Ajaraama

How to describe the feeling? I sit with a bowl of broccoli bacon chowder, ice water, air conditioning, and classical music playing in the background. The clean tile floors are cool to the touch, and I can feel my body temperature drop 10 degrees in the capitol of Dakar after leaving my village of Mbolo Aly Sidy

This morning I woke up under my mosquito net, the pathetic three-legged donkey awkwardly standing in my way as a walked to my room, carrying my blanket and pillow back inside, keeping an eye out for frogs. The mosque hadn’t even began to chant because I was up before the world to leave Mbolo Aly Sidy for the last time. All was still in the world except for my heart, which was breaking with every beat; the beats becoming rapid with tension and nervousness and unhappiness and loss… even before I had left the compound. I made sure my baggage was together and rechecked my empty room one last time and returned to my bed to wake up my mom, who had been awake, probably since I had gotten up. She told me to lay back down until the driver called. I laid there next to her looking up at the circle made by the net and how it enclosed us both like a hug, protecting us, keeping us together, and I turned away from her, crying as silently as possible.. Then the phone rang: the driver was coming. Coming to take me away from this life, to another complete opposite so drastic it hurt to think about. Here I am in a life, so comfortable, so accustomed, so inclusive and loving… and here I go. I wake up Malick, my brother, to help carry my bags and we haul one at a time out to the road. I sit on one bag, my mother on another, and my sister Kadja on the third. In the dark, I begin to cry, trying so hard to stifle my sobs. My mother’s breathing quickens and I know she is crying as well. No one speaks. My tokara (namesake) arrives in silence, gogol Hawa arrives in solidarity, Mista (my new friend from Sierra Leone) arrives to travel with me to Dakar. We all sit in silence, muffled sobs breaking the darkness. A luminescence in the distance signals the car’s arrival.

Gardo ko kootoowo – the one who comes, must always leave

Bags packed on top, we say our goodbye’s. Left hands given, as a way of saying ‘because I have offended you with my left hand, we must meet again so I can make amends to you.’ I can’t speak. No one speaks because all are crying. I can’t look anyone in the eye because it’s just too painful. My sister Kadja, I hug her, her body feeling so small and shaking with sobs. My mom puts her hand on my shoulder; it’s time to go. Mista helps me into the car and holds me while I cry, off and on, all the way to Ourossogui. The sun beginning to rise, I curl up to catch some sleep.

These last few days in village have been undoubtedly the best. After spending the night in the ‘wallo’ fields and then on to have my extreme going-away party, I haven’t slept much and haven’t wanted to. I came to this village as Dana: not knowing what I wanted to do in life, where I wanted to go, unaware of this unknown culture and language, unsure of myself and my surroundings, timid. I left this village as Coumba Demba; a name that has become my personality, my persona, my strength. Coumba Demba is strong, self-aware, aware of others and how much each and every person must be valued, conscious of family ties, and loving of all. Dana loved all as well, but Coumba Demba has found a new depth to this emotion. My mother Kadja reminds me, by grasping her breast, ‘an ka bii am, mi moynii maa,’ You are my child, I raised (literally, breastfed) you. And it’s true. This community raised me from being Dana into being strong, confident Coumba Demba Thiam. They helped me along every step of the way, telling me what to do and what not to do, how to eat, how to dress, etc. Now I am at the point where I can call them out for doing things wrong and we all laugh about it.

So now working backwards a little, let me tell about my going away party. The idea started off as a small family gathering in my house. Then Maxi Krezy, world-renowned, and one of the original Senegalese rappers, said he was planning on coming home from America in time to see me before I left. This changed things. Also, thinking of all the people I wanted to see at the party, I realized I was going to be inviting more than would fit in my compound. The party then moved to the school. I wanted the reason for this party to be to celebrate the Pulaar culture and the culture of the Fouta. This is the culture and the people I have grown to love so much. I have written a previous post about the loss of culture in this area and the shift towards Western ideals, which has its positives and negatives, so this day was to celebrate the roots of the beautiful culture and the people who I had learned from and appreciate in so many ways.

This meant, however, a lot of organization, which I did not anticipate. I had to organize the participants of Thiossane (cultural wear), the dance group, and the theater group. I decided on ‘education’ as the theme of the day, since ‘agriculture’ is not really something I need to advocate for and the education of women in this area is a difficult subject that I feel passionate about. Our theater production focused on the importance of staying in school and Maxi Krezy had already expressed interest in helping me discuss the importance of education and women staying in school during the panel discussion.

 

Thillo, my sister-in-law and I

The Eaux ef Foret attended, along with other governmental officials

My great helpers!

‘Thiossane’

These kids made the show happen

I couldn’t stop smiling the entire day out of sheer joy.  From the second I woke up, I was running.  We made a huge feast of rice and meat for lunch, complete with fancy drinks throughout the day, afternoon snacks of begniets and popcorn, and just all-out happiness.

Alicia, my site-mate/twin/support network/sister, helping to serve my lunch

My friends came from all over the Fouta!  Maxi Krezy came from Dakar (he made the longest trip), my friend Amadou Diallo, from Ndioum, came back from Dakar right in time for the event, Baba Sy came from Aire Lao, guests also came from Diaba, Bogguel, Loumbal, and even people from St Louis showed up for the show!  My neighboring village, where I spent most of my working time, said that night, Mbolo Birane was empty.  No one was there because everyone had come to my party and stayed the night in my village.  All of the people I wanted to see before I left, showed up.  All of them!  Even thought I didn’t get to have much time to talk to them because of the huge-ness of the event, just seeing their faces or hearing their speeches made my heart full of happiness.

My mom broke through the crowd to come dance with me!

 

Ndiyam, so boyyi in channgol fof, ko mayo fatii – the water that stayes for a while in the channel, must eventually go to the river (all good things must come to and end)

The Hardest Thing

  
It’s here.

The time to say goodbye.

How did two years go by so quickly?  Looking forward into it, two years seemed like a lifetime.  All I could think about was what I would be missing out of in the states while I was working, ‘serving’ in the Peace Corps, the ‘Hardest Job You’ll Ever Love’ or so they called it.  It seemed daunting and grueling, like a never-ending contract.  Little did I know what I was actually getting myself into…

  
In this place I have found myself.  I have learned so many things about people and relationships.  Most of what I have learned I cannot put into words, mostly because they are very complex realizations but also because my English abilities are slightly dulled by my 24/7 Pulaar.  I could probably describe them better in Pulaar than English at the moment.  I have found that, through this language, I can be immediately accepted as a community member, as a family member, as a friend, as a bean-eater (a joke among joking cousins).  I have gained relatives, many of which I feel just as close with as I do those of whom I really do share a common bloodline.  They have adopted me.  Accepted me, and everything about me (even the stupid things and my constant mistakes).

  
I am putting off the goodbye’s until the very end by planning a HUGE party.  It started off small: a party for my family and friends.  Seemed simple enough.  But when it came down to begin inviting people to the party, I realized how many friends and family members I actually have and how many of them I want to be at this event… It has now gotten so big that I am renting speakers, a DJ, and multiple shade structures and seating for guests. I had previously purchased a large sheep for this specific occasion, but with all the people coming, it’s looking like I probably should have bought a cow.  I have gone through my phone inviting a lot of people, while others I have been visiting in their villages to personally invite to the event.  This would be a terrible precedent to set if I were to have a volunteer replacing me in my site, but, that is not the case this year.  Therefore, I am free to be extravagant.

I said some of my first goodbye’s in the past few days.  I didn’t know what to expect when saying goodbye’s.  I remember when I first arrived at site and I saw one of the older volunteers who was about to leave site.  She was torn up, a mess.  She was so in love with her site and the people there that it made her incredibly emotional.  I remember thinking, ‘yea, I’m not really an emotional person, so I don’t think I’ll ever really feel that same way about leaving.’  WRONG.  I’m a mess.  Luckily I’ve been so busy with planning this crazy goodbye party and then helping to orient one of the new volunteers who will be placed in a neighboring village, that I have been a bit distracted.  Today, however, it hit me hard.  I was hanging out with my friend Basiru in Matam and we went to go get thiakry, my favorite food in all of Senegal, from his sister-in-law, like always.  Thiakry is made with millet or other grains, rolled into balls and steamed into a kind of tough tapioca consistency and then eaten with yogurt. (This lady adds nutmeg and raisins as well)  As we said goodbye, we expressed that this was actually ‘goodbye’ goodbye.  “Don’t forget me,” she said, “Don’t forget any of us.  Call us all the time.  Put me in you phone as ‘the Thiakry Seller’ and think of me often.”  We shook hands and then she did something that is only acceptable in this one context: She offered me her left hand and we shook.

The Left Hand

The left hand has it’s use, and that’s in the bathroom.  It is indecent to use it for anything else, including simply handing someone something.  It would be extremely offensive to offer someone to shake with your left hand.  The left hand, however, is shaken in one instance: upon saying goodbye when it may be a long time before you see that person again.  It is purposefully offending that person with the expectation that the two people must meet again in order to rectify and pardon the offense.

  
It is on the day that you leave that your language skills and cultural understanding will be the best.  Just, logically, that makes sense, having all these skills be cumulative, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating.

Leaving this place is going to be undoubtedly the hardest thing I have ever done in my entire life up until this point.  I have had a relatively easy life up until this point, I can feel lucky about that.  That doesn’t demean the emotional heartbreak in anyway, however.  It feels like I am being ripped away from my mother right as I am beginning to know the interworkings of her life; being pulled away from my sister-in-law right as she is beginning to enlighten me about her marriage; being dragged away from my little brother just as he is beginning to be able to hold conversations.  This is my family.  This is my house.  These are my uncles, aunts, cousins…  I don’t know when I am going to be able to see them again.  It’s not like when I left for Senegal, knowing exactly my end date and that I would probably have vacations in between that time where I would see my immediate family.  No.  This is goodbye for a long time.  Or hopefully not.  But who knows where life takes us?  All i know is that these amazing people have found their way into my heart and they will never leave.  These next few days of saying goodbye, saying thank you, saying my apologies for anything I could have ever done to offend anyone and anything I may ever do in the future, will be a trial I have never faced the likes of before.  Knowing that some of these people, even when I do manage to come back, I still may never see them again… hurts.  Baaba Demba Sy… he’s almost 100 years old… might not be here when I come back.  Things will change.  This is life.  My life will never be the same.

Gardo ko kotoowo – the one who comes will always leave

Ndiyam, so boyii e channgol fof, to mayo faty – any water that states for a while in the channel, in the end will still always head to the river. 

   
 
  
 

Love is Learned

Mom walked into the TV room where I was watching my favorite Indian soap opera and told me she had something to tell me.  I followed her into her room, and my little sister Aissata followed us, but my mom shoo’d her out and shut the door.  I noticed she had tears in her eyes and her cell phone in her hand.  My heart stopped and I sat on the corner of the bed, watching her intently, waiting for her to tell me what was wrong.  She wandered over to the other side of the bed and pretended to fold some of Aissata’s little shirts, blinking away the sadness in her eyes.  “Your father called,” she said.  “Is he well?” I asked.  “Yes, he’s fine…” she smoothed a pleated skirt with her hand.  “You… you are going to be married.”  I couldn’t breathe… I just stared at her, hoping she would start to laugh and say it was a joke, but she looked at me steadily, watching to make sure I understood.  “Ok.” I said, hoping there would be more to this that would help me to understand why this was happening.  “Who’s marrying me?” I asked her, trying to keep calm, still hoping it was all a joke.  I could hear the younger girls squealing down the hallway and a patter of footsteps.  The show must have ended.  “Your older brother (also meaning cousin), Mamadou, the son of Baaba Hamidou, your uncle.”  “What?? But he’s my brother!  His dad and my dad have the same mom and dad!” I exclaimed, furiously.  “Yes, I know,” mom said.  “But that’s what the fathers decided since last week.” “Who are they to decide?  They aren’t even here!  They’re in France and Italy!” I hissed, fuming with anger but not allowing my voice to carry outside the room.  I looked around the room, it was spinning in my rage, tears escaping from my eyes, I picked up a lotion container and threw it at the wall.  “Why? Why now?” “Because they are about to come back for Tabaski. Also, it’s going to happen as soon as they get back because Baaba Hamidou’s visa has to be renewed in Italy by the first of October, so we only have three weeks in which the wedding can happen.” I collapsed on the bed, crying, and mom shushed me, telling me to calm down.  It has been decided.

Mom left the room, tears still hanging from the corners of her eyes, she walked to the room of her sister-in-law, leaving me to accept the inevitable.  I just started middle school last year, this is my second year out of four before I even make it into high school.  Maybe if I get married though, I can drop out.  School is so hard.  I know my mom wouldn’t want me to quit school, but I’m so tired of studying… It’s so difficult.  We’ll see.

The day arrived that the men would return.  My mom had traveled down to Dakar to go meet them.  Baaba Hamidou (from France), his son Mamadou (from Italy), Baaba Souley (my father, from Italy), Baaba Abdul and his wife (who live in Dakar) and the youngest of the brothers, Baaba Musa, who was also in Dakar.  This was a big day, and the entire village stopped by our house to come greet them.  It’s been 6 years since Baaba Hamidou and Mamadou have been here in Mbolo Aly.  Mamadou was a child when he left, he’s now 26 years old.  I hid in my mom’s room all day, too embarrassed from all the attention I was getting.  It was terrifying, all these faces laughing at me, so happy about my marriage-to-be, but me, so frightened and nervous.  I couldn’t bare to look at them.  My friends and I played with the doll in my room, braiding her hair and unbraiding her hair, putting on my mom’s perfumes.  Could I still play with this doll when I was married?  What about what people would say?  I guess I will soon be an adult.  I think maybe it will be fun.

My wedding day arrives and as I am getting my hair done, I begin to feel excited.  Today is my day.  I will get photographed by Ibra Gaye and he will make me a beautiful photo album that I can take out and show my friends all the time.

My hair turns out great and my outfit is this beautiful complet that has been made for me in Dakar.  My brother, Abou the tailor, was supposed to make all of my clothes for me, but his machines have been having all kinds of problems lately.  He will still make my whole wardrobe (I get an entire new wardrobe because I’m married. All of my old clothes I will give away, because now I am an adult).

All of the girls in my age group are here, getting our photos taken together.  We stick together, all of us.  I am the second one of my age group to be married.

Soon, we all will be, and our gatherings will be so much better because we will all have money from our husbands to buy snacks and drinks.

Afternoon, I change into my second outfit, and continue with the photographs.

Mamadou stops by to see me and to get photographed together. When I see him, my face flushes.  I huddle my friends back into the back room, because seeing him makes me feel so shy.  Everyone, of course, is watching me and sees this.  The all giggle.  He’s really not ugly though.  And in his fancy clothes… He’s actually a really nice guy.  And I’ve known him for so long; it’ll be like being with an old friend again probably.  He knows so much about the world that I can’t wait to learn from him.  You know, this might actually not be so bad.  I sneak a look at him, and I see him looking at me, beaming.  I turn away quickly, just to have Ibra Gaye jostle me towards him to have our photo taken.  I keep my face solemn, it’s more beautiful that way.

Standing next to him, somehow, feels right.  I feel him squeeze my hand secretly and my heart flutters.  That thing people call amour… I will soon understand.  The excitement wells up inside of me and I think of my life ahead, married to this wonderfully kind man.  How much I can learn from him and the fun times we can have together before he goes back to Italy.  Then I will continue to live here, in our family’s house, but I will never be the same.  I am now an adult.  Never again will I be a child. My status in my village has changed.  Forever.

A Day On The Job

Mbolo Birane (my neighboring village) has recently become a commune, with a jurisdiction and a mayor.  Before Mbolo Birane was a commune, the villages in the area were under the jurisdiction of Pete, which is about 20k away.  Now these 26 villages have a smaller region and ability for self-governance. The mayor, Ndoro Mbaye, informed me that there was money budgeted for the Environment and specifically called me in for a meeting with him to discuss Peace Corps’ ideas for environmental projects and to assess how best we can work together to further the goal of environmental sustainability in our region.  Deforestation is an obvious problem in the Fouta, and trees are readily available, free of charge, from the Eaux et Foret, but people are not aware of this nor do they know how to outplant and care for the trees themselves.  We decided that the commune’s first environmental activity would involve reforestation activities in conjunction with a trash/litter clean-up project.  I had already written a grant and had been working with my counterpart on a village-wide trash sweeping project to move inner-village landfills to outer regions, so this could not have been better timing.  We decided that this event would be coordinated using the ASC (Association Sportive e Cultural) presidents in each village, focusing the energy of the youth on the work that would be necessary for the project, but also to increase the knowledge and motivation of the youth towards causes such as improving the environment and curbing climate change.

At the ASC president’s meeting, it was determined that each ASC would be in charge of holding a meeting in their own village to determine how many trees and what types their village needed/residents wanted.  This information would be totaled and delivered to the mayor’s office by their next meeting.  This was achieved with about three of the village’s ISA’s – the remaining responded by phone.  I collected the data and compiled the total number of trees needed (and totals of each type of tree), and communicated them to the Eaux et Foret, who travelled with the person from the Commune in charge of the environment (I do not remember his exact title) and they transported the trees from the regional nursury in Mboumba to the Mayor’s Office in Mbolo Birane on the day before the event.  A few days prior, I had announced on the radio about the event, making sure that every village in the commune of Mbolo Birane knew that the trees were on their way and that each village needed to be swept of litter upon arrival of the trees.  On the day of the event, I arrived at the Mayor’s Office to find speakers being set up in front and the village sweeping materials (that I had recently purchased from my current hygiene grant) organized and waiting out front.  The music was a very pleasant surprise, I was not aware that the village would publicize the event in such a way.

However, I was informed upon arrival at the office that the music would not be used because a woman just passed away in the village.  We would have to halt all celebratory activities and streamline the training for the men who had to go bury the woman.  This changed things dramatically… Soon, all the ASC presidents had arrived, along with many community and bureau members.  As the situation was discussed, someone came running up saying, ‘She’s not actually dead.  We just saw her daughter crying and assumed she had passed away.  She is awake and well.’ The music clicked on and people gathered.  We began the training about how to outplant a tree and care for it until maturity (led by the nearby AgFo: Alicia Gray).  About half an hour in, we were again informed that, yes, actually, the poor woman had passed away.  She had been sick for a long time and was now dead.  We didn’t want to interrupt the training, so we did not make an announcement, waiting for the training to finish to inform the participants.  Before the training had ended, however, another runner arrived, announcing that, ‘no, once again, she’s not dead.’  I couldn’t help but laugh!  I felt so horrible for my dark humor, but really, why doesn’t anyone check a pulse?  She had been in and out of consciousness, which translates to either ‘tired’ or ‘dead’.  Really, a lot of confusion could have been avoided there.

When we had checked many times for comprehension and understanding, we began distributing the trees based on the written demands from each individual village.  This was led by bureau members and each Commune President of the village ASCs.  There were trees left over at the end that were gifted to each person who showed up to help the event.  Later, women and children from the community arrived to begin the sweeping of the landfill closest to the Mayor’s Office. I stayed until all that were left were the trees set aside for two villages that were unable to come on the specific day and would come to pick them up later.
 The greatest part about this program was that it was community-driven.  My part in this project was minimal (compared to the stress and effort I’ve felt while doing other projects).  The skills built include correct out-planting, protection and proper watering of trees.  The program has also increased the awareness that all of these trees are available, free of charge, from the Eaux et Foret.  This program planted 1,600 trees in 19 villages and directly trained 32 people who then took what they had learned back with them to their villages to inform those who would be receivers of trees and would be the ones taking care of them as well.

This project made me feel very accomplished as a volunteer because I felt like my passion and efforts towards environmentalism and tree extension had rubbed off on my community, who decided on their own to take up the cause that I felt so strongly about.  Most of my work is done through discussions and conversations about things that I feel the most excited and passionate about, and I always hoped that I might change one person’s mind or maybe persuade two people about the importance of trees.  It turns out I effected many more than that.  I feel that, having this be one of the first programs that this new commune has undertaken, this could be grounds for impacting the mindset of the community for years to come.

A Visit From Loved Ones: Observations

I was lucky enough to have my parents visit me in Senegal and it was a life-changing experience for everyone involved: me, my parents, and my village.  They made an impression on everyone they came in contact with even though they could only speak three words.

  
Here are the insights from my mother, Karrie Roth

Dots.

The “dot” of a departure date, to Senegal, and a “dot” for a date to return to the U.S.

These dots are the way I thought about our trip to visit Dana in Senegal. The dots were the known points while everything in between the dots was unknown.

The “dot”, to depart to Senegal, arrived. With four suitcases stuffed with clothing, gifts, and supplies we lifted off to cross our American continent and the Atlantic Ocean. Our minds were open to the unknown that awaited us.

Dana meets us at the airport in Dakar. This airport signals a clue about what’s ahead on our travels. The arriving luggage conveyer belts twists through a crowded maze of people. Assorted bags and luggage tilt, sway, lean and stack up in thick piles. Only the luggage in front of us can be seen amongst the crowds of carts, packages, suitcases, and hurried bodies speaking languages unfamiliar. The travels ahead are somewhat the same as the luggage: in front of us awaits an experience, foreign languages of which we know not (Pulaar, Wolof, and French) and a sense of tilting and swaying while attempting to process a different culture in this new geographical location. Dana is our pillar of familiarity, interpreting and explaining the sights and sounds; helping us to remain upright and balanced during our travels through this country she has come to love.

Envisioning this developing country, that I believed I knew something about, was far different when actually seeing it and being a part of it. The travel experiences were almost surreal as there was so little to “build on” for familiarity. I found myself in awe of this country, the people, the clothing, the contrasts, the landscape, and the weather. I also found myself feeling more comfortable with the contrasts as the days ticked by. My love for this country, the people, and my daughter, grew daily, with each new experience.

Observations in Senegal:

• Trash everywhere. Literally. No waste management services so trash is piled. Goats are everywhere. Goats eat trash. Trash smells. As the days passed, I noticed the trash less and the surrounding landscape more.
• Dakar, the capitol, has hundreds of partially completed buildings as buildings are built, to lay claim to the land. When the money runs out, the building is halted. When money is available, months or years later, the building resumes until that money is depleted. This city has hundreds, if not thousands, of half built buildings.
• Thatched huts are scattered throughout the land in the villages and provide homes for thousands. The huts seen in history textbooks are still present providing a constant shelter through seasons and time.
• Vibrant colors worn by women radiate an energy and beautiful contrast to the stark reality of so many lives of those in Senegal. The predominant long dresses and matching head wraps lend an elegance and sense of time standing still. The dresses and head wraps are generational. The beauty and strength of women in this country is amazing.
• Villages have a sense of order and predictability as well as a generational sense. Women caring for children, sweeping trash and dust, cooking, shopping daily for items needed for meal preparation, carrying babies on their backs. Men wear long shirts, pants, respond to the call to prayer, work in the fields with horses pulling the plow, tailor work, boutique owners, etc. There is a sense of history with previous generations completing the same tasks and the generations to follow will do the same.
• Children are universal. Developmental milestones are universal. Fun to see this in action. For example: gross motor skills, such as pulling up on the raised bamboo sleeping mats, to a standing position and then traversing these mats. Stick figures drawn by children. The joy of colorful markers and paper.
• Children were well behaved and seemed to know their place in the community. In Senegal, children spend much time on their mother’s back, viewing the world and blending into and learning the daily routines. When children’s bellies are satisfied, they leave the communal plate. Because of this, almost every child we saw was lean and muscular. Without plates, there is no “finish what’s on your plate” approach to eating.  Childhood obesity seems unknown in this country.
• Charrettes are still a leading form of transportation in villages as well as the major roads. These donkey or horse-drawn carts are important in the transport of supplies, tools, food, and people. Young children commonly guide the reins. Buses and taxis pass the charrettes anywhere and any time creating a woven cooperation and acceptance.
• Live goats can travel on top of cars and buses. They appear stoic and relaxed with this form of transportation as they calmly view the scenery passing by. Looking at multiple goats gazing at their surroundings from the top of a bus provided some humor while on monotonous sections of road. 
• Boutiques are managed by mostly men and are a hub of social activity as well as a functional location to purchase the daily basic needs in a village. Boutiques are often packed, from ceiling to floor, utilizing every inch of space to provide a display of products available. People coming and going with their purchases. Freshly baked bread, for breakfast, is purchased at boutiques. Bread can be ‘sauced’ or spread with chocolate, spiced mayonaise, or other homemade sauces. (One funny memory, while at a boutique in Dana’s village, my stark white skin, made a baby cry and howl with sheer terror while he looked at me. I felt badly for this baby so I left the boutique quickly to reduce his angst.)
• Modern technology has trickled into the historic daily routines. Cell phones are prevalent as are the “phone card” vendors selling minutes and phone plans. Interestingly, the contrast of technology waiting for use was evident at a school. Unopened boxes of computers, modems, and equipment sealed tightly with tape. Classrooms do not have air conditioners, rendering the computer equipment unusable as classroom temperatures climb over the century mark routinely. Awaiting air conditioners and glass to cover the open slats of windows will then provide access to computer use (and possible exposure to the internet which will, inevitably, provide information about the world beyond villages). I felt a strong concern, for villages, with exposure via the internet, to the world. The concern for change within the villages of West Africa. The current cultural rhythms and predictable seasons provide the historical norm of time. Will exposure, via the internet, to the world beyond villages change expectations and create a dissatisfaction with the current culture?

Dana has grown in her knowledge and understanding in her new country. She has stamina unlike most. