Hmm..

The Peace Corps. says this is the toughest job I’ll ever love; I wonder if when it’s all over I’ll feel that way. I often find myself thinking about my life after Peace Corps. and how what seem like hard times now will shape the person I am when I get home. Maybe I am changing more than I realize.

I woke up yesterday, ate breakfast, and prepared to go about my day as scheduled. I have a routine and, with the exception of having to introduce a new volunteer to Tamba, everything was business as usual. I met up with Matt, the new volunteer, to go to the market and buy everything he will need for his hut. Everyday I go to the market, and every day I run into the Baayfalls (adult Talibes[1]) that follow people around shaking their bowls of change and harassing you to give them money. They are known to grab you or your clothes if you try to just walk by and I generally scream at them and/or cop an attitude if they touch me. I don’t have a problem if they choose to spend their days begging for money, but putting their hands on me because I don’t want to give them anything is crossing the line.

Naturally, walking around with a big white guy attracted a lot of attention from the Baayfalls. Matt is new and can’t really communicate, so I took it upon myself to tell them to go away and leave us alone. Unfortunately, one very persistent “gentleman” would not cease and desist, causing me a great deal of agitation. I began to voice this agitation when he put his hand in my face and told me he wouldn’t talk to me because I’m a woman and he only talks to men. Apparently, my “ignorance” was comical to him and he proceeded to laugh in my face while telling Matt that he doesn’t talk to women because “they are too stupid.” Did I want to hurt him? Yes, but I decided to just ignore him and walk away.

Later in the day, I had my second class at the Center for Handicap students in Tamba. There are about 10 illiterate, female students of varying ages attending the class and yesterday I had planned to get into the meat and potatoes of marketing the things they make at the Center. Not being a teacher, not having any experience teaching, and having a great deal of anxiety about speaking in front of people led me to believe this would be a very stressful experience. I told my Supervisor about these reservations and he assured me that I’d be fine with prepping and teaching in French, which is much easier for me when dealing with business related matters. The Peace Corps. gives us a lot of teaching materials and suggestions for how to structure our classes; unfortunately, everything is centered around hand-outs, reading, and other strategies unemployable when working with illiterate people. All I could do was take my French notes, walk to the Center, and hope for the best.

After about two minutes of notes I could see they were uninterested and/or confused. Finally, one of the most dynamic girls said, “We don’t understand French! Speak in Wolof.” Long story short, I totally choked. I was scheduled to teach for two hours, which is a ridiculously long time even if I am a fluent Wolof speaker and not deathly afraid of speaking in front of people. After about three minutes of silently reading my French notes and translating them aloud into Wolof while trying to stay on topic and make even the slightest bit of sense, I gave up. I told them that I hadn’t been prepared to teach in Wolof and would have to start next week. It was a pretty horrible feeling. For the next two hours I had to sit there in front of them chatting about boys and clothes and arguing that in fact I don’t have a Senegalese boyfriend and right now I don’t want to be married with tons of babies; of course, while trying not to cry.

If this wasn’t enough, at one point during our two hour hang out/ chat session one of the girls said that the Peace Corps is in Senegal trying to help now because our country used to come and steal Senegalese people to make them slaves. I don’t agree with that assessment of why we are here, that is certainly not why I am here, but many early Americans did have slaves, many of which were probably Senegalese, and I’m sure enslaving a great deal of Senegalese people didn’t support their early development; needless to say, it was a very awkward couple of minutes. Finally, one girl said that she knew it wasn’t me and another said, “No it was her grandfather that had Senegalese people as slaves.” I stopped arguing because I could see it was going no where, but it makes me sad to think that people here have to feel that way. I can’t imagine meeting someone and feeling like their ancestors thought they were so much better than me that they would come to my country to steal people and make them slaves (although I know many cultures have those feelings towards one another).

