Not Just Toubabs, But Three!

Threebabs!

Traveling to Africa is not for the faint of heart.  In fact, when I found out I’d be living here, I wondered if anyone would come to visit me.  The tickets are pricey, there are a slew of shots required, and the accommodations are a little more rustic than those to which people I know are accustomed.  Lucky for me, I have adventurous parents, who are healthy, still quite young at heart, and who decided to throw caution to the wind and come see me, bringing with them two extra suitcases of things I’d left behind and some much appreciated consumables.

Abdullah's article sparked a friendship

A couple of months before planning their trip, my Mom read a “When I Was In Senegal” article that a young boy had written for a local newspaper in which he described visiting his parents’ native country and spending the summer with relatives in Dakar.  My parents made contact with the Abdullah’s parents who live just a few miles away from them in Springfield, VA and told them that their daughter was living in Senegal.  Rama and Idrissa had Mom and Dad over for Thieboudienne (a traditional rice, fish, and vegetable dish) and they all became fast friends.


Mom and Dad arrived in Dakar before dawn on the 21st of February, the last day of the WAIST, the West African Invitational Softball Tournament, where Peace Corps volunteers from West African countries join other Americans who live and work in Dakar for three days of sportsman-like frivolity.  We volunteers take this opportunity to dress up in team costumes, bond with others from our regions, and drink beer in the middle of the day.  My team, although handsomely attired in African print cotton lederhosen, did not go onto the finals which meant the last day of the tournament and the first day of Mom and Dad’s trip was freed up to do other things.  Because there were over 200 Peace Corps volunteers in Dakar that weekend, we were hosted by American families and I was staying, with 11 other women at the US Ambassador’s house.  Madame Bernicat was kind enough to welcome Mom and Dad (and all of their luggage) into her home for breakfast the morning they arrived before we headed out to explore the city and check into our hotel.  Unfortunately, they didn’t get a chance to meet each other, especially since I’d found out the day before that she and her family live about 5 miles from Mom and Dad back in the states and will be returning in July.  Who knew Springfield was such a Senegalese hotspot?

Team Lederhosen @ WAIST 2011

Dad arriving in Dakar

Breakfast Chez Madame Ambassador

After recuperating from their flight and relaxing after breakfast, we walked through N’Gor and caught a crowded bus to Mermoz (different neighborhoods within Dakar.)  The rickety old bus was hard-core Senegalese, falling apart and over-crowded, but they were troopers and hopped aboard anyway.  In the afternoon, we checked into our hotel in the urban Plateau district and were pleasantly surprised to have ample space and air conditioning.  During our three day stay in Dakar, we enjoyed lunch at a French bistro, real ice-cream, street vendor omelets and coffee, Portuguese food at a Cape Verdean restaurant, and lunch at Rama’s family home, where we met her parents, her father‘s first wife, one of her sisters, two of her brothers, and a couple of nieces.  They were incredibly hospitable and we enjoyed their company for hours.  We also visited Île de Gorée, an historic island just off the coast of Dakar that served as the launching point for African slaves from all over West Africa during the latter part of the 18th century.  It is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site and serves as a tourist destination.  The island is stunningly beautiful and filled with bougainvillea-lined streets and colonial architecture.  Because no cars are allowed on the island, there is a peaceful, meditative feel to it, and the colors are rich and pleasing to the eye, especially in contrast to the urban hustle and bustle of Dakar which is just a ferry ride away.

An afternoon with the Fall Family

  

Goree Island from the ferry

At the House of Slaves

Bougainvillea-lined streets

Colonial architecture along the beach

  

Thursday afternoon, we hired a Sept-Place to take us back to Diourbel.  What felt luxuriously spacious to me (just 3 passengers in a car that’s usually packed tight with 7) felt archaic to Mom and Dad.  To their credit, you could see through the floorboards to the street below and exhaust was blowing in the windows of this 30 year-old, non-air conditioned, Renault station wagon .  As we drove east away from Dakar, the temperature rose significantly (20 degrees F) in the 150 kilometers that we traveled.

