally come! And with it, freezing cold weather – it is down to at least 90 degrees, maybe even 85 or 80 (my thermometer is broken – I blame the devil cat).

Strike

Written Saturday, 19 July 2008

My host brother told me that he is going on strike against God because the rain hasn't come. No more praying, no more going to mosque. I told him that sounds like the sort of thing that gets you smited by lightning. But he said he doesn't care, he's mad and he's going on strike.

I told him I had a better idea – why not convert to Christianity? Maybe God likes Christians better, and then he'll make the rains come. Good idea! my brother said. After all, it always rains in Christian countries, and Christians are rich! (Guess he wasn't thinking of all the poor countries in Africa and Latin America that are majority Christian).

So chalk me up for one Christian convert so far.

* Just in case it isn't clear: this conversation did actually happen, but of course neither of us were serious, except about being worried about the rains not coming.

Devil cat

Written Thursday, 17 July 2008

Last time I came back from Tamba I discovered that a cat had found its way into my hut and decided to make it his personal toilet. After moving pretty much everything in my room, I finally found where he had left his stinky present: under my bed. So I cleaned it up and thought that would be the end of it. Surely now that I was back the cat would stay away.

But no. In the last few days the cat has come into my hut four times and left me "presents". One of the times, he'd actually done his business up on a rafter – took me a whole day to figure out where the awful smell was coming from, and then I had to figure out how to get it down without benefit of a stool or even a decent chair, and without knocking it down onto my head.

I am starting to feel that this cat has declared war on me, and only one of us is going to make it out of this alive. If I ask my villagers, I'm sure they will remind me that cats work for sorcerers, so this probably means someone has put a curse on me. Whatever the case may be, this devil cat is starting to push me over the edge.

English class is getting complicated

Written Thursday, 17 July 2008

I re-started my English class when I got back from Guinea, with two new students: the village teacher and the park ranger, who are both Wolof speakers from Thies and are easily the most educated people in my village. Then today someone new asked to join: a Gambian man who knows some English ("I speak English small-small," he told me) but doesn't know French and is completely illiterate. So the total now is: two educated French/Wolof speakers, one semi-educated Mandinka/French speaker, one illiterate Pulaar speaker, and one illiterate Bambara/English speaker. To top it off, the Gambian man speaks really fast and mumbles, so I can barely understand his English (and I don't understand his Bambara at all, although he usually understands my Mandinka).

How in the world am I supposed to teach this class? I don't even know what language to teach it in anymore, to say nothing of coming up with lessons that are appropriate for everyone.

Where is the rain?

Written Thursday, 17 July 2008

It has been over a week since it rained in my village, and before that another week since the previous rain. The crops are still green, but the ground is dry and hard, which makes plowing and hoeing really hard. And people are starting to worry.

New well!

Written Thursday, 17 July 2008

A new well has just been dug (partly financed by an NGO) less than 50 feet from my front door! The water is not as clean as the well I used to go to, but I am hoping that a lot of the sediment is from the construction and it will settle down soon. In any case, it is definitely nice not to have to carry water so far and to be able to see if there is a long line at the well without even leaving my hut.

Senegalese village names

Written Thursday, 17 July 2008

Some Senegalese village names, in translation:

• The Woodcarver's Place
• Under the Diala Trees
• The Men's Place
• Life is Good Here
• New Home
• Gate of Peace
• Next to the Government
• Train Station
• Modu's Village
• Demba's House
• Home of the Tambas

And my favorite, so far: 

• Bean Party

More on how poor are my villagers

Written Tuesday, 8 July 2008

 

 

I've just started reading The End of Poverty by Jeffrey Sachs (finally!), and he classifies poverty into three groups: extreme or absolute poverty, moderate poverty, and relative poverty.  Extreme poverty means that "households cannot meet basic needs for survival.  They are chronically hungry, unable to access health care, lack safe drinking water and sanitation, cannot afford education for some or all children, and perhaps lack rudimentary shelter (like a rain-proof roof) and basic articles of clothing such as shoes."  Moderate poverty "refers to conditions of life in which basic needs are met, but just barely."  Relative poverty is "a household income level below a given proportion of average national income", where basic needs are met but consumer goods (like a car or phone) that are the norm in a particular society are unaffordable.

