Safara, safara!

It was a typical evening.  I had just finished cooking dinner (sweet potato fries - in honor of my host brother Mussa who absolutely loves when I make them) and was sharing it with my family.  My host dad and siblings had all tasted some, and I was holding the bowl out for my host mom to taste some.  We were standing in the backyard when we heard a loud commotion of people running.  Usually, when people run and scream loudly, they are heading toward the scene of a fight.  But today, these screams sounded more frantic than excited.  We rushed out front and saw smoke billowing from a nearby compound.  Women and girls rushed by, racing with buckets of water balanced on their heads.  I stood, gaping, bowl still in my hand.

"Safara, safara!" (Fire, fire) my host aunt shouted at me as she joined the throng carrying water.  I stared, aghast.  What could my village do to prevent the spread of a fire when all the huts were made of straw roofs and the dry ground was perfect fuel?  I turned to my host mother for direction, but she was standing next to me, shoveling potatoes into her mouth.  I yelled at her to stop eating and go help, but she just continued.  I had to literally remove the bowl from her vicinity before she went inside to get more water.

I was soon left standing alone in my compound, unsure of how I could help.  I had half a bucket of water in my backyard; I could bring it to help put the fire out (and just skip showering that night).  Would half a bucket make a difference though?  I decided that every drop of water would help, grabbed the bucket, and walked slowly (I cannot yet run with a bucket of water balanced on my head, even when it's only half-full) toward the fire.  My host aunt saw me approaching, frantically grabbed the bucket from my head, and handed me her empty bucket.  I returned home, saw my host mom armed with another bucket, traded her, and headed back toward the fire.  My host aunt once again saw me, and traded my now empty bucket for the full bucket on my head.  I returned home once more, but my family was out of water, and my host mom instructed me to just sit down.

But I was too hyped up from the event to sit, so I walked with the children toward the fire.  People were running frantically in all directions.  Heading toward the fire were men, women, and children carrying full buckets of water, sloshing onto the ground as they raced down the path.  In the other direction, buckets swinging in their hands, were those who had already emptied their buckets and were now running to refill them.  And gathered around the scene were those too young or too old to carry water as well as those who had already exhausted their supply of water.  The fire was still raging strong, and I was still worried.  I turned to a woman and asked if perhaps I could help by getting water from the tap.  Certainly, the women who operated the 3 water faucets in my village had unlocked them and were using them to put the fire out.  The woman just laughed at me; who would pay for this water (each bucket costs $0.02)?  No, the taps were not being used right now, only the well.  Men were frantically at the well (measuring 45 meters deep - we have a very low water table) pulling water as fast as they could.  The situation seemed helpless to me, and I returned home to wait a bit.

As I approached my house, my host dad called out to me to bring my flashlight.  We then proceeded to read all the phone numbers written on chalk on my hut.  At some point, someone had written the phone number for the Gambian Fire Department (located only a few kilomenters away as opposed to the Senegalese Fire Department over an hour's drive away) on my wall.  We gazed at each number, looking for a 7-digit phone number that would signify a Gambian number as opposed to a Senegalese one.  Only one Gambian number was on my wall, and it was identified as a friend's number, not the fire department.  So now what?  My instincts told me that they should call a friend who'd know the number and then proceed from there.  I knew my phone would be needed, so I reentered my room to put more phone credit on my phone in anticipation of the amount of phone time they'd need.  When I came back outside though, they were still searching for the number, rereading the numbers over and over again.  I suggested they call a friend, but in all the commotion and franticness, my suggestion was passed off as not understanding the situation or Senegal.  So instead, I watched them look for a phone number that clearly had been wiped off the wall during the rainy season.

Feeling frustrated by this lack of action, I handed my host dad my cell phone and returned to the fire.  It was much smaller now, somehow.  All the women and children were now standing back as the men worked.  My upbringing told me to remain quiet while this was all occurring; after all, it was a grave situation.  But all the women standing around me began joking with me, talking loudly and telling me to dance.  I cautioned them that now was not the time, but they laughed and began to sing and dance.  In Senegal, it is always time to dance or joke, regardless of the place, company, or situation.  After resisting for a bit, I finally gave in and joined the group enjoying themselves.

Eventually, somehow, the fire was put out and only billows of smoke remained.  Everyone began to head toward them compounds to finish preparing their dinners that had been put on hold.  (The fire had started by a wind spreading a cooking fire.)  Three huts had been burnt badly, leaving just one hut in the compound in good shape.  It was the topic of conversation for the night.

In the morning, when I bike rode past the hut, I saw a large group of men at work in making mud bricks to replace those that had been destroyed, putting up new straw fencing, and gathering material to remake the thatched roof.  I was impressed by the community spirit (though it was not unexpected in this community-oriented society) and how quickly they all came to the family's aid.  This work continued for the next few days with a group of men blasting the radio and working on the compound.  Unfortunately, no one followed up about the missing fire department number, and despite my advice to discover and record it (on a piece of paper in several people's possession), no one has taken the initiative.  I'm just relieved that only one compound was affected; if the fire had spread to multiple compounds, there would've been no way to retain it, and the entire village could easily have burned.  But fire is accepted as part of life here, brought by the dry weather and strong winds.  After a few days, no one discussed it, and the only reminder is the blackened ground and straw lying scattered around the compound.

Senegalais laa leegi (updated)

While traveling in France, I realized that I’ve picked up some habits here that I consider to be normal but to an American or European, would not be.  At first, I didn’t think twice about many of these behaviors, but luckily I had my brother and sister there to comment on my quirks.  I will list some of these here, with added explanations:

·      Entering every store saying, “Bonjour, ca va?” to which people just stared at my questioning how they were.
(In Senegal, it is rude not to greet people.  Everyone I pass, I greet and ask how they're doing, with questioning sometimes continuing for several minutes as family members are asked about and some questions even repeated - even with complete strangers.  When I enter a store, it is also important to greet.  Once I forgot, and the man refused to serve me until I had greeted him.  So, naturally, I tried to do the same in France; I was able to check myself when walking down the street since it was packed with people, but in stores the words came out without me thinking.)