We stayed in Diourbel for just over a week, pausing every couple days to consider a day trip here or there, but deciding each time it was just easier and more pleasant to stay at my compound and venture out for a couple of hours each day either before or after the heat of the day to explore different parts of my town.  Although the mornings and evenings are still cool, the midday temperatures are surpassing 100 degrees F again as we get closer to the “hot” season.  On their first full day in Diourbel, Mom and Dad woke up early to accompany me on my 3-mile walk to school.  Unfortunately, when we got there, we discovered that the kids were excused for the day to study for exams the following week.  That would have been nice to know before we headed out.  C’est la vie au Sénégal!  We visited with the school director and then headed into town to explore the market.  Along the way, we stopped to say hello to Mamadou, a woodworker friend of mine.  He presented Mom and Dad with wooden bowls he’d made for them and gave us a tour of the artisan village where he works.  From there we explored the market and bought ingredients for dinner.  Before leaving Dakar, we’d stocked up on some essentials at the large grocery store, so we cooked breakfast and dinner every night they were in town.  We ate lunch with the Gueye family across the way, who served us Thieboudienne with a mango-tamarind sauce, everyday.  Although they enjoyed this dish (as do I), they got a good feel for the monotony of the Senegalese dining experience.  Mom and Dad joined the women’s bowl where they were given short stools to sit upon and, although it was a little difficult for them to get up and down, they managed to eat every lunch on the floor with us.   That being said, Mom’s first trip down was a bit eventful, as she aimed for the back of the stool instead of the center, which sent her toppling over onto her back, lifting her dress up over her head, and providing a very white flash to my very dark-skinned neighbors.  The Gueye’s were very welcoming and glad to open their home to my parents.  Adji-Fatou, the 12-year old girl who’s become my friend, planned a large party for my parents to welcome them to Diourbel.  She and her mother made crevettes (Styrofoam-looking fried shrimp chips) and fataya (fried dough with onion sauce) and she invited about 10 of her friends to come over for a dance party.  They all dressed in their sparkly clothes, rolled out a mat, and danced to the same three songs over and over again on Adji’s brother’s tape player.  It was adorable.

Mamadou and my parents

At the Diourbel Market

Sporting their new duds

Youngsters on the dance floor

Awa Gueye with crevettes and fataya

The electricity went out a lot during my parents‘ visit, sometimes for the entire day.  This is pretty common here, but seemed more inconvenient when trying to entertain guests.  They’d brought headlamps and a couple battery operated lights with them, so we just made the best of it.  During the day, I would get some work done, grading tests, reviewing lesson plans, etc., while Mom and Dad read on my porch.  We invited Ibou to join us for dinner most nights and I served as translator for our dinner conversation.  Had everyone spoken the same language, I think they’d become good friends.  Dad brought Ibou his entire collection of mp3 music and they quickly bonded over this gigantic old music collection.  Mom brought him a Hawaiian print shirt she’d bought at a yard sale and he wore it for days.  We all spent a good deal of time photographing and identifying the many beautiful birds that seek shelter in our compound’s garden oasis.  The last day we were in Diourbel, Ibou organized an all day event, in three parts.  First, he had one of our neighbors come over to cook a big platter of---you guessed it--Thieboudienne and we ate that with a few friends.  Afterwards, we enjoyed Attaya, a strong sweet Senegalese tea served in shot glasses, and then were instructed to go rest.  Later in the afternoon/early evening, members of the eco-village and a group of neighbors came over to express their appreciation for Mom and Dad’s visit and my presence in their community.  We ate cakes that had been made in the solar oven, several neighbors gave speeches, and we even had a griot sing a song of praise while others entertained us with dancing.  The group presented Mom and Dad with gifts of traditional clothing and then the party dispersed again.  A few hours later, another neighbor came by with a dinner she’d prepared for us (meat cooked in the solar over, French fries, salad, and bread).  She and Ibou left it for us to eat it on our own (in the dark), hence Part 3 of the all day affair was held with much less fanfare.

Ibou, Richard, and Nancy

We spent a lot of time birdwatching 

Mom adapting to the local way

Lots of meals, lots of dishes

Mom journaling

A fond farewell

Singing and dancing to celebrate

Dad napping

Dining by headlamp

Gifts from the neighbors

A farewell lunch

Friday afternoon when I returned from school, we departed with a hired a car and driver for Tivaouane, my training village.  We arrived at my host-family’s house in the midst of preparations for a baptism.  My host-Uncle and his wife had had a baby girl the month before.  There were many friends and family there helping to prepare for the big event to be held the following day.  My family was so pleased to see me after 5 months of being away and I was happy that we’d decided to make the trip.  It was especially nice to see Cheikh, my tall young host-brother who had been my communication link to the family.  We brought him a soccer ball, as he’d asked for one so many times when I was there.  When we gave it to him, his eyes lit up and he told us that he planned to take it to school, as their physical education class no longer had a ball.  We were all touched by this sweet gesture.  The family served us a platter of Thieboudienne, even though we’d already eaten lunch, and we ooh’ed and aah’ed over the baby for awhile before walking around the neighborhood to visit with the host families of the other Peace Corps Volunteers who had trained there with me.  Each family was surprised and happy to see us.  It was a really nice visit overall.