 

So according to that scale, my villagers mostly fit into the "moderate poverty" category, which according to Jeff Sachs (and the World Bank) means my villagers are probably earning the equivalent of $1 to $2 a day.  It also means that there are over a billion people in the world poorer than my villagers.  Scary thought.

 

On a related note, right now is the hungry season in Senegal.  My family has started cutting back on food – we still eat every meal, but there is just not enough anymore to fill everyone up.

A bandit is caught

Written Tuesday, 8 July 2008

 

 

Recently a bandit who had stolen ten of my host family's cows over the last six months was caught.  My host brother was able to follow a stolen cow's tracks to the butcher in another village.  He called the gendarmes, who demanded that the butcher produce the head, feet, and skin of the cow whose meat he was currently selling (by which the cow could be identified).

 

The butcher, trying to be crafty, instead produced the hide of a cow that had been butchered some time ago and tried to pass it off as the cow killed that day.  Unfortunately for the butcher, though, that cow had also been stolen from my family and their brand was on its hide.  So the butcher was caught as a receiver of stolen goods.

 

Apparently without too much pressure he gave up the name of the actual cattle rustler: a man from another village who has been living in a neighbor's compound in my village and working as a farm hand.

 

My favorite part of the story is this: the gendarmes were clever and waited to come apprehend him until the hour when he was likely to be bathing, so that he would not be wearing his gris-gris (amulets) that would have protected him and allowed him to escape.  They came to his door and knocked as if they were just regular visitors, and when he came to the door gris-gris-less, they grabbed him!  He asked to be allowed to go back into his room to get dressed, but they knew that then he would put on his gris-gris and become invisible or turn into a bug or something, so they refused and took him straight off to jail, where he remains (gris-gris-less).

Written Tuesday, 8 July 2008

A bandit is caught

 

Recently a bandit who had stolen ten of my host family's cows over the last six months was caught.  My host brother was able to follow a stolen cow's tracks to the butcher in another village.  He called the gendarmes, who demanded that the butcher produce the head, feet, and skin of the cow whose meat he was currently selling (by which the cow could be identified).

 

The butcher, trying to be crafty, instead produced the hide of a cow that had been butchered some time ago and tried to pass it off as the cow killed that day.  Unfortunately for the butcher, though, that cow had also been stolen from my family and their brand was on its hide.  So the butcher was caught as a receiver of stolen goods.

 

Apparently without too much pressure he gave up the name of the actual cattle rustler: a man from another village who has been living in a neighbor's compound in my village and working as a farm hand.

 

My favorite part of the story is this: the gendarmes were clever and waited to come apprehend him until the hour when he was likely to be bathing, so that he would not be wearing his gris-gris (amulets) that would have protected him and allowed him to escape.  They came to his door and knocked as if they were just regular visitors, and when he came to the door gris-gris-less, they grabbed him!  He asked to be allowed to go back into his room to get dressed, but they knew that then he would put on his gris-gris and become invisible or turn into a bug or something, so they refused and took him straight off to jail, where he remains (gris-gris-less).

A bandit is caught

Written Tuesday, 8 July 2008

 

 

Recently a bandit who had stolen ten of my host family's cows over the last six months was caught.  My host brother was able to follow a stolen cow's tracks to the butcher in another village.  He called the gendarmes, who demanded that the butcher produce the head, feet, and skin of the cow whose meat he was currently selling (by which the cow could be identified).

 

The butcher, trying to be crafty, instead produced the hide of a cow that had been butchered some time ago and tried to pass it off as the cow killed that day.  Unfortunately for the butcher, though, that cow had also been stolen from my family and their brand was on its hide.  So the butcher was caught as a receiver of stolen goods.

 

Apparently without too much pressure he gave up the name of the actual cattle rustler: a man from another village who has been living in a neighbor's compound in my village and working as a farm hand.