·      Hoarding coins to use later and only spending bills
(In Senegal, change is hard to come by.  People prefer that you pay as close to exact as you can.  If you have no change and only large bills, the seller often has to go to friends or nearby sellers to try to find change.  So I've learned to spend large bills in fancier stores that sell more expensive products and keep all the change to use at future dates; and, when those future dates come, I use my larger coins if possible to save up smaller coins for future times when I spend even less.  In France, it was so easy to get change, that I kept giving in my bills and collecting all the coins.  Of course, in France, no one wants you to spend coins, and I was laughed at as I counted all my 1 cent and 5 cent coins to pay for a sandwich.)

·      Glaring at people wearing clothes above their knees
(In Senegal, no one wears clothes these short, except some tourists.  It looks completely unnatural to me now, and I didn't know how to react to these outfits.)

·      Saving yogurt containers to use as bowls later
(In Senegal, everything is reused.  Once, I went to a fancy baptism with my host mom and host grandma where juice boxes were given out.  My host family had never seen them before, so I was instructed to save the boxes in my purse to bring home so that the children in my compound could play with them and pretend to drink out of them.  So, when I saw the yogurt containers, I immediately thought how useful they'd be as bowls.  We could either buy a larger yogurt later and have bowls available or we could use them for another food item.  Regardless of the case, they could definitely come in handy.  My brother and sister scoffed at the idea; after all, we could just buy small yogurts again.)

·      Staring into every food stand (epicerie, boulangerie) we passed
(In Senegal, I eat the same foods over and over again; each dish has only one way to prepare it that every child can list off.  I miss flavors that I'm accustomed to as well as variety.  The food stands had so much to offer in these areas that I couldn't help looking at every item and admiring every part of it.  I've done this with ads in magazines or inventories of food that I make in my head, but seeing it in person was even better.  Obviously, I wasn't always hungry to buy these items, but it was reassuring to know they were there.)

·      Walking slowly through supermarkets without the intention of buying anything but just to see what was being sold
(This is a bad habit I've accumulated in Senegal.  When I'm in a large city here that has a supermarket, I walk around to see what my options are.  As I pass each food item, I imagine the flavor and relish the thought of the taste.  I can't afford most of the items in the supermarket, so it's fun just to look, and I've walked far to supermarkets with friends just to peruse the shelves.  The supermarkets in France were so much bigger with so many more options that it was overwhelming at first, especially as I tried to look at every option.  Luckily, I put time constraints on myself and left the supermarkets before I had seen every aisle, and by the end of my visit, I was finally able to allow myself to walk past shelves to search only for the item I needed.)

·      Desiring everyone to share whatever they’re eating with me and offended when they didn’t
(In Senegal, everything is shared.  From mango slices to pieces of candy - which small pieces are bitten off of to distribute among children and adults alike - no item belongs just to one person.  Kids and adults are constantly saying "Maay ma" or offer me whenever they see something being eaten or drank that they want.  And everyone is good at sharing it, no matter how small the item may be to begin with. Kids don't complain as small pieces of bread that they were eating are broken into morsels; it is just accepted that they will share.  And it's an attitude that I've adopted.  I'm always ready to share what I have, and I expect everyone to share what they have.  So in France, as I saw people around me consuming foods that I wanted, I thought to myself, "Maay ma."  Obviously, this was silly because often the item I wanted was being eaten by a complete stranger who happened to be beside me, but nevertheless, I couldn't help feeling slighted when they didn't turn and offer me a lick of their ice cream or a sip of their tea.)

·      Being really stingy with spending my money
(This has developed for two reasons.  First of all, as a Peace Corps volunteer, I don't make much money, so I don't have much to spend.  Secondly, as a foreigner, I don't like to show that I have money.  Clearly I have more money that my villagers, but I don't like them to see me spending it or else they'll expect me to buy them things all the time.  I see my service as helping them by educating, not by continually purchasing items.  So, even though I could easily pamper myself much more than I do, I try to live at the same level as the villagers in the amount of clothes and other items I accumulate; still, I wind up having much more "stuff" than them with money left over, but I put this extra money aside.  And, when I spend money, I try not to spend it anywhere near my village so that people won't know what I've purchased or how much I've spent.  Even so, it is always obvious when I buy something as everyone sees the foreigner making a purchase, tries to increase the price to make a larger profit, and then bystanders comment on the item I've bought; it is possible to buy anything inconspicuously.  Thus, in France, I was very wary about spending money, and I had a hard time handing out large sums of money.  This made it difficult at times while traveling and trying to have a vacation with two people accustomed to spending money at will, but I was very wary of my environment and the amount whenever I took cash from my wallet.)

·      Expecting to take a mid-day rest every day and disappointed when I didn’t
(In Senegal, nothing happens between 1 and 4 since it's the heat of the day.  People just sit around, make tea, or lie in bed.  Even though I'd like to be working during this time, it's just not an option.  So I've learned to rest at this time as well.  Sometimes this entails sitting and talking, but often I'll lie down in my bed for about an hour, just thinking and not doing anything.  I've become very accustomed to this rest time.  In France, it was surprisingly difficult to continually be active all day without sitting or lying down for a bit in the early afternoon.  I had to push myself to keep going.)