Cheikh with his long-awaited ball

A reunion with my Tivaouane family

From Tivaouane, we headed into Thiès where we visited the Director of the Training Center and had dinner with my Language/Cultural Trainer, Sakhir.  It was quite the day for reunions.  We stayed at a nice inn attached to my favorite restaurant and headed out the next morning for Bandia.  There we stopped to talk with my beekeeper friend and took a tour of his beekeeping warehouse and his garden.  He’s agreed to come to Diourbel to conduct a “How to Get Started in Beekeeping” class with some of our eco-village members.  Bandia is also home to a large wildlife preserve where we spent the afternoon.  I was concerned it might be a bit overly touristy, but we were impressed with its authenticity and how well the reserve is managed and maintained.  In the two hours it took to drive through the grounds, we saw hundreds of animals, all scattered about living amongst each other.  There are no predators roaming within the 3500 hectacres of grounds so rhinos, giraffes, ostriches, zebras, monkeys, and warthogs can all live together without fearing for their lives.  It really was amazing to be amongst this African menagerie (unfortunately, my camera was acting up while we were there so I'm awaiting copies of the photos that Dad took.)  After our guided tour, we enjoyed lunch by the crocodile pond  and fed curious monkeys from our table.  After lunch we drove to Popenguine, which is just a hop, skip, and a jump away.  We checked into a two room villa near the beach and had a relaxing afternoon and evening, buying trinkets from the vendors, visiting with PC Volunteers who were gathered for a fête, and watching the sunset over the beach.  I even talked Mom and Dad into a game of Yahtzee.

Abdou and his papaya tree

Abdou's bees enjoying a drink

On the beach at Popenguine

Sunday morning came much too quickly, as this was the last day of their visit.  After our petit-déjeuner, we drove to Saly, a resort town south of Popenguine.  This is the town where many European vacationers come to experience Senegal and because of that it’s a bit more developed than other beach towns.  I was surprised to see that just off the beaten path, however, there was still a great deal of authenticity to the community.  They were having an annual artisan fair, so we were able to see lots of handmade items all in one place.  Unfortunately, the Senegalese (yes, I’m about to make a broad statement here) do not understand how to approach a potential customer.  As we walked down the aisles of artisan booths, vendors grabbed us by the arm to pull us into their booth or threw their own arm out to block our way.  This form of aggressive marketing does not work with me, nor does the need to wheel and deal to get a fair price.  Normally, in a market setting, the Toubab price quoted is double or maybe three times what the vendor would charge another African and finagling is necessary to get them down to a reasonable price, however, at this artisan fair, prices were being jacked up 10-fold or more.  Mom ended up buying a pair of wood carved hand brooms for $20 US (still probably too high) after talking the vendor down from $240 US.  This negotiation took 20 minutes and became rather unpleasant at times, with us walking away and him chasing us down.  Experiences like these always do a disservice to the vendors and I wish I knew a way to effectively teach them that they‘d sell much more if they just left shoppers alone.  We ate lunch at an outdoor French restaurant where Mom ordered crêpes (she’d been taste-testing and comparing notes in every restaurant we dined) and a chocolate mousse, and was a very happy diner.  From Saly, we made our way back to Dakar, relaxed for a couple of hours by the pool at the Atlantic Club, and then met up with Seyni Fall, Rama’s sister, for dinner.  It’s really nice to have new friends in Dakar.  When we stopped by her house to pick her up, we caught the last few moments of a wresting match (Sumo-style wrestling is huge in Senegal) and witnessed the favored wrestler pin the underdog, thus winning the match.  The house erupted in cheers, as did the neighbor’s houses, the surrounding streets, and all of Dakar.  When we drove down the street to find our restaurant, we had to maneuver through the crowds that had filled the streets chanting and singing in celebration.  Our driver got nervous as a crowd of revelers jumped on the car in front of us.  I later learned that this sporadic celebration spread all the way to Diourbel and beyond.  It was an amazing sight to see and a nice way to send Mom and Dad off.  We dropped them at the airport after a late dinner and I headed back to Diourbel in the middle of the night with the driver, plopping into bed at 2am.

Breakfast at our beach villa

Relaxing poolside at Club Atlantique

Our new friend Seyni Fall

There are so many little stories that have been left out of this synopsis of my parents’ visit, but those of you who know them can get a play-by-play in person.  They left here comforted to know that I am surrounded by friends and people who care about me, that little by little I’m making a difference in peoples’ lives, and that I lead a simple yet, engaging life here in Senegal.  I am so glad they made the journey to see me and were able to witness a part of the world that is so different from the one we, as Americans, have come to know.  I told my friend Rebecca that I think this trip added 5 years to their lives and I hope that it’s true, for their sake and mine.

