First it rained, really really hard. It rained for what seemed like hours and with an intensity that made it sound like a marching band was playing on my roof. I hardly slept all night and when I finally dragged myself out into the courtyard I saw that the entire street in front of my house was turned into a pond. I spent all day calling it the ocean, telling the kids to try to catch fish and jumping from rock to rock to get out and do some work.
The rain is good news. I was starting to believe that “rainy season” was a misnomer, and my little corner of the Sahel was just an interpretation of “Sahara”. And the farmers. Nine months without rain don’t prepare the fields. But now it came and everyone just chilled out. The weather is cooler, but sticky and it heats up so fast in the afternoon that you could almost see steam rising off the street (or at least off my shoulders).
I had another episode in the night a few days later-- I couldn’t sleep again (I think that insomnia hits a lot of volunteers at different periods) and even though I was just minding my own business reading in bed a big fat cockroach skittered right into my bed, slinking through the gap in my mosquito net (I am lazy about closing it properly because I sleep on the floor and my windows have netting on them). Of course I screamed and jumped up, getting tangled in the net. I have never been so scared in my life. But I was standing there, searching my bed for the bug until I felt it move, on my back. I think I woke up the neighborhood, and then stripped down so fast that my clothes ended up in different corners of the room. This is war. I was excited about the rain until critters started taking refuge in my room.
So it is vacation too, for the kids in school. I am usually not at home during the day, since I go into town to work, but today, Sunday, I realized how exhausted everyone is with the kids. I decided to take a big risk and get out construction paper and crayons. I was terrified-- usually anything for the kids becomes a huge ordeal where things get destroyed, etc. But we had the best morning. Each of the kids drew something for my mom and dad-- I told them I would be going home soon to visit and that my parents wanted to know the kids. So it was a cheap ploy to get to decorate my room with their drawings for a few weeks, but it worked and I’ll try to post a photo-- it certainly brings some happiness to the room!
Monday, July 24, 2006
Saturday, July 15, 2006
The Money Story
It is sometimes very scary to think about the real situation here in Senegal. I have been here long enough to kind of get used to life and the environment and sometimes I forget just how hard and unfair it is. I lose perspective. I guess in a good way, since I stop looking at people here and thinking only about the dirt that they live in, the poor conditions of education, inadequate health care and job opportunities. Instead I see just my neighbors, my family, or the guy whose sense of humor I really enjoy, or the nice old lady on the corner that struggles to show me the teeth she has left in a big smile whenever I see her.
But today was one of those days when I sort of got my perspective back. It tends to happen when I sit down with someone and really get into the grit of my work. I spoke at length with my host mother about the problems the family currently faces. Being the first wife, she is in charge of the finances for the entire family. Her husband, an older man, has been extremely sick for years. He cannot work and requires constant care and attention as well as medicines and an occasional visit from a nurse. The other adults in the house, for the most part, do not work. They try, selling items that they make in the market or raising chickens to sell for food, but for the most part the opportunity in the market is very small and family members lack technical skills and education to attempt many other businesses. In addition, due to cultural norms and certain parts of Islam, my host mother has taken care of a good number of grandchildren, second cousins, or simply other community members. It is the true African family and after living here for more than 6 months I still don’t know where everyone comes from.
So what it comes down to is that the whole family (35 people or so) is supported by 1 son who lives in New York and sells sheets (let this open an immigration debate please), another son who lives in Dakar and sells car parts, and me, from the rent and food that I pay for from Peace Corps. Already I think we can all see where the problem lies. Food is not all that expensive here, but having electricity and running water is. And the bills are serious. (The cost of electricity here is twice what it is in the states-- try that against a struggling currency and a weak economy)
But it gets worse. My family is in trouble with the Mayor’s office. They own three little stalls in a market near our house. After selling there for a while they saw that the market does not draw any clients, it is in a very poor neighborhood and people prefer to go to the big market. So the stores were losing money and they closed them. There are no buyers for the stores. But now the mayor’s office wants its tax money on these boutiques-- for the past two years. It only amounts to about $300 overall, but in Senegal that is a hell of a lot of money.