At the end of the “class” we all left together. It didn’t really seem like the girls minded that they hadn’t learned anything, but I still felt horrible. As I was walking home, the director (a darling handicapped Senegalese woman that will sit in on all the classes) drove by on her motorized wheel chair. I told her how sorry I was and how I promised that I’d try to do better next week. She just smiled, said there is nothing to be sorry about, and thanked me for even wanting to come spend time with the girls and try to teach them something that can help them in the future.

When I finally got home, I cleaned up, ate, finished some work and called it a night. It wasn’t until this morning that I realized how crappy yesterday actually was and how well I handled it. Before coming here, if I had a day like that I would have gone home and cried. Making friends with the girls in my class and seeing how genuinely appreciative the director was for me being there made my day. I came home with a smile and had forgotten all the upsetting things that had happened.

I’ve found that this experience teaches you to appreciate the small things. I guess I’m starting to realize how strong being here has made me. This may just be the toughest job I’ll ever love.
[1] Reference my entry about street children to learn more. In my understanding of the system, the only difference is that the Baayfalls are men who make the choice to continue to beg for the Marabou.

Ahhh... Just Another Day

The Japanese government has a program like Peace Corps. which sends volunteers to work in developing countries. Long story short, there are some Jigga volunteers living in Tamba that don’t speak English or French. Yesterday, I had a quasi-conversation with them in Wolof while standing in line to find out about internet access at my house. Needless to say, it was interesting being American and speaking to Japanese people in Wolof. I thought it was quite amusing and I’d bet all the Senegalese people watching agreed. And for the record, I schooled them in Wolof. I’ve been here about seven months longer than them but that is just a minor detail.

Aren't you impressed?!

As a Small Enterprise Development volunteer, I have a great deal of flexibility in terms of work partners. Personally, I am most interested in working with girls and women’s groups. This being said, a good portion of my time thus far has been spent working with women’s groups in and around Tamba.

I have been helping some women in my neighborhood get their group back together and organized, I’m assisting a fellow volunteer with creating linkages in the capitol to sell the jewelry her village’s women’s group makes, and I’m working with a USAID project called Wula Nafaa to help some women’s groups better market their baobab powder. Some of these groups are walking distance to my house, others are about 10k (a half hour bike ride), and the majority are 35k-40k from Tamba (an almost impossible bike ride in the current heat). The villages that are farthest away are those assigned to me by Wula Nafaa and are work I think I am really going to love. Unfortunately, taking a car back and forth will start to add up and Wula Nafaa has said they are unable to provide me with and/or pay for my transportation. They suggested I try to bike back and forth; an idea that I’m not opposed to, as long as it isn’t 125 degrees.

Until today it was over 100 degrees every day (the rains finally came! Alhumdilalay!) but I knew I’d need to start preparing for the future bike rides that are going to make me a BAD ASS (if I don’t mind saying so myself). Yesterday the opportunity finally came. I hadn’t been on my bike in about three weeks and I was planning to take a car to a town 35k from Tamba to interview some scholarship candidates at their middle school when I learned there are no cars to town in the morning. This left me with no option but to get on my trusty bike and wing it.

I’m happy to report, I SURVIVED! Barely…. Without any prior preparation, I biked all the way to the neighboring town (35k away) and lived to tell about it. Upon arrival, there were about 10 minutes where I wasn’t sure if I was dying of heat exhaustion but I’m alive! Today, I’m not even very sore. I’m not a biker and I successfully biked 35k! Surely, many of you are unimpressed, but I think I’m pretty damn cool.

When I got back to Tamba my mom yelled at me for not taking a car. Apparently, the road I’d taken has a lot of bandits. My dad asked if I knew karate and if I was planning on using it (he thinks I’m stupid/stubborn for always trying to do things on my own, but he also thinks he’s funny; clearly he has no idea what he’s talking about). Anyhow, the purpose of this entry was to let you all know I’ve successfully biked 35k for the first time (without dying or being attacked by bandits)!!! To think six months ago I was afraid to even get on my bike…..

OTHER EXCITING NEWS: The rains finally came last night!!! It has cooled down substantially and I’m praying it stays this way for awhile.

No Cobra Bites.. THANK GOODNESS!