Madame Fatou

Two days a week, I get up early and walk about 5K (~3 miles) to a vocational high school on the south side of Diourbel to teach Entrepreneurial Business and English classes.  My students range from 16 to 20 years old are quite bright.  They’re enrolled in the Electricians program and surprisingly (for Senegal), I have 3 young ladies in my classes.  This means, of course, that the rest of the classes are made up of teenage boys (aack!)  Luckily, they’re not as bad as I had anticipated, in fact they’re rather charming   I teach the classes in French, which is challenging for me, but I’ve  resigned myself to the fact that I probably sound like an idiot a lot of the time.  French is also a second language to the students, so not everything they say is correct either, and to add insult to injury we all have to deal with each others “non-French” accents.


On the first day of classes, I gathered the students in a circle for a little ice-breaker exercise.  Getting up out of their seats during class was a new concept to them, so that in itself was an ice-breaker and also helped to label me as a “strange” teacher.  We tossed a bean bag baboon around that my parents had sent, repeating each persons name and something they like that starts with the first letter of their name, e.g., “my name is Fatou and I like Fataya (a fried meat-filled pastry), his name is Abdoulah and he like Alcohol (even Muslim teenagers like to push the limits), her name is Moussane and she likes Maffé (rice and meat with a peanut sauce).  It amazed me that even though school had been in session since early October and many of these students didn’t know each other’s names until we played this game.

Classrooms are sparse, filled only with a blackboard made of painted wood and several rows of rickety old desks.  Textbooks are a luxury that are rarely seen and if they do exist are often misprinted or old and outdated.  This I have only heard, because I haven’t seen any textbooks at our school.  Teachers spend a lot of time writing things on the board and students spend a lot of time taking notes, as this is their only reference to what has been taught.  I spend the first 15 minutes of each class going over what I taught the class before just to make sure it was understood and that the kids took good notes.  Handouts are also rarely used because there are not many printers available and if there were, the cost of ink and paper would be prohibitive.  I generally write my lesson plans out longhand and use the blackboard convey concepts to my class.

Because I was a bit worried about teaching teenage boys, I set some classroom rules on my first day.  I’d been to numerous Senegalese meetings where cell phones rang incessantly (usually with horrible high-pitched Islamic chant ring tones) and people answered them, holding conversations right there in the middle of the meeting without excusing themselves, so this was my first classroom rule:  1) No Cell Phones In Class.  The next rule, was an attempt to address the Senegalese tendency to be late to everything:  2) For Every 15 Minutes Late To Class You Must Pay 100 cfa (which is only about 20 cents) and You Must Dance For The Class.  The latter has been quite effective and the kids have started policing themselves so they can try to embarrass their classmates.  Being late is something that is well ingrained in Senegalese society.  Just this week, my counterpart and I hosted a training needs assessment at our compound for the leaders of 20 women’s group.  The meeting was scheduled for 2 hours and literally one third of the attendees showed up within the last 20 minutes of the meeting.  The first day I was scheduled to teach at Centre Polyvalent I showed up at 7:45 for my 8am class to find the door locked and no one on campus.  I knocked on the Director’s door and actually woke him up (good role model. eh?)  He found the key, and the kids started trickling in around 8:20am.  Now that we have established classroom rules, most of them are much better about coming on time, which feels like an accomplishment, especially since our schedules have been erratic due to Islamic holidays that have cancelled classes and Peace Corps training which has taken me out of town on my scheduled teaching days.  Hopefully, next month, my teaching schedule will become a bit more consistent.

Another thing that has taken some getting used to is finger-snapping.  When students want to get your attention, they’ll raise their arm and snap their fingers. When they all want to speak at once, it's quite the snapping chorus. This, too, is a widespread habit that occurs in all meetings--picture a room full of Arnold Horschack’s snapping their fingers.

The most embarrassing moment I’ve had in class thus far stemmed from a mix up of words.  In my Entrepreneurial Business class, I was teaching the concept of the 5 Ps (product, placement, price, promotion, and personnel) and had asked the class to choose a local business and then tell me what their actual product was.   The guy who had chosen the “boulangerie” (bakery) told me his product was “pain” (bread),  the boy who had chosen the cyber-café told me his product was internet service/availability, and the gal who had chosen a prêt-à-porter (ready-to-wear) store told me her products were the latest fashion trends.  They were getting it!  I was so pleased.  However, I then asked the young man who’d cleverly chosen the “bissouterie” (kissing booth) what his product was, he said “l’argent” (money).  Huh?  I explained that money was something that he received in exchange for his product, “’les bissous” (the kisses), but it was not the product itself.  The class looked at me funny and then erupted in laughter before explaining that I’d misunderstood him.  His business was not a “bissouterie”, but a “bijouterie” (jewelry store), and “l’argent” not only means money, but also is the word used for silver.  Oh the funny Toubab teacher! It was an honest mistake (and pretty funny!)  I’m so glad I decided early on to be at peace with making a fool of myself.