·      Having difficulty staying up past ten pm
(In Senegal, I go into my room around 9:30 and turn my light off around 10/10:30.  I have become so used to only staying up an hour or two past dark, that it was strange to me to try to stay up later.)

·      Getting excited when I saw a variety of vegetables being sold at decent prices
(In Senegal, there are lots of vegetables sold, but it's the same vegetables: eggplant, carrots, potatoes, sweet potatoes, cassava, okra, tomatoes, onions, bitter tomato, Chinese turnips, squash, green peppers, hot peppers, and sometimes cucumbers and lettuce.  During the mid- to late dry season, these items are cheap, but during the rainy season and early dry season, they're expensive.  In France, vegetables from all over the world were available and at farmers' markets, these vegetables were cheap.  I was really excited by red and yellow peppers, spinach, and much more.)

·      Using very simple vocabulary and sentence structures when I speak
(I only know simple Wolof and French vocabulary and sentence structure, so that's all I'm used to using.  On the rare occasions that I meet someone who can speak English, my speech is even simpler.  Plus, since I interact mainly with uneducated people, they can only understand simple logic broken down into each step and repeated many times.  It was difficult to transition back into complex thoughts and expression.)

·      Washing my hair twice a week
(Yes, I admit in Senegal that I only wash my hair this often.  I don't like to waste so much water to wash my hair more frequently nor to use up so much of my highly-valued Pantene shampoo and conditioner.  Clearly, this is improper behavior in France.)

·      Burping on the street
(In Senegal, burping is a complement.  It shows that you enjoyed the meal and that you're eating well.  People burp whenever they want to including in the middle of sentences, during meetings, and while I'm playing my harp.  I've just become accustomed to not holding it in and letting it out whenever it comes.  I accidentally did this once on the street in Paris; luckily, I wasn't with my sister, but I did get some looks from passersby that reminded me to keep this in check.)

·      Talking frequently about the weather
(In Senegal, this is a more common topic of conversation than my experience in Wales.  I cannot pass one person without them mentioning how hot or cold it is or how strong the wind is.  So, I found myself often bringing up the weather in France, which no one was interested in discussing.) 

Now that I’ve returned to Senegal, these behaviors are seen as common among Peace Corps volunteers, and I fit right in.  It’s nice to be back with my host family here and to be surrounded by Senegalese culture.  However, I know that when I return to the US in another year, they will once more be regarded as strange, and I’ll have to work on re-adapting to American life.

On the flip side, there are many aspects of Western life that I had severely missed and greatly appreciated being a part of.  These include:

·      Intellectual/analytical conversations
(I crave this in Senegal, and it was so nice to have deep conversations with so many people while in France.  I appreciated how on meeting people, they would probe me with deep questions or tell me about themselves.  In Senegal, conversation generally revolves around why I am not married, whether I can dance, jokes about my host family, or how hard life in Senegal is.)

·      Reading on public transportation
(The literacy rate in Senegal, especially among adults who are the most frequent travelers, is very low.  I have only twice seen someone reading on public transportation in Senegal, and I always find myself gazing at scenery rather than attracting attention by pulling out a book.  It was reassuring to see people standing on the subway with a book in the hand or children reading books on train rides.)

·      Speaking English
(It was nice to finally be able to express myself without feeling language constraints.  Though I am comfortable speaking Wolof now, I still can't always say what I mean, and my meaning is not always fully understood.  In English, I can directly articulate what I want, and I felt much more at ease with my words.)

·      Seeing literacy as an expectation
(As I wrote earlier, so many Senegalese are illiterate.  I am accustomed to reading phone numbers to people or having people lean over my shoulder as I write and ask my what letter it is.  Even children in school will try to read from my books and will sound out every syllable very slowly without understanding the meaning of what they're saying.  Suddenly, in France, everyone could read, and it was strange to see people of all ages with literature or reading signs.  It's been awhile since I've seen adults or young children with these abilities, and it was a relief to be reminded that literacy should not be something special, but can and should apply to everyone.)

·      Good food
(As I wrote earlier, food in Senegal is repetitious.  It tastes good, but it's the same meals over and over and missing the flavors that I grew up with as well as packed with salt and MSG-filled bouillon cubes.  It was really enjoyable to eat a fresh salad, cheese-covered gnocchi, hand-made pastry, creamy gelato, and much more.  I savored each bite, though I tried not to show others how much I had craved the flavors; it was everything I had imagined while lying in bed during the afternoon heat of the hot, humid wet season with sweat dripping down my body.  And, sadly, I ate much more that I needed to be full while in France.)

·      Greenery
(Senegal is very green during the rainy season and very brown the rest of the year.  It's currently the dry season and has been so since the rains stopped in October.  At this point, not much greenery remains except in vegetable gardens and a few scattered trees.  The green color of grass and trees was so vibrant and unrealistic to me.  I couldn't stop staring at it as it rolled past while I was in trains or cars.  When I walked past it, I couldn't help meandering off the path a bit to feel the squish of soil underneath me.)

·      Snow
(Obviously, there is no snow in Senegal.  Coming from snowy Colgate and the iceberg-filled Southern Ocean/Antarctica, I dearly miss this form of precipitation.  While my sister moaned about it, I secretly was ecstatic; I love the feel of snowflakes on my face and the crunch of snow under my shoe.  When my flight was canceled because of the weather, I slowly walked down the street with my face up in the air, absorbing the snow flakes as they fell.)

·      Mountains
(Senegal, except in Kedagou, is very flat.  So flat, that a nearly invisible upgrade has become steep to me.  In Paris, I was first reminded of this difference when biking around with my brother; we reached a fairly steep street, and he quickly pedaled to the top.  Despite my constant and long-distance biking in Senegal, I was unprepared to use the muscles required to reach the top and found myself sweating hard as I inched up the hill.  Later, when we drove through the Pyrenees and hiked, I couldn't take my mind off the beautiful peaks.  After spending so much time in college hiking mountains, it's something I sorely miss in Senegal.  It was rewarding to see them again, and I felt like I'd returned home to friends.)