 

My favorite part of the story is this: the gendarmes were clever and waited to come apprehend him until the hour when he was likely to be bathing, so that he would not be wearing his gris-gris (amulets) that would have protected him and allowed him to escape.  They came to his door and knocked as if they were just regular visitors, and when he came to the door gris-gris-less, they grabbed him!  He asked to be allowed to go back into his room to get dressed, but they knew that then he would put on his gris-gris and become invisible or turn into a bug or something, so they refused and took him straight off to jail, where he remains (gris-gris-less).

Written Tuesday, 8 July 2008

A bandit is caught

 

Recently a bandit who had stolen ten of my host family's cows over the last six months was caught.  My host brother was able to follow a stolen cow's tracks to the butcher in another village.  He called the gendarmes, who demanded that the butcher produce the head, feet, and skin of the cow whose meat he was currently selling (by which the cow could be identified).

 

The butcher, trying to be crafty, instead produced the hide of a cow that had been butchered some time ago and tried to pass it off as the cow killed that day.  Unfortunately for the butcher, though, that cow had also been stolen from my family and their brand was on its hide.  So the butcher was caught as a receiver of stolen goods.

 

Apparently without too much pressure he gave up the name of the actual cattle rustler: a man from another village who has been living in a neighbor's compound in my village and working as a farm hand.

 

My favorite part of the story is this: the gendarmes were clever and waited to come apprehend him until the hour when he was likely to be bathing, so that he would not be wearing his gris-gris (amulets) that would have protected him and allowed him to escape.  They came to his door and knocked as if they were just regular visitors, and when he came to the door gris-gris-less, they grabbed him!  He asked to be allowed to go back into his room to get dressed, but they knew that then he would put on his gris-gris and become invisible or turn into a bug or something, so they refused and took him straight off to jail, where he remains (gris-gris-less).

Baby with a rock in his ear

written 27 June 2008

 

Yesterday my sister came into my hut and told me her almost-two-year-old baby had stuck a peanut in his ear.  I grabbed a flashlight and aimed it at his ear, and sure enough, there was something in his ear.  Way, way down in his ear, so far it looked like it was in the middle of his head.  Definitely not something we were going to be able to get out ourselves.  So I told her she had to take him to the health post in Dialacoto.  She agreed, but there was a problem: she doesn't know how to ride a bike, and rainy/farming season has started, so everyone's out working in the fields, so a donkey cart is out of the question.  So she asked me if I would take him.  I said sure, no problem, thinking he could ride on the luggage rack on the back of my bike (I've taken him on short joy rides around the village that way, which he loves, so I know he's old enough to hold on).  But my sister said no, the ride to Dialacoto is too far, he will fall asleep and fall off the bike.  He has to be carried tied onto someone's back, traditional style.  So I said okay, fine.  My sister of course didn't think a toubab could handle carrying a baby African-style that far, so she insisted on my 15-year-old sister (who does know how to ride a bike) going along as a backup baby carrier.

 

So we tied the baby (who was being very quiet rather than screaming his head off, as I'd been afraid he would – Alhamdoulilah!) onto my back, and we were off, ten kilometers in the middle of a hot African day to the Dialacoto health post.

 

When we got there, the nurse looked at the baby almost right away, but he said that the peanut was too far down in the baby's head for him to get it out – he was afraid of puncturing his ear drum.  We'd have to take him to the hospital in Tamba, where they'd have more equipment and could anesthetize him if necessary.

 

Tamba is far.  And anesthesia is probably really expensive.  And we'd have to go back to the village and get his mom, and then get her out to the road somehow (on the back of my bike? I'm not sure I'm strong enough to carry an adult over the mountain to the main road on my bike). I did not want to have to do that. 

 

So I asked the nurse if they might be able to help him at Kinkeliba, the private French hospital about 15 kilometers up the road.  This was somewhat of a risky question, because the nurse is essentially in competition with the hospital, and I've heard that he doesn't take it very kindly when his patients go there.  But I really did not want to have to take the baby to Tamba, and I figured hopefully he couldn't get too mad, since I'd come to him first and we were going to have to go somewhere else for care regardless.  Luckily, he didn't seem offended, and just said, sure, give it a shot.

 

While I was at the health post, the two other volunteers in Dialacoto region, Fonsa and new volunteer Hawa, happened by, and I was able to talk them into coming with me to Kinkeliba (officially so that we could all learn more about health services available in the area, but really just to keep me company).  And I got even luckier in that there was an Africare (an American NGO) car heading that way, so we were able to hitch a ride. 