Today is Valentine’s Day, so last week, I gave my Monday morning English class homework.  They each had to make me a Valentine’s Card (in English).  There were 17 kids in class the day I assigned the homework, and today, when it was due there were only 3, and none of them had a Valentine for me :-(  So instead of reading their cards aloud, I passed out sweets and we spent the first 10 minutes of class discussing Valentine’s Day and how it's celebrated in each of our countries.  Apparently, in Senegal, people dress in red and black and throw big parties, but I haven’t seen much evidence of this yet, but the day is still young.

Mom and Dad arrive next Monday and I plan to bring them to class as “Show and Tell”.  Won’t that be fun?  I’ll have to think of someway of incorporating them into the lesson plan.

On a related note, a Peace Corps Volunteer in Kaolack, a city just an hour south of me, has organized a campaign to raise funds to bring 22,000 books and textbooks to schools in Senegal through a partnership with the NGO, Books for Africa.  Many Peace Corps Volunteers are helping to raise these funds (including yours truly) through the Peace Corps Partnership program, which makes it easy for friends and family back home to donate to our projects.  This is the first fundraising effort I’ve been involved with here, but may not be my last.  As these opportunities arise, I’ll post them on my blog and if you feel inspired to help, please do.  If you don’t, then don’t.  It’s a simple as that.  Click here for a link to our “Books For Africa” Peace Corps Partnership Page.

Love, Loss, and Not Letting Go

Part I - Love and Loss in the Information Age

Being 4,000 miles from home poses many challenges, physically, emotionally, and logistically.  Moving out of my house with little notice and leaving behind people and pets who I love was just the beginning.  Since my arrival, I’ve had to adjust to a daily life filled with cultural and language obstacles.  Most of this I was prepared to face, knowing it may be difficult at times.  I’d made contingency plans for logistics back home, I faced each cultural roadblock as a learning experience, and I continue to struggle with communication issues, but these are all things I was prepared to do because I expected them.

What I was not as prepared for was the unexpected--the real life things that happen to people everyday, but that you don‘t think will happen to you., especially when you are so far from your support system.  I was not prepared for the sudden death of a close friend, my faux-uncle and confident of 20 years, who was diagnosed with brain cancer a few weeks after I left the States.  He passed away soon thereafter, and the memorial service which I was very sad to have missed occurred the same day that the long-term relationship that I‘d left behind, hoping it would somehow be strengthened by a temporary physical separation and an exercise in self-reflection, took an unexpected nose dive and crashed to its ultimate demise.  I was not prepared for my sister to suddenly have serious health problems taking her in and out of the hospital with no definite diagnosis, leaving my family worried about what might happen next.  I was not prepared for my 13 year old dog who I left with a dear friend to develop a malignant tumor that would cause him to be put down, even though I knew in the back of my mind that he might have passed away from natural causes before I returned.  And lastly, I was not prepared to be attacked on the streets of Dakar last week, as an mugger tried to take my purse, leaving me with minor physical injuries, but emotional side effects that might stick around a while.

The loneliness and helplessness that come when you can’t actually be with the ones you love in their time of need, or in your own, take on a new dimension when your support network can only be reached through modern technology.  It’s the “boy in the bubble” scenario (Travolta, not Seinfeld).  I have the ability to speak with people over the phone or on Skype and to chat with people on Facebook and Gmail, which is a luxury Peace Corps Volunteers of the not-so-distant past certainly did not have, but it’s not the same as true human contact.  As the world gets more and more reliant on these communication methods, this is a good reminder that these will never replace the need for a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on, or a glass to clink.  That being said, this is certainly the next best thing if you’re physically separated so I guess there a balance to be had.  Recently, a friend who was surprised at how accessible I was on-line asked me if I thought being so connected took away from my overall Peace Corps experience and I quickly responded, “No, it’s my lifeline.”   In retrospect, the answer is really YES, it does change the experience, but in a way that I’ve come to appreciate.  Being able to share my experiences, celebrate someone else’s joy, or provide some words of support makes me feel less lonely and less isolated.  My intention when joining the Peace Corps was to use the advantages I’d been given in life to give back to others, experience a world unknown to me, and in the process maybe discover something about myself.  I certainly had no notions of an “Into the Wild” fantasy where I cut off all contact with the outside world.

This ability to communicate with others has opened doors I never would have imagined.  People whom I’ve never met have found me through my blog or through other friends and have reached out to me to thank me for my service or to let me know that they‘ve been inspired to do something new and life-changing themselves.  Old friends who I’d lost touch with are back in my life and are cheering me on through my journey.  Classrooms of kids are being introduced to a part of the world they’d never heard of before and are becoming inquisitive about their global surroundings.  None of this would have been possible had I only the antiquated third world postal system to use for communication.