·      Bundling up in winter clothes
(I admit, compared to my old standards, France wasn't that cold.  But, compared to my new standards, it was freezing.  Some days, I wore a t-shirt, sweater, my fleece jacket, my sister's Patagonia winter coat, scarf, and ear muffs just to stay warm.  That's a lot of layers, especially for me.  But it reminded me of cold days at Colgate, bundling up to go to class, and I love the feeling of wearing lots of clothes for cold weather.  It was nice to have a cold nose again and feel my hair freeze after a shower, even if it was hard for me to stay warm at times.  My cold-resistance is not what it was while in college or on the ship.)

·      Slipping into the crowd and not drawing any attention to myself
(In Senegal, everything that I do is the object of attention.  Everyone stares at me as I go past, calling out to me and singling me out; sometimes they call me by name, and other times they just refer to me as foreigner.  No matter the case, I know that I am constantly watched by people who both know me and don't.  Whatever I do, will be remarked upon and probably retold to someone in my village.  It's nice to know what it must feel like to be a celebrity, having my name shouted after me, people run up to me, and everyone want to catch my attention.  But, at the same time, I miss just existing and not sticking out.  I'm not someone who needs to draw attention to myself.  It was nice to just be an average person in France that no one really noticed or whose actions were particularly cared about.)

·      Being able to do whatever I want without feeling that my actions are being judged
(This relates directly to the previous bullet.  I know that whatever I do here, people judge me not as Jacqueline Gerson, but as being a foreigner or to tell my village.  No matter how comfortable I feel here, I can never be completely integrated because I stick out.  People are constantly watching me to see my actions and to notice the difference between Senegalese and me.  Clearly, this was not the case while I was in France.)

·      Going to sleep amidst quiet
(Senegalese village life is loud.  At night, radios blast, people call out to each other, and drum circles begin for dancing; there is no such concept as quiet time or respecting others' desire to sleep.  People go about whatever activities they want, regardless of the time of day.  In addition, there are donkeys braying, cocks crowing, dogs barking, coyotes howling, and goats crying.  There is no quiet.  Senegalese have adjusted and are really deep sleepers; my host siblings need to be hit several times or shaken violently before they wake up from sleep.  For me, when I'm not exhausted, it is sometimes hard to fall asleep, though luckily I'm often so tired that this is often not an issue.  But in France, it was soothing to have complete silence as I lay down for the night.)

·      Riding in a comfortable car with family
(As much as I hate pollution, it was nice to have a road trip.  Roads in Senegal are very bumpy and cars packed with people, so the journey is not comfortable by any means.  Sitting in the car with my siblings, the car was extremely spacious, conversation was interesting, and delicious snacks were handy.  I had forgotten how fun car trips can be.)

·      Sitting at a table to eat slowly with personal bowls and good conversation
(In Senegal, everyone sits around a large bowl to share.  Meals are fairly fast with people eating quickly and getting up as soon as they are full.  Not much is said either.  It was nice to enjoy slow meals at restaurants, savoring the company and the food.)

·      Smooth roads
(As I explained above, roads in Senegal are in awful condition.  The 25 km leading from my village to Nioro is so horrible that cars often off-road and travel on what was originally intended as a path for animal-drawn carts and this short distance takes about an hour to travel.  It was nice to sit comfortably in a car without bumping back and forth while maintaining a fast speed along the road.)

·      Cute, healthy dogs
(Dogs in Senegal are not cared for.  They are sickly, flea-covered, and malnourished.  Often, they just lie around without the energy to run or perk up their ear at sounds.  Their state is so depraved that I do not even have a desire to pet them.  Plus, there are only 2 or 3 breeds of dogs in Senegal, and they are not particularly good-looking breeds.  Every dog I saw in France, I wanted to hug and play with.  They were so pampered, so shiny, and so full of energy.)

Many of these aspects of Western life, I often think about while here in Senegal, and it was nice to be re-exposed to them for a bit.  It has refueled me for my remaining year.  I also realized the value I place on many aspects of Western culture, which I was wholly unaware of before coming here.  I am glad that my time in Senegal is not yet up, but I know that I will have an easier time returning to the US after Peace Corps.  Senegalais laa leegi (I’m Senegalese now).

Am na benn at ci Senegal!

Am na benn at ci Senegal! (I have a year in Senegal!)  I’ve officially been in Senegal for over a year and in my village for almost one year.  I can’t believe time has gone by so fast nor how comfortable I’ve become here.  Happenings that I used to think unique and so strange have just become commonplace.  I’m used to the site of babies running around naked, chickens prancing into my room, events being determined by temperature, and using an outside toilet/shower.  I have to remind myself to stop and remember my impression when I first arrived; I’ve just become so comfortable, and I can even speak Wolof without needing to first translate into English (which is a relief, seeing as my English abilities are steadily receding).  My host family is wonderful, and I’ve grown used to their customs as much as they’ve grown used to mine (and my quirks).  And I’ve gotten absorbed into my work, which has been keeping me quite busy.