So now it is my job to work with my family to start a business that they can do with the skills that they have, that they can make money with, and that is sustainable. And how do you do that when you have 35 mouths to feed and are already in a hell of a lot of debt?
Yes, I came here for development. Yes, I came here to get to know the real issues. Yes, I came here to make an impact. But sometimes the problem seems bigger than all of us and our good intentions combined.
But today was one of those days when I sort of got my perspective back. It tends to happen when I sit down with someone and really get into the grit of my work. I spoke at length with my host mother about the problems the family currently faces. Being the first wife, she is in charge of the finances for the entire family. Her husband, an older man, has been extremely sick for years. He cannot work and requires constant care and attention as well as medicines and an occasional visit from a nurse. The other adults in the house, for the most part, do not work. They try, selling items that they make in the market or raising chickens to sell for food, but for the most part the opportunity in the market is very small and family members lack technical skills and education to attempt many other businesses. In addition, due to cultural norms and certain parts of Islam, my host mother has taken care of a good number of grandchildren, second cousins, or simply other community members. It is the true African family and after living here for more than 6 months I still don’t know where everyone comes from.
So what it comes down to is that the whole family (35 people or so) is supported by 1 son who lives in New York and sells sheets (let this open an immigration debate please), another son who lives in Dakar and sells car parts, and me, from the rent and food that I pay for from Peace Corps. Already I think we can all see where the problem lies. Food is not all that expensive here, but having electricity and running water is. And the bills are serious. (The cost of electricity here is twice what it is in the states-- try that against a struggling currency and a weak economy)
But it gets worse. My family is in trouble with the Mayor’s office. They own three little stalls in a market near our house. After selling there for a while they saw that the market does not draw any clients, it is in a very poor neighborhood and people prefer to go to the big market. So the stores were losing money and they closed them. There are no buyers for the stores. But now the mayor’s office wants its tax money on these boutiques-- for the past two years. It only amounts to about $300 overall, but in Senegal that is a hell of a lot of money.
So now it is my job to work with my family to start a business that they can do with the skills that they have, that they can make money with, and that is sustainable. And how do you do that when you have 35 mouths to feed and are already in a hell of a lot of debt?
Yes, I came here for development. Yes, I came here to get to know the real issues. Yes, I came here to make an impact. But sometimes the problem seems bigger than all of us and our good intentions combined.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
my black cat
I have to make some comments on my recent return to Louga after a two-week vacation with my wonderful friends, Bridget and Leah.
Coming home is almost a game now, where I get to guess what kind of a state my room, my fridge and now even my cat might be in, This one was particularly entertaining. The room was great, no problems there… the fridge… well minus the infant suppositories and a freezer packed full of candy my family hopes to sell we are still doing great. Now my cat. The Senegalese really don’t like cats, and for good reason. Cats here are outdoor animals, scavengers and mongrels—interestingly enough this is how I saw cats in America (no offense to cat owners, I just never thought I would be in the position to have one of my very own). But my family here in Louga has slowly warmed to my cat. The girls still scream and jump and run away when he gets out, but they also regularly feed him and shoo him lovingly from their bedrooms when he surprises them.
That being said I was surprised when I came home and heard that my family was trying to wash my cat-- this seemed to me to be a complete oxymoronic Amelia Badelia kind of thing to do, like ironing a bathing suit (which believe me has happened here), especially strange because to this day no one likes to actually touch the cat, they can only observe him. But then I saw him I understood; my once white cat had turned a stingy gray. I examined his fur and decided, no he isn’t dirty, he’s just getting older and at a small seven months the gray hair is finally starting to come out. So I assured my family in broken Wolof that nothing was wrong. How silly for them to think that his fur was dirty and not just changing color!