 Part II - Not Letting Go

Women of my generation have been trained from a very early age what to do in the case of an attack.  In fact, I’d had a refresher just a few months ago during our Peace Corps Pre-Service Training.  Most of the advice you’re given focuses on how to protect yourself from a physical and/or sexual assault and how to alert other people’s attention to what‘s happening.  For a robbery, though, the advice is almost always to let the attacker have what he asks for to avoid being physically assaulted.  Somehow, probably because my robbery took the form of an sudden attack, my instincts told me otherwise.  As is likely the case in most of these incidences, my assailant appeared from out of nowhere.  One minute I was walking down the street and the next minute I was being dragged down it.  The mugger came running at me from behind and tried to grab my purse which was strapped diagonally across my chest.  Since it didn’t just slip off my arm, I was thrown to the ground and my hands immediately latched onto the strap to stop him from taking it.  My grip became gecko-like, and my fingers held onto that strap as if my life depended on it.  Ironically, had I just let go, I probably wouldn’t be as bruised and battered as I am now because our struggle continued for quite some time.  I kicked and screamed and was determined to not let him prevail.  My friend who was walking just a stride behind me saw the whole thing tried to hit the guy to get him to stop, but he quickly elbowed her in the eye and knocked her to the ground.  People from the surrounding compounds came out in droves to assist us and ultimately chased the attacker off, luckily, without my purse.  We were just outside the apartment building where we were spending the night with an American English teacher we’d met when all of this occurred, literally just several feet from the door.  The building guard came out and helped us inside as we were both bleeding and in shock.  We called our Peace Corps security officer and within a half an hour, the Country Director was there to pick us up and take us to the Med Hut (the medical unit at the Peace Corps office) which was just 500 meters away and where the security office was awaiting our arrival.

Although our injuries were minor (scrapes, bruises, a black eye, and sore muscles), we were both pretty shaken up and stayed in the Med Hut for several nights.  The Peace Corps medical officer was great and the security officer followed up on the case first thing the next morning.  Apparently, the neighbors who’d come to our assistance recognized our attacker as someone who lived in the neighborhood and had done this before.  One of the neighbors accompanied us to the Gendarmerie (the national police) to identify him, which was great, because despite the fact that I’d spent several minutes looking at my attacker straight in the face while trying to fend him off I don’t think I’d be able to identify him in a line-up.  It’s strange what the mind chooses to block out.

Unfortunately, our experience dealing with the Gendarmerie was not as positive as our experience with the Peace Corps staff.  The intake officer took one look at us and, before even hearing what we had to say, went on a tirade in Wolof about how stupid Toubab women are for walking alone at night and how we should have expected something like this to happen.  The officer in charge was not much better, as the first question out of his mouth was, “Why didn’t you have men with you?”  Aarrghh!, this patriarchal society makes me want to scream sometimes!  Although they were quick to judge us for the incident, in the end, they did take it seriously and plan to arrest the guy.

The process is interesting.  First of all, the reason we were dealing with the Gendarmerie and not the Police is because the attack occurred in the Village of N’Gor (a small village within the city limits of Dakar) and the Gendarmerie has jurisdiction over villages.  Once our initial complaints were filed, they gave the neighbor who accompanied us an official stamped warrant and asked him to take it to the Village Chief.  The warrant requested that the father of the young man who attacked us bring his son in voluntarily.  When I asked what would happen if they didn’t come in, they responded that they’d round up a group of people to go get him in the night, a veritable modern-day posse.  Wow!  We should find out what came to pass on Monday.  At this point, I’m not sure if we’ll be called back to Dakar to testify in an actual trial or if they’ll just throw him in the slammer based on our complaint.