Let me now describe a typical (if there is such a thing) day in my life.  It is the beginning of the hot season now; days reach up to 110 degrees F, but the evenings are still cool.  I therefore wake up, curled in my sheet, to the call to prayer sometime between 5 and 6 am.  Luckily, my village does not have a speaker, and instead the imam stands in the middle yelling out the words.  When he is done, I can successfully fall back asleep until the donkeys start braying, baby goats screaming, and people begin moving around outside.  After I roll out of bed, I go for a nice early morning jog.  The sun is just beginning to rise as a bright ball, and I pass some of the village kids walking to the middle school and high school 3 km away.  The kids call out to me as I run, and I remember to greet them as I pass them in both directions.  When I reenter my village, the place has suddenly become alive.  Children call out to me as I head toward my compound, some of them daring me to race them and others just wanting to shake my hand or see me wave at them.  I join the women at the water pump, waiting my turn to carry a bucket of water (on my head of course) back to my room to shower.

I generally emerge from my room around 9 am.  As soon as I open the door, the 3 toddlers in my compound run into my room.  I have taught them to shake medicine containers like maracas, and they love to grab these and come sit on my bed.  If only two of them notice my door opening, they are certain to call out to the other to come join as well.  I walk outside and greet my host grandma and the other women in the compound.  Then, I usually head on my way for my morning activity.  As I have a variety of projects, this activity could be in my village, up to an hour’s bike ride away, or back in the town I just ran to that morning.  As I bike ride or walk through my village, people call out greetings to me.  It’s generally the same greetings each time, but it’s nice to be recognized and to see how much everyone values getting my attention.  Greetings are so important here as a way of showing respect and acknowledging someone’s presence.  As I enter other villages or towns, people call out to greet me as well.  Sometimes they know me and call me by name (though they’re more likely to remember my name than I am to remember theirs) and sometimes they just call me “Toubab,” the name for foreigner or white person.  I always answer their greetings as I ride.  If they ask me for money or say they love me (which often happens when I pass people I don’t know), I try to make a joke and keep riding until I reach my destination.

Often, I don’t return until around 1.  Senegalese always want to share their lunches, and I have to carefully and respectfully decline in order to arrive back home for lunch.  I know that my host mom will always save me lunch if I miss it (even if I eat elsewhere), she’s a good cook, and I often have an afternoon activity that I want to return home for which ideally involves leaving before the mid-day heat sets in, so I prefer to be home for the meal.  Once again, as soon as I open my door, I can guarantee that the toddlers will come running to my door to be allowed in.  At this time of day, sometimes I let them stay in my room for a bit, laughing as they shake the bottles, roll around on my bed, or dance for me.  The three of them really are my favorite.  But I also like to go sit outside under the big neem tree in my compound where there’s a nice breeze, and I can talk with some of the adults.  So after a little, I suggest a move outside.  The older two (3 and 4 years olds) are very responsive to this, and immediately jump up, say that we’re going out, and put their bottles away.  The youngest one (2 ½ years old), however, prefers to remain on my bed, and I often have to tickle and tease her to get her outside.  She can’t talk yet, so she gurgles statements at me and points, signs that I can generally interpret; her remarks reminds me of a combination of Boo from Monsters Inc. and a bird.  Since lunch isn’t served usually until around 2:30, I grab my chair and sit outside with my host family, chatting with the adults, playing with the kids who now jump on my lap (sometimes all 3 at the same time), or just sitting lost in my thoughts.

I still eat at least two meals in my village with my host grandma, host parents, and sometimes another family in my village who sends a child over to bring me for the meal.  Usually my host grandma’s meal is done first, and I join the other 13 people around the bowl.  Then I return to sitting outside until my host parents’ meal is done, joining 7 others for that meal.  The toddlers often appear for a second meal as well, one-by-one showing up at the door and waiting to be called to the bowl to join (reminding me of the storm scene in The Sound of Music).  We eat, and then I return to sitting outside with people while afternoon tea is prepared.  People are usually still sitting as I leave for my afternoon activity around 3:30 or 4 among protests that it’s too hot, and I should wait until later to depart.

I return around 7, join the women in the garden for afternoon watering and offering advice on their vegetable beds, carry more water as drinking water, and prepare dinner.  Then, I join my family sitting outside on their cement slab.  This is my favorite time of day; the kids are very chatty and enjoy telling me stories or joking with me.  I discuss some of my village projects with my host parents or talk about some of their hardships.  I talk with my oldest host brother about school, encouraging him in his studies and sometimes helping him with his exercises.  I watch my host sisters dance to the music playing on the radio.  I trade American and Senegalese riddles with my host parents and oldest sister.  I tell fairy tales to the children, often repeating their favorite ones (The 3 Little Pigs and Little Red Riding Hood) several times.  Or I simply lay back and enjoy gazing at the clear skies searching for shooting stars.

Finally, I return to my room around 9:30, fighting back their insistence that I am leaving earlier than usual and that I should stay and talk.  Instead, I lie in bed reading and then listening to the voices floating in from outside, music blasting on the radio, and children reciting Arabic verses at the Koranic school in the compound next to me (which most of the children in my village attend every night, 3 afternoons a week, every Sunday, and every morning the French school is closed – though some children do attend the Koranic school every day instead of attending French school at all).

Every day is long and packed with activities, but each day also gives me time to socialize with people in my village or in the other towns I visit.  And, though I do have a general routine, it often changes if an activity requires an entire day or if I decide to engage in village activities instead.  And, of course, Sunday is the weekly market day, and I find myself walking to Farfenni to buy fresh vegetables instead.  But life here is gaining a rhythm, and I’m growing very comfortable in my general schedule.

Yaa ko moom!

I have wonderful news to report...my community garden is in full swing!  Finally, after over 4 months of planning and continuous nudging of the men to continue to work, we have dug the water line, installed the chainlink fencing and have begun the vegetable pepiniere.