Then I started to pet him and slowly my hand started turning gray, and then black. Here I am again, the crazy tubab who doesn’t even know how to take care of her own tubab cat and not even another tubab in town to call and ask (everyone seems to be on vacation these days). So I finally decided I would just have to dunk my cat and get this stuff off of it. He really started getting feisty after I dipped him by the tail a few times but finally got most of the dirt off of him. I later sheepishly admitted to my family that they were right—then I got the real story. Apparently he got out of my room a few days ago when they went to feed him and decided to go rolling in the charcoal. Ha!
The other funny part of this is the “seriche.” It is a Senegalese custom to bring a gift when you come home after a trip or some time away from your family. I stopped doing it for a while for myriad reasons, first and foremost that a gift from a tubab carries too much tension with it. But this time I really was gone for a long time and I had some bubble gun I had been meaning to give them. So I gave my host mom a pack of 8 smaller packs of gum, each containing 5 pieces. I promptly disappeared in order to avoid the chaos that would ensue. Thirty minutes later I had ten kids tapping at my door saying they didn’t get any seriche. How is this possible? My mom didn’t realize she needed to open each pack to get at the actual gum and instead 8 kids were wandering around with a whole pack of gum in their mouths rather than each person getting one piece. Perfect. Those 8 kids were damn proud though, which I guess brings a smile to my face.
So in other news the girls visited, yay! And made it safely home without a hitch. I really want to start by thanking them. As soon as I got back to louga I realized how impressed everyone was with them here. And of course here is where it matters most to me. It isn’t easy for a visitor to come and spend time sitting and talking with people-- dealing with all the specificities of a culture that they don’t know. I am also appreciative of the fact that they really shared in the way I live here with my family and my friends. They even shared in some of the stresses that I deal with, and I again, grateful. Here is how some of these encounters went.
Random Senegalese dude: hello, are you fine?
Leah: yes I am fine
(intermittent awkwardness, language issues, leah clearly wanting to read her book on the beach, RSD clearly wanting a tubab girlfriend and thinking Leah is a good candidate, RSD striking a magazine centerfold pose on the beach)
RSD: will you teach me to swim?
Leah: My friends speak French, they are in the water, go ask them.
Me and Bridge in the water: Looks like you’re doing just fine Leah!
RSD: Okay, I go.
(Bridget and I promptly start swimming to shore as he starts swimming out toward us)
On arrival to shore we strategize about how best to be left in peace while I listen to RSD’s friend calls out to him in Wolof “hey, where did you get that tubab?”
Not more than 5 minutes pass before RSD and his buddy decide again to grace us with their presence.
RSD: why do you not teach me to swim?
Meryl: Oh, you wanted us to teach you to swim? We didn’t know.
(all three of us are buried in our books, dying to be left alone, but this guy lounging and flexing his muscles at us just does not get body language)
RSD: (still talking at us, I tuned him out long ago)
Meryl: I’m sorry but we really just want to relax right now
RSD: Oh am I bothering you?
Meryl: No comment
RSD: Okay then (to Leah) I will leave you my address
Leah; No thanks, that’s okay
RSD: (still kneeling to give leah his address) what is that?
Leah: Meryl, tell him
Meryl: (cracking up) (in Wolof) she said, no thanks
RSD: she no want it?
Leah: no
It was a beautiful thing, and after only one hour we had peace again.
Coming home is almost a game now, where I get to guess what kind of a state my room, my fridge and now even my cat might be in, This one was particularly entertaining. The room was great, no problems there… the fridge… well minus the infant suppositories and a freezer packed full of candy my family hopes to sell we are still doing great. Now my cat. The Senegalese really don’t like cats, and for good reason. Cats here are outdoor animals, scavengers and mongrels—interestingly enough this is how I saw cats in America (no offense to cat owners, I just never thought I would be in the position to have one of my very own). But my family here in Louga has slowly warmed to my cat. The girls still scream and jump and run away when he gets out, but they also regularly feed him and shoo him lovingly from their bedrooms when he surprises them.