It’s been several days now and my wounds have scabbed over and the swelling has gone down.  My back, arm, and leg muscles still ache from the struggle, but I suspect that, too, will subside in the coming days along with my headaches.  The initial shock that I experienced which left me a bit nauseous with wobbly knees and insomnia only lasted 36 hours or so.  What remains, I’m afraid, is a overactive startle-response that’s left me panicked three times already.  The day after the attack, my friend and I ventured to a grocery store a couple of blocks from the office to get some food to cook while we were there.  It was late afternoon and although we were on-guard, we felt safe enough walking there from the office as this strip of road was heavy populated and it was still light outside.  This was the same grocery store I blogged about a couple of  months ago that was overwhelming to me when I was in a normal state of mind, so I was a bit over stimulated on this trip and found it difficult to make decisions.  We wanted comfort food, but didn’t want to go through the process of having to decide what to buy and then cook it for ourselves.  This is definitely where a “mom” would have come in handy.  Anyway, that’s the position we found ourselves in, so I was standing at the cheese counter (naturally--all comfort food contains cheese) and the lights suddenly went out.  My knees gave out, I gasped for breath, broke out in a sweat, and collapsed into the side of the cheese case. This sudden change in my environment was so startling, yet power outages are daily occurrences in Senegal. The generator popped on within seconds and I quickly recovered.  Yesterday, something similar happened.  I was able to catch a ride halfway back to my site with the Peace Corps security officer and a team of people who were heading to a meeting in Thiès.  They planned to help me at the Garage and put me in a Sept-Place back to Diourbel.  Along the way, we stopped at another volunteer’s village for a quick visit.  I asked to use her bathroom and while squatting over her toilet, a squirrel jumped from a tree onto the tin roof, clamoring above my head.  The same physical reaction occurred, yet I was precariously hovering over a Turkish toilet.  I guess this was a prime location to have the shit scared out of me, but apparently (and thankfully) that turns out to be just a figure of speech!  I was able to pull myself together.  Even today, as I’ve been typing this story, a group of young kids came into our compound looking for my host-Dad.  I told them he’d just left for a few hours and they said they’d come back later.  I shut the door of the compound when they left, so I could continue writing undisturbed, however, a few minutes later I heard a knock at the door.  My room is quite a distance from the door, so it took my a minute or so to get there and the knocking continued as I approached the door.  When I opened it, the young girl on the other side was not standing where I had expected her to be, but was in the process of climbing up the door to peer over the top.  This caught me so off guard that I jumped back and lost my breath again, hyperventilating and scaring this poor little girl who was just coming back to find out what time my host-Dad would be returning.  Yikes!  I guess I’m going to have to live with this side effect for a little while, but hopefully, it will pass sooner than later.

It may sound silly, but I’m glad I walked away from this experience without having my purse taken.  Somehow, it feels empowering not to have let him have it.  I know I’m lucky that he didn’t whip out a knife or seriously hurt me, but if he’d gotten away with my things I would have felt so much more violated.  There are a lot of strong women in my life and each of them, upon hearing this story, has commended me on not letting go of my purse.  It may not be text-book advice to put up a fight for things that are surely replaceable, but it definitely made me feel less helpless.

Writing about these experiences for my friends and family to read is not the same telling you in person and then sharing a hug, a glass of wine, or a much-needed bowl of comfort food, but it has helped me process what's happened and hopefully will help me move on.

As I know from past experiences, "time will heal all wounds."

Ladies Who Lunch

Now that Khady (my host-mom) has returned to work in France, I’m eating lunch with the neighbors down the road.  For what amounts to about a dollar a day, I have my very own  place at the bowl and a spoon reserved just for me.  Senegalese families are all about welcoming people into their homes and being hospitable, but they’re also keen on earning a few extra CFAs whenever they can, so this is a win-win situation for everyone.  The head of the household is Awa Gueye.  She’s the president of one of the womens’ groups that works with Baol Environnement, the ecovillage with which I am partnered.  She’s also a Director of a school and a really smart lady.  Living with her are some of her children, her mother, her sister, her sister’s children, plus a few other random people whose relations I‘ve yet to figure out.  On any given day, there are about 20 of us gathered around the bowls.

Lunch is divided into two bowls, one for the males and one for the females.  Eating with the ladies is a pleasurable experience.  First of all, my ancienne, who also ate with this family, was a vegetarian so they’re in the habit of loading the bowl with vegetables which works in my favor.  Secondly, in a very motherly fashion, they all break off pieces of fish and vegetables with their fingers and toss them in my direction.  I just love that.  It seems like such a caring gesture.  Eating with this family  is a nice break in the day for me.  I often go a little early to hang out with them.  It’s a good way to pick up new phrases in Wolof and to just feel like part of a family.