It was a long process to put up the fence.  The garden has a perimeter of 140 meters.  This may not sound large, but when a fence post (which requires buying 8 meter long fence posts and transporting to another town to be cut into 2 meter lengths with holes drilled in them for wire to be strung through) is put up every 1.5 meters and each post requires a hole of 30 cm x 30 cm x 30 cm (to be dug by hand) which then must be filled with rocks (dug with a pickaxe from a quarry which requires an hour-long donkey carriage ride to bring back) and covered with cement (which then must be watered for 3 days to harden), then the fencing unrolled and attached with 3 lines of wire (which must be threaded through the posts), and finally the bottom of the fencing buried under the dirt to prevent anything from getting in underneath (which requires stretching the fencing a lot since the holes were not drilled in the proper place so there is thus a gap between the fencing and the ground) - it's a lot of work.  But, after many work days with the men during which I supervised the work, walking around and giving my opinion and trying to help with the manual labor as much as I can while listening to each man give his personal opinion on every detail, all that remains is the final step of burying the fence under the ground.

So last week, I finally mobilized all the women to take over the work in the garden.  Yaa ko moom!  (You own it!)  The garden belongs to them (not to me, as I keep reminding them when they refer to it as Aida's garden), and they were all so eager to start working.  We began by weeding the entire garden.  It was a daunting task, but easily accomplished in about 2 hours with 60 women working hard.  The next day, I told them all to bring manure, wood ash, and charcoal to prepare the vegetable nurseries.  (Manure and charcoal add nutrients to the soil and wood ash keeps termites away - Senegalese termites eat everything, including living green plants.)  Before they arrived, I had measured out 1 x 1 meter beds, so that 3 women would share one vegetable nursery.  As they arrived, I taught them how to prepare the soil (a method called double digging).  Women kept calling me over to check out their plots and give them advice.  I was literally pulled by my shirt from plot to plot as I commented on whether it was deep enough.  The ground was really hard, so the women added water to it to make digging easier.  At one point, I turned around to find several women wading in their plots.  They had added so much water that it looked like a mud pool.  They were walking back and forth to mix the water into the dirt.  I don't know how effective it was, but I almost fell off laughing.  That was not what I had expected to find when I looked in that direction.  As I watched and enjoyed the site (momentarily ignoring the tugs by other women to check out their plots), I saw one woman fall completely into the mud and get up laughing.  They were all having a great time.  And they're all so eager to continue to work.  Every day, they excitedly ask me when we're going to do the next step.  We've planted the nurseries (onions, tomatoes, lettuce, cabbage, hot peppers, green peppers, parsley, eggplant, and bitter tomato), and they dutifully arrive every morning and night to water.  The moment I began to measure out the larger beds (for transplanting the vegetables and directly planting okra, turnip, cucumber, and carrot), women began to arrive wanting to help out.  They had never used a tape measure before (that was a man's job), but they were eager to learn when I offered for them to take over.  They were excited that their alphabetization classes they'd had several years before had paid off - they could read the numbers to measure out the width of the beds.  And I even got them to start teaching other women how to do it.  That night, we worked until dark to measure half of the beds (each bed is 10 m x 1 m).  The following day, I had work in another village.  When I returned at night, I saw the garden full of women who were already beginning to remove the topsoil from their beds and water them so that the following day, they could add the soil amendments to it.  All the beds had been measured out (a total of 52 beds with 3 women responsible for 2 beds).  They worked until after dark this time - my host mom didn't return to the house until 9 pm! These women are hard-working and very eager.  They can't stop talking about all the vegetables that they will grow and how hard they will care for the garden.  I'm so lucky to be able to help them achieve this!

At bu bees bi!

This year, I had an amazing New Year’s Eve with my host family and fellow Peace Corps volunteer Katie.  The day began by a trip to Belingho in the Gambia to check out a huge rock my host parents had raved about; apparently by standing on top of it, you could see all the way to the Gambia.  They had been telling me about this rock since I arrived here, and I was excited to climb it.  But before we set out, they warned me that it’s too large to climb; if I tried to climb it, I would fall into the Gambian River which ran below it; and it was too steep to even attempt.  Nevertheless, we headed out to the village – approximately a 15 km walk form my village.  My host mom had wanted to accompany us part of the way, so that we wouldn’t get lost in the bush, but we insisted that we could ask for directions and didn’t want her to go out of her way.  To prove this point, we rushed out of the compound so that she wouldn’t have time to change into her nice travel outfit.

We picked up bean sandwiches for breakfast and headed on our way, asking various passers-by for the dirt path to Belingho.  We had just arrived at the start of the path when a woman yelled, “Do you know the way to Belingho?”  I thought it was very nice of this woman to follow-up with us, and called back to her that we had found the path and were all set.  The woman kept coming towards us, and I was impressed by her interest in our day-trip.  As she neared, I noticed that her outfit and peculiar head-wrapping (to keep out the dust that flies everywhere now that the cold season has brought strong winds) looked somewhat familiar.  I turned to Katie, jokingly asking, “Is that my host mom?”  Turns out, it was my host mom; she and my host dad were worried about us, so she had taken a horse-cart to Farfenni and asked people along the way if they’d seen two young white women walking.  She then accompanied us part of the way until she finally agreed that we could continue along our own (a straight dirt path) and turned to go home.