That being said I was surprised when I came home and heard that my family was trying to wash my cat-- this seemed to me to be a complete oxymoronic Amelia Badelia kind of thing to do, like ironing a bathing suit (which believe me has happened here), especially strange because to this day no one likes to actually touch the cat, they can only observe him. But then I saw him I understood; my once white cat had turned a stingy gray. I examined his fur and decided, no he isn’t dirty, he’s just getting older and at a small seven months the gray hair is finally starting to come out. So I assured my family in broken Wolof that nothing was wrong. How silly for them to think that his fur was dirty and not just changing color!
Then I started to pet him and slowly my hand started turning gray, and then black. Here I am again, the crazy tubab who doesn’t even know how to take care of her own tubab cat and not even another tubab in town to call and ask (everyone seems to be on vacation these days). So I finally decided I would just have to dunk my cat and get this stuff off of it. He really started getting feisty after I dipped him by the tail a few times but finally got most of the dirt off of him. I later sheepishly admitted to my family that they were right—then I got the real story. Apparently he got out of my room a few days ago when they went to feed him and decided to go rolling in the charcoal. Ha!
The other funny part of this is the “seriche.” It is a Senegalese custom to bring a gift when you come home after a trip or some time away from your family. I stopped doing it for a while for myriad reasons, first and foremost that a gift from a tubab carries too much tension with it. But this time I really was gone for a long time and I had some bubble gun I had been meaning to give them. So I gave my host mom a pack of 8 smaller packs of gum, each containing 5 pieces. I promptly disappeared in order to avoid the chaos that would ensue. Thirty minutes later I had ten kids tapping at my door saying they didn’t get any seriche. How is this possible? My mom didn’t realize she needed to open each pack to get at the actual gum and instead 8 kids were wandering around with a whole pack of gum in their mouths rather than each person getting one piece. Perfect. Those 8 kids were damn proud though, which I guess brings a smile to my face.
So in other news the girls visited, yay! And made it safely home without a hitch. I really want to start by thanking them. As soon as I got back to louga I realized how impressed everyone was with them here. And of course here is where it matters most to me. It isn’t easy for a visitor to come and spend time sitting and talking with people-- dealing with all the specificities of a culture that they don’t know. I am also appreciative of the fact that they really shared in the way I live here with my family and my friends. They even shared in some of the stresses that I deal with, and I again, grateful. Here is how some of these encounters went.
Random Senegalese dude: hello, are you fine?
Leah: yes I am fine
(intermittent awkwardness, language issues, leah clearly wanting to read her book on the beach, RSD clearly wanting a tubab girlfriend and thinking Leah is a good candidate, RSD striking a magazine centerfold pose on the beach)
RSD: will you teach me to swim?
Leah: My friends speak French, they are in the water, go ask them.
Me and Bridge in the water: Looks like you’re doing just fine Leah!
RSD: Okay, I go.
(Bridget and I promptly start swimming to shore as he starts swimming out toward us)
On arrival to shore we strategize about how best to be left in peace while I listen to RSD’s friend calls out to him in Wolof “hey, where did you get that tubab?”
Not more than 5 minutes pass before RSD and his buddy decide again to grace us with their presence.
RSD: why do you not teach me to swim?
Meryl: Oh, you wanted us to teach you to swim? We didn’t know.
(all three of us are buried in our books, dying to be left alone, but this guy lounging and flexing his muscles at us just does not get body language)
RSD: (still talking at us, I tuned him out long ago)
Meryl: I’m sorry but we really just want to relax right now
RSD: Oh am I bothering you?
Meryl: No comment
RSD: Okay then (to Leah) I will leave you my address
Leah; No thanks, that’s okay
RSD: (still kneeling to give leah his address) what is that?
Leah: Meryl, tell him
Meryl: (cracking up) (in Wolof) she said, no thanks
RSD: she no want it?
Leah: no
It was a beautiful thing, and after only one hour we had peace again.
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