Adji-Fatou is Awa’s niece, she’s  11 years old and was the first to welcome me to the family.  She and my ancienne were close and she’s made it very clear to me that she wants to be my new best friend.  She speaks French well and has been quite helpful to me.  Her brother El-Hadji (both of these names are variations on the Arabic word for the great pilgrimage to Mecca that is expected of all good Muslims), spent the first 5 years of his life in a hospital, where he underwent 4 surgeries for his cleft lip and palate.  He and his mom, Maram (Awa’s younger sister), actually lived at the hospital all of those years while other family members cared for the other children.  Among those other children are the twins, Assan and Houseinou, who look to be about 12 or 13 and were both born with malformed limbs.  This is fairly common in Senegal but these two seem to be much better off than the folks I see crawling down the street with cardboard strapped to their knees because they can’t walk.  That’s a terrible sight to behold.  Mané is the oldest of Maram’s children.  She’s 21 years old and a newlywed.  She and her husband were married 4 months ago, but she’s still living with her family while she finishes school.  I’ve heard tell that Awa was seen chasing her down the street with a stick when she said she was going to go to Touba to live with her husband.  Awa takes education very seriously and apparently, she got her point across.  Awa’s son Papis, and his young wife, Tabara, also live in the compound.  They have a one year old son named Cheikh.  Tabara, in her role as youngest wife living with family is responsible for cooking all of the meals.  She works really hard and doesn’t seem all that happy to me.  But then again, I doubt I’d be too happy if I were toting around a teething toddler on my back and cooking for 20 of my husbands relatives everyday.  Awa’s mother is a sweet old lady.  She’s an ever-present feature on the mat on the porch where we eat, seemingly leaving it only to roll out another mat to pray upon 5 times a day.  She sells frozen juice bags to the neighborhood children and is clearly a respected member of the family.  She wears lots of bracelets, a big smile, and even sports a couple of toe rings.

Awa Gueye at a training session in Oct

Maram Gueye with El-Hadi, Adji-Fatou and two other kids

The boys playing with make-shift drums (that's Assan in the green shorts)

Ladies Who Lunch (yes I'm the only one who eats with a spoon at this bowl.)

Yesterday, Mané took me to the market to buy materials for crochet and needlepoint projects.  She and the other women in the family spend many hours a day making tablecloths and bedspreads to sell with their womens’ group.  I just love working with my hands and was so I was excited to start learning this new craft.  What an amazing bounding experience this would be.  For projects like this, women buy fabric by the kilo (not by the meter), so when we got back to the compound we started ripping my kilo of fabric into manageable pieces.  I suggested that I start with a napkin set, thinking a smaller project would be easier to handle.  Mané started me off crocheting a border then handed the piece over to me to continue.  Ok, let me just say that I’ve been knitting for about 6 years now, but the apparently the skills don’t transfer.  The materials and hand movements may look the same, but let me tell you, they are not.  I was all thumbs.  It took me 4 hours to work my way around the edges of one napkin and the end product looks like some a 2nd grader did it (no offense to any 2nd graders out there).  The whole experience was so frustrating.  I broke the first crochet needle because my tension was too tight and I kept dropping stitches.  The worst part was that I couldn’t properly express my frustration in a language these ladies understood.  I thought my facial expressions, gasps of exasperation, and inappropriate swearing, would get the point across, but they just kept asking, “are you tired?”  I’m glad to report that today’s needlepoint went a lot better.

My finished border.  Ugh.

Whew! This was a lot easier and a lot faster.

Other news from the domestic front involves my new kitchen set-up.  Those of you who know me well, know that I love to cook.  Well, for past 5 months, I haven’t really done much of that.  At first, it was kind of a treat to have someone else cooking all of my meals for me, but after a while, I started missing that creative outlet.  My weekend at the beach over Christmas really enlivened my desire to start cooking again, so when I got back to site, I started addressing the issues in the kitchen that were standing in my way.  My host dad had been asking if he could unplug the refrigerator to save electricity.  I hadn’t been using it and it is really old and inefficient, not to mention the fact that each time I opened it, there were roaches crawling around on the inside.  I told him to go ahead and turn it off, but asked if he’d help me buy a new one on his next trip to Dakar.  We spent an entire Saturday back and forth on the phone and as he looked for second-hand mini-fridges for me, discussing features and negotiating prices with the dealers.  I’m so glad he dealt with that part for me.  He also had to deal with getting the one I finally purchased back to Diourbel on the top of a taxi.  While he was gone, I took “my new best friend”, Adji-Fatou, with me to town to get a new propane tank for the 4-burner stove, bought a few needed pots, pans, and utensils, and reorganized the room a bit.  By Monday evening, I had a fully functioning kitchen.  Now, my morning walks to town to run errands include a trip to the market where I buy stuff to make for dinner.  It’s all starting to fall into place now and I’m feeling better about what I’m eating.

My new refrigerator and organized shelves.

The "Pierre Cardin" cook stove.

Before I sign off, I’d like to draw your attention to the new pages I’ve added to this blog.  At the top of the page, you’ll now see new tabs entitled “My Spare Time”, “My Project Work”, and a revised “My Wish List”.  Take a look at these new pages to see what else I’ve been up to.  Also, if you sent me a package in the last two months and haven’t heard from me that I received it yet, you are in good company.  Remember, this a developing country and even government-run organizations like the post office are not run very efficiently.  One package I’d been waiting on for a month finally arrived today, so I’m hoping that others will follow.  I’ll be sure to let you know.

À bientôt mes amis,
Fatou