Doo xar ane?

Yesterday morning, I decided to visit a village about an hour bike ride from me.  I had worked with this village to teach them how to successfully create and maintain a vegetable garden; a local NGO had given them the money to build a fence and purchase materials but had neglected the important fact of training the women in the necessary skills.  Last year, I visited them about twice a month to provide advice and check on the garden’s status.  However, since the rainy season began in early July I have not been back for two reasons: the dirt paths have large holes that are often filled with water making biking very difficult and the women are all in their fields working rather than in the garden or at their homes.  I’ve seen some of the women at the weekly market or in town, and they’ve asked when I’ll come visit them again.  I decided that it was finally time for me to return.

The cold season has begun, so nights and mornings have become chilly.  So I pulled myself out of my sleeping bag, went to fetch water to shower (the water left in the bucket overnight is too cold to shower with in the morning, and I prefer the warmer water from the tap – my host family boils water to mix in with the tap water so that it’ll be even warmer to shower with), and left my village around 8.  After a stop at my favorite bean sandwich lady in the nearby town for a delicious breakfast of beans on bread with a cup of quinquilliba coffee (not sure why it’s called coffee-it’s actually a leaf tea, and I get it mixed with milk, so it’s a delicious way to start the day), I headed down the dirt path to the village.  I love this bike ride because the paths are not well traveled so I can get lost in my thoughts as I go.  I have to pass through one village on the way (a Pulaar-speaking village), and they all called to me by name as they see me and commented that it’s been awhile.  I was nearly at my destination when I saw a group of women heading toward me on the path.  I realized they’re from the village I’m going to, but they were all headed to the field to harvest their peanuts.  I’d thought by getting my early start and arriving before 9:30, I’d be able to catch them before they left; then my main friend in the village would have remained with me for the day rather than heading to her field.  They informed me that she’d already left, and there were no women in the village.  Nonplussed, I continued into the village, greeted the men, left an oral message to greet my friend, and decided to continue further into the bush.

I’ve wanted to venture to these further villages for a while but never had the opportunity.  With no work to do in this village, I was excited to be able to explore and to roam around on my bike.  I asked for directions to a nearby large village and headed down that path.  Somehow, I must have missed a turn (there are lots of side trails off the main trails that villagers use to head to their fields), and I ended up on a narrow, very bumpy trail that is closed-in tightly by weeds.  I was enjoying the adventure though and continued until I saw a women working with her children in the fields.  I called to her and inquired about the village.  She instructed me to cut across a few fields (requiring me to walk my bike since the fields have heavily grooved in neat lines), and I soon met up with the main path.  I crossed through a small village and nearly an hour after I left my friend’s village, I entered this large village.  Here, too, all the women were in the field, and I stopped to speak to a group of men.  I asked them what village lay beyond theirs and inquired about the path.  I then continued to this next village.  When I arrived there, I stopped to speak to a group of men under a tree.  I asked them where the next village was, but they laughed.  I could take the path to my left, which would lead me into Gambia, or I could continue straight for a very short bit before I’d hit water.  This area has an extremely high water table at just 1.5 meters.  This encloses them from other Senegalese villages, but it allows them easy access to water for gardening; in the dry season, they have huge plots of onions, potatoes, sweet potatoes, cassava, tomatoes, etc. that they sell at the Senegalese weekly markets but also as far away as Banjul.  They also have access to fresh fish as a result, which I’m reminded of as a donkey cart piled high with fish passes by.  I stand and talk with these men for awhile.  They asked about where I live, and then they inquired about friends and family who live in my village.  My village is just 400 people, yet several people knew members of my community.  We talked about my work, their village, and the harvest.  After awhile, I decided it’s time to head back.  Doo xar ane?  (You won't wait for lunch?)  They insisted that I should wait for lunch or at least until the women returned so that I could speak with them (and also for me to return and lead health lessons in their village), but I had my girls’ club in the afternoon and was a 2-hour bike ride from home.  I declined their offer and continued home.

I passed through the large village again, and the men inquired about my visit to the other village and also insist that I stay for lunch.  I declined again and continue on my way.  I decided to take a different path back to town to see new places.  It was hot by this point, and my water bottle was nearly empty.  The landscape was beautiful, and I enjoyed how spaced out the villages are, but my mouth was parched.  I was very happy when I passed through another village.  I stopped at a compound, greeted the woman, and asked for water.  She brought me out a full liter cup, and I stood there, gulping it down.  Meanwhile, other people in her house returned from the fields, and they all greeted me; no one as surprised at my presence in their compound drinking water.  I returned the now-empty cup to her, and she asked if I had a water bottle that she could fill.  I happily handed mine over.  She insisted that I should wait for lunch.  I thanked her, declined the offer, and continued on my way.  Finally, I reached the town and then continued to my village.  It was now 2:00, and I had arrived just in time for my first of the two lunches I always eat.  I was exhausted after having ridden my bike for nearly 5 hours, much of it through very sandy areas (and some parts so sandy I had had to walk my bike as I trudged through), but it was a great adventure.  It reminded me of how generous and welcoming Senegalese people are.

Men nana niibi tey?

On Sunday at 11:10 am, my host son was born.  Technically, he’s my nephew, but in Senegal, your father’s brothers are called your father and their children are your siblings and their children’s children are your children.  He won’t be  named until the baptism this coming Sunday, but for the moment, he has the generic name of Nene (applied to any newborn, male or female) Thiam.

