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.