The road to Belingho was beautiful: two tiny villages along the way, lots of trees due to the proximity to water and lack of deforestation in the area, small hills (a contrast to the flatness of my area), pretty birds, and cool weather.  The two of us continued to the end of the path and arrived directly in the village.  We walked through it and met the Gambian River; we could see to the other side of the bank, not too far away.  Two kids had accompanied us to the river, acting as our tour guides.  It was a bit difficult to communicate because the village speaks mainly Saucee, while I speak Wolof and Katie speaks Pulaar, but we were able to get the gist of our ideas across to them.  They kept watch for us while we sat and enjoyed the view and then alerted us of the approach of “a crazy man” who we should avoid.  Hearing this, we jumped up and proceeded back to the village.  We repeatedly asked the children to lead us to the big rock, but they didn’t understand what we were talking about.  I looked around, a bit confused.  If this rock was as large as my family suggested, I should be able to see it from where I was standing; all I saw were some small hills.  Finally, the kids understood what we were talking about, but advised against approaching the rock: it was too steep, far away, and weeds covered the path.  I insisted that I wanted to at least attempt to summit it, and the boys grudgingly led us to a path a few meters from where we were.  We began to follow it up.  The path was a bit steep in some points with some loose gravel-like rocks, but within 10 minutes, we had reached the top of “the rock;” in actuality, it was just a small hill.  Nevertheless, the view from the top was gorgeous (though trees and other small hills blocked the view in the direction of Banjul).  We enjoyed the scenery for a bit, then continue back to the village.  My host mom’s son lives in Belingho, so we requested to be led to his house.  Senegalese hospitality does not have an American parallel; people are so friendly and welcoming.  His wife greeted us warmly, invited us in, provided us with some fresh bread and hot tea (exactly what we wanted at that point), talked with us a bit, and invited us to nap in her bed.  It felt so normal to be lying in that stranger’s bed while gazing at the trees and hills outside and listening to her prepare lunch – rice with fresh fish balls (like a meat ball but made of fish, and this fish was straight from the river).

We stayed for a little after lunch, talking to my host mom’s son when he returned from the rice fields.  I wanted to stay longer and hear about the village, but we wanted to arrive back in my village before sunset and so we set out.  Neither of us were particularly excited by the prospect of a 15 km walk at a brisk pace and both hoped a car of cart would pass us by and offer us a ride.  After walking for just a bit, we saw two donkey carts approaching.  They were stacked high with firewood, but the drivers called out to us, “Hop on, if you can!”  We didn’t need a second invitation and laughed as we leaped on top.  It was a very interesting ride.  They spoke to us in English (the Gambia is an Anglophonic country), and we talked most of the time about a range of topics from ruminating animals to good vibrations (his spin on the expression “good vibes”) to American music.  As we sat perched on the wood, joking with the men, staring at the greenery, watching the dirt path stretch on, listening to music play from a cellphone, and passing small villages, I realized how adjusted to life here I am; this all seemed so normal and so comfortable.  I felt calm and at peace.  They brought us back to Farfenni, and then we continued the last few kilometers back to my village.

After dinner, we began the New Year’s Eve festivities.  I haven’t stayed outside my room past 10:15 (I usually retreat to my room around 9:15) nor have I stayed up to midnight since arriving in my village, so this was a big occasion.  I told my family that they all should stay up with me, and we’d drink juice at midnight.  They were excited.  We sat around the fire, talking and dancing a bit.  I was exhausted, and around 9:30, Katie and I snuck into my room individually to take a bite of kola nut.  I had never had one before, but my host family loves them, and we thought the high caffeine content might help us stay awake; we didn’t have enough to share with my family, so it felt as though we were involving in illicit activities by retreating behind closed doors to taste them.  It turns out that kola nuts are very bitter, and I do not like them at all.  When we returned to the fire, only a few people were left: my host mom (who curled up on a mat outside to rest, refusing to go to sleep until she’d drank juice), my host sister, my two host brothers (both of whose eyes kept closing – the younger insisted he wasn’t tired and the older kept trying to leave to go to bed but we refused to let him), my host grandma, my host aunt (who was still her talkative self at all hours), and a man from my village.  Around 11, I returned to my room once again, this time to make sugar popcorn.  This was a big hit; they had never eaten it before, and they loved it.  (I do admit that the first batch was a bit nerve-racking to make, and I thought the lid of my pop might fly off, but it all went smoothly and was very easy.)  At this point, everyone was really ready for sleep, but I refused to let them drink the juice before midnight.

To appease everyone, I started making the juice at 11:45, but I took my time gathering the cooler, filling it up with water, getting cups, mixing in the juice mix, and bringing it outside.  At 11:55, I handed cups out to everyone.  Since so few people were still awake, I kept filling up cups, asking, “Who wants another?”  It’s a rarity to have more than one cup of juice, so everyone was really excited by this.  They drank until their stomachs were completely full – 5 or 6 cups in some cases.  Katie and I waited until midnight to drink ours.  Then, at 11:59:50, we began the 10 second count-down, which I’d prepared them for.  Katie held a ball up in the air, and we all counted in French as she lowered the ball to the ground.  Then we all yelled, “Happy New Year,” and Katie and I drank our juice.  At this point, everyone was on a sugar high from the popcorn and juice.  My host grandma began to dance and chant “At bu bees bi!” (This is the new year!)  We all repeated after her and copied her dance moves.  It was hilarious.  My host sister then turned the radio on, and we danced to that as well.  Everyone was having a great time and couldn’t stop laughing.  Finally, we all realized how tired we were, and all at once, retreated to our rooms.  

Lejums am na vitamin lu bare.

I have been working with a primary school to establish a school garden.  Several days a week, the students at this school are provided lunch.  This is an expensive endeavor, and the school director approached me to begin a vegetable garden thereby adding nutrients to the food and making it more affordable.  This school is wonderful with an extremely dedicated director (new to the school this year) and amazing teachers.  I love going to work here and talking with the faculty.