 

My back-up baby carrier of a sister, however, punked out on me, not wanting to go to Kinkeliba because it would be a long bike ride back.  So I told her fine, I could just meet her back in my village.  But she said she was scared to bike back to the village by herself (because there could be bandits on the road), so she made me promise to come all the way back to Dialacoto, which is several kilometers past the turn-off to my village, to pick her up after we were finished at Kinkeliba.

 

So a few minutes later we arrived at the hospital, which didn't seem to have any other patients so we were able to see a doctor right away.  He shot water into the baby's ear with a little pump to try to squirt the peanut out.  It wasn't successful, but it did make the peanut move enough so that he was then able to get it out with some tweezers.  And it turned out to be a rock rather than a peanut, which is probably a good thing because that means there won't be any crumbs left in his ear to cause an infection.   So the baby was once again good as new, and it only cost me $2.

 

It was about 1:30 by then, hot as the surface of the sun, so I was not about to bike the 20 kilometers back to Dialacoto, and then another 10 kilometers to my village, with a baby on my back, just yet.  So Fonsa and Hawa and I bought lunch from the hospital canteen (rice with vegetables), and relaxed in the shade while the baby took a nap.  Then at about 4:30 we biked (with the baby tied on my back) back to Dialacoto, where my friends left me to go home to their own villages, and where I discovered that my punk of a sister, who I had been counting on to carry the baby the last ten kilometers home, had left and gone home without me.  So I had to carry the baby the rest of the way home.  Did I mention that this baby weighs nine kilos and that it was hot out?

 

But eventually I made it back with both me and the baby still in one piece (or rather two pieces, one each), and his mom was waiting for us right at the edge of the village and was so happy to have her baby back minus foreign objects in his head. 

 

So it turned out to be a good day: baby cured, I earned lots of points with my host family for taking care of him, the baby didn't cry all day long (he also didn't talk, as he usually does – he seemed a little shell-shocked, but he's since back to his usual self), and I definitely win the Peace Corps hard-coreness competition for biking with a baby on my back for 35 kilometers.

I broke a man’s wife

25 June 2008

 

One of my first projects in my village was to get a woman sent to Tamba to be trained as a matron, or midwife.  The project was started by my ancienne, the volunteer who came before me, so I didn't actually have to do much work for it, but in any case the villagers give me credit for it.

 

Which is relevant to this story because the woman's training was supposed to last six months, which means she should have finished in May.  It is now the end of June, and she hasn't come back to the village.  Now my counterpart tells me that the woman's husband is going around complaining that I "broke his wife", meaning that now that she's had this training, she wants to stay in Tamba where life is a little cushier and where it will be easier for her to earn money with her new skills, rather than come back to the village and cook and clean for her husband all day long.

 

Can't say I blame her.

 

So when my counterpart came and told me that I am being accused of breaking this man's wife, even though I know it could have serious repercussions for my ability to work in my village (theoretically, if word of this gets around, the men might forbid their wives from working with me, although I don't really think that will happen), I could not help but laugh.  And smile and feel proud of myself. 

 

So my counterpart said that I have to fix this problem.  I have to prove that while I did help this woman go to Tamba and get matron training, that I always intended for her to come back and that I was not trying to help her leave her husband or otherwise "break" her.  And truthfully, I do want her to come back and provide matron services to the pregnant women in my village, because my village needs that.  I just don't happen to feel too sorry for her husband, who in any case has another wife to cook and clean for him (I suspect that it is really this wife, who is probably tired of being responsible for all the chores, who is pressuring her husband to complain about the other wife not being back yet).

 

So I called Sira, the woman who is getting trained, to ask about when she is coming home.  She said the training isn't finished yet, and she'll be home as soon as it's over.  Which may or may not be true, but in any case I did my part and could then tell her husband that I told her to come back when her training is done. 

 

So hopefully she will be back in the village soon, and this whole drama will be over.  Except that I have found a new mission for the rest of my service: break as many wives as possible.

 

--written by Rebecca Semmes, Professional Wife Breaker