I was at the weekly market when he was born.  That morning, I had opened my door to my host mom asking if I would be going into town that day; only when I had denied the fact did she tell me that Thiam Thiam had left at the 5 am morning prayer to go to the maternity clinic.  But I still had to go to the market to buy vegetables for myself and my host family for the week as well as to work my table teaching people about moringa.  When the number of people approaching me about moringa started to die down around 3, I quickly packed my bag before more arrived, brought the table over to a nearby compound where I store it each week, and began the 5 km walk to the maternity clinic.  Thiam’s mom was still at the market selling squash, but my host mom had finished selling her sweet potato and had already left.

I arrived at the maternity clinic to find Thiam’s grandmother and my host sister Binetou.  Thiam’s grandmother had accompanied her to the clinic this morning since my host mom and her mom were both at the louma selling.  In Senegal, all responsibility should fall to the mother-in-law, so my host mom was supposed to be there.  Luckily, her grandmother had agreed to assist.  (And they’re all related anyway.  She is married to my host dad’s brother, but my host dad’s father’s co-wife’s son is her dad.)  It was now 4, but they hadn’t been allowed in to see Thiam since they’d arrived that morning.  In Senegal, women who give birth at health facilities do it alone.  No family is allowed in the room, no one talks to the women, and no help is provided.  She just lies on a bed, takes hold of the bedframe if she needs to, and has her baby.  I was told later that Thiam is a strong woman because she did not make any noise while giving birth.

I joined them in sitting under the shade structure to wait.  Soon, my host mom arrived with my host dad, host brother, and Thiam’s 2-year old son Samba.  He missed his mom already, and I made it my responsibility to entertain him as we were waiting.  Suddenly, he caught sight of his mom through a window and couldn’t stop calling her name and laughing.  Shortly after, we were allowed in to see her.  She was lying on the bed with her son wrapped up in pieces of fabric.  I sat with her awhile.  My host mom had brought lunch, and we all sat down around the bowl to eat.  Later, when everyone went to leave, Thiam looked at me and asked if I was leaving too.  I said I could stay if she wanted, and so I remained there with her and my host mom.  I sat with her for a bit, and then I went outside to the shade structure with my mom.  It was getting dark, and I assumed we’d be spending the night there, so I spread out my tablecloth from my market stand and lay down.  I pulled out a carrot I’d bought at the louma and split it in half for dinner with my host mom.  I didn’t mind at all, but as soon as I got comfortable, one of the nurses came over and saw me.  She started laughing really hard.  Apparently, only mother-in-laws ever stay over (just the one person) and they always take one of the empty beds in the room if available or else share a bed with the new mother.  Never do they pass the night outside.  I was given a bed inside next to Thiam and then was called to eat dinner with the midwife’s family and other nurses.

The next morning, we were switched to a room in another building.  We stayed there all day, waiting to be told we could leave.  I helped Thiam understand her medicines: iron and paracetemol for herself, amoycillin and paracetemol for the baby.  Later, she was also given hemorrhaging meds and amoxicillin.  I explained the purpose of each medicine, since the nurses only instruct in when to take the meds and how much, but not what they do.  That morning, my host brother stopped by on his way to the high school.  Later, Thiam’s mom stopped by with two other women from my village to see the baby.  In the afternoon, my host aunt, host brother, host sister, and Samba stopped by to see Thiam.  They came on a donkey cart expecting to bring Thiam home, but she wasn’t released yet.  The baby had been large, and they’d made a cut to get him out.  The cut wasn’t healing well, and they wanted to keep her in the hospital to monitor it and ensure that she was keeping clean.

We stayed in the hospital for 4 nights; I never left.  I’m glad that I was able to be there for her.  My host mom’s job was to do laundry, and she was constantly washing Thiam’s skirts and the baby’s wrappings (since they don’t use diapers here).  I was also able to ensure that Thiam ate breakfast by buying her a bean sandwich and coffee every morning.  My host sister works as a maid in the town, so she’d bring lunch over every day around 4 and then the donkey cart would arrive with the rest of my host family later.  They’d bring lunch, which we’d save for dinner.  I also ate a second lunch and dinner with the midwife’s family and spent some time hanging out with her children who are my age and educated, which was nice.  Every day passed pretty much the same.  We’d wake up in the morning, Thiam’s mom would visit briefly either alone or with other women from the village and my host brother would stop by on his way home from school, but otherwise it was really quiet.  Then it’d get really loud for the hour that my host family all came to visit.  And then they’d leave, and it’d be quiet again except for our conversation and that of (and with) other women in the room; we shared a room with 1-2 other new moms and their mother-in-laws.  I kept Thiam entertained by telling stories, crocheting a hat for the baby, making paper snowflakes with her, and just being goofy.  She really appreciated that I was there.  It was fun to be able to see how the maternity clinic truly functions on a 24-hour basis since I’ve only seen it in the morning.  The midwife and nurses work so hard; they’re often there until 9 pm treating patients and then may be up all night assisting with births.  But every day, I would walk into the midwife’s office and say, Men nana niibi tey? (Can we go home today?)  All three of us were anxious to get back to the village, to be with the rest of my host family, to drink Senegalese tea, and be outside instead of stuck inside (though the room was well ventilated compared to American hospitals).