Unfortunately, many schools in Senegal do not have great teachers or the resources of this school.  In the primary school in my village, there are four classes and two teachers; each teacher must teach two different grade levels within the one classroom.  This means that the students are only engaged half of the time and sit idly the rest of the time.  One of the teachers at this school (who doubles as the director) cares about his classes and really tries to get the students to understand.  It's hard to teach because the Senegalese system is taught all in French, and the students only know Wolof.  So the majority of the time, they do not understand what is being said and cannot answer the questions being asked.  I know that some of the kids are very bright, but they just don't have the language skills to learn much.  the other teacher is awful.  He barely even looks at the students, doesn't know any of the students names even though he has taught the same kids for several years (he teaches more than one grade in one classroom), ignores students who clearly have no idea how to solve a math problem given, and is really not interested at all.  And the school curriculum is set up so that everything is learned by repetition and rote learning which isn't very effective.  There's a new curriculum that has recently been started based upon the American system of learning by doing, but the teachers don't have resources to make classes hands-on and don't understand the concept well since they didn't learn this way.  Plus, most schools do not have enough (if any) textbooks for the students to learn, so they just copy notes and examples from the board and then learn by memorizing these statements or problems without having real applications or practice (or understanding the French words they've recorded).

Anyway, this one primary school is much better and larger than the one in my village.  It has 2 classes per grade and covers 6 grades.  The director has been very adamant about getting the garden started as soon as possible, and I have spent several afternoons each week at the school dedicated to this task.  To begin, we had to construct a fence.  We decided to use the school wall for 2 sides of the garden, so the fence would only cover about 50 meters.  The teachers directed the students to dig the fence post holes (30 cm diameter and 30 cm deep).  Kids are such hard workers.  No one complained, no one argued, no one asked questions.  They patiently learned what a diameter was and got to work.  They cheerfully dug 21 holes all in one afternoon, trading off the tools so that everyone got a chance to work, and the older kids dutifully taking on more of the work when the younger ones got tired.

After that, we installed the fence poles.  This involved bringing rocks to place around the poles and then placing cement at the top.  Once again, the kids were invaluable workers.  Then we rolled the chainlink fencing against the poles and attached wire through the poles to the fencing.  This was an easy job for kids of all sizes and all strengths, and they were very happy to diligently connect the wire to the fencing for hours.  With this all done, it was time to finally begin the gardening work.

The main teacher I am working with is fantastic.  He explains everything clearly to the kids, doesn't yell at them, and instructs rather than dictates.  The kids all look up to him and respond very positively.  He also is a great gardener/farmer.  I let him do most of the instructing and just added in a few times along the way.  We double dug the bed (a great technique for enriching the subsoil and maintaing the topsoil), added in manure (as fertilizer), wood ash (to prevent termites), and charcoal (to enrich the soil), and watered intensely.  Finally, after watering for a few days until the soil looked dark and rich rather than just sandy, we began the vegetable nursery.  We planted onions, lettuce, eggplant, tomato, bitter tomato, hot pepper, green pepper, cabbage, and turnips.  A vegetable nursery is a way to intensely seed a garden.  When they grow larger, we will transplant the vegetables to a larger bed with larger spaces between each vegetable and interplanted with another type of vegetable to reduce pests.  By planting in a vegetable nursery, we can increase yields and save space since only the plants that germinate will later be planted in the proper spacing.  When we do transplant these vegetables, we will also direct seed carrots, cucumbers, okra, and mint.  These other vegetables have a high germination rate and thus don't need to be started in a vegetable nursery.  We began the nursery a week ago, so hopefully in the next 2 or 3 weeks, the vegetables will begin to be large enough to transplant (though some of the vegetables require longer time than that).  In the meantime, the school will prepare more beds so that all will be ready for transplanting.  Additionally, we will begin IPM (integrated pest management) - using natural pesticides made from neem leaves, hot peppers, mint leaves, and a bit of soap all diluted in water.  This gets sprayed onto the plants.  So hopefully the garden will be very successful.  I know that the teachers are very devoted to it, and the students seem to be very interested in the work as well.  After all, lejumes am na vitamin lu bare.  (Vegetables have many vitamins.)

Gas nanu robinet bi

(My apologies in advance....  This blog post is from November 20.  I thought I had posted it, but you all know my computer illiteracy; alas, I only saved the document and never submitted it.)

Great news…the water pipeline extension for the community garden has finally been installed.  We began two weeks ago, early in the morning.  My host dad and I arrived first and measured out the positioning of the faucet so that it would be situated in the middle of the field.  We then waited for the men from my village to arrive so that we could begin digging.  They came slowly, but eventually we had about 15 men.  And, in Senegal, 15 men means 15 opinions about what should be done.  But they all worked hard, swinging the pick axes to break up the hard dirt.  We needed to dig 44 meters with a depth of 50 cm and wide enough for a shovel to be used to scoop out the dirt; if you do the math, that’s a huge displacement of soil.  And, despite it being the start of cold season, it is still very hot.  The men worked all morning, taking turns passing off the tools.  Gas nanu robinet bi.  (We dug the water pipeline.)

As midday approached, the men weary, we decided to call it a day and continue another time.  On this second day, there was still a lot of work to be done.  We worked right up until lunch.  But, this time, the work was completed.  We set up the pipes, and they burned a hole in the old pipe to install this new one.  All the men cheered when they saw the water gushing out of the new pipe and happily washed their faces in this water.  They are all proud of their hard work – the line literally installed with their sweat and labor.  Now, the next project to tackle is setting up the fence.

But, it was not all work.  At one point, we all took a break to eat “ndye.”  They took a pile of fresh peanuts from one of the men’s fields and set them on fire.  The plant matter sustains the fire, and the peanuts are deliciously roasted (and turn your hands black when you eat them).  I loved watching all the men crouched around the pile of peanuts, contentedly eating with the trench they had dug stretching out beside them.  We also brought the coal stove to the field to have a short tea break as well.

 Before we began.  One man from my village posing next to where the water tap will eventually be located.

 The men working hard to dig.

 Still a lot more to go distance-wise and depth-wise.