This past weekend I attended a village initiation ceremony in South Eastern Senegal. Not only was the landscape breathtaking, but the ceremony was incredible and getting to see my friends was great. It was a weekend of firsts. Before this trip I had never been south of Tamba, I hadn’t seen a scorpion, I hadn’t met any animists, and I definitely hadn’t been around a ton of drunk Senegalese people. It was also pretty damn cool seeing village boys “become men.”

The annual ceremony took place in Salemata, an absolutely beautiful animist village in Bassari Country. I live in the flattest and driest part of the country, so seeing hills and mountains with bodies of water running through them was a bit overwhelming. My friends and I rented a truck and I got to sit in the back for the two and a half hour drive out to the village. The ride alone would have made my weekend but getting to see and learn about the Bassari lifestyle was also quite interesting.

We stayed at a pretty nice campemont and each day walked about 25 minutes up into the hills for the festivities. Most of the events took place in what seemed to be a village center but we later learned was the place where village families sent all their teenage children from the ages of 14-20 to live. It was a little collection of closely laid huts overlooking the rolling hills and about a 10 minute walk from the rest of the village.

Throughout Saturday night, all the men of the village dressed in their tribal costumes and circled the youth village, drinking, dancing, and blowing whistles, while the boys being initiated drank and danced behind them. Animals were sacrificed and a chicken was killed for each boy. The testicles of each chicken were cut open to learn the outcome of the next day’s initiation. If the testicles were fine, the boy would become a man, but if the testicles were black, something bad would happen in the next day’s fight and the boy was not permitted to proceed. After midnight all the men and boys went up into the hills.

In early morning, the boys and men descended on the youth village where we and other onlookers had gathered to watch. This time the boys had bows and arrows and were ready to fight the spirits of the village and be initiated as men, while the men representing the spirits were covered in clay and mud with masks and shields. All the men ran through the village, covered in mud and ready to fight; and in a valley down below the men or spirits and the boys met. At this point, the men and women in my group were separated. Only men were allowed to go to the valley to watch, while women had to look on from the hills up above. One by one a “spirit” covered in leaves and mud called each boy out to fight. Even from up above, watching the fights was really exciting. I watched boys get body slammed and have to take a second fight, while other boys beat the spirit down and won immediately. Regardless, they marched down as boys and marched up as men.

All in all it was a good and exciting time. I saw some scorpions and thankfully wasn’t bitten while I slept outside without a mosquito net. I also didn’t see any cobras! Alhumdalilay! I’m still alive and now I have some cool experiences to talk about.

Ps- My camera broke a couple of days before the trip so I don’t have any pictures at the moment. I’m hoping to get some from a friend. If it all works out I’ll post them soon.

UPDATE

Fatou is still tied up outside my room. My neighbors said they have been feeding her although evidence may point to the contrary. There is an adorable little boy with Down’s syndrome living on my street. He generally roams the streets unsupervised along with most of the kids here. Usually, this isn’t an issue; of course unless there is a wild monkey tied up in one of the compounds and quite possibly a little hungry. Long story short, Fatou took a little nibble out of the boy’s ear yesterday. He needed to go to the hospital but I think he’ll be ok. Who would have thought allowing a five year old child with Down’s syndrome to roam the neighborhood unsupervised (especially when he is known to go into peoples’ houses and there happens to be a wild monkey in one of the yards) might be a bad idea? Shocker.

LESSONS LEARNED THIS WEEK: Letting small children (especially with special needs) roam the streets unsupervised is not always the safest idea; ““particularly when there is a wild monkey tied up in someone’s yard; keeping a wild monkey tied up in your yard unsupervised is also not the safest/best idea; hungry/agitated wild monkey + small unsupervised child = recipe for disaster/hospitalization.


In other news, my darling mother informed me that in recent entries my English has gone to crap. I hope you all accept my sincere apology and understand that being here and continuously speaking Wolof has made it quite difficult to speak and write properly. I find myself speaking English with a Wolof accent; and yes, I am sure some of you may think that is better than with a New Jersey accent but nevertheless…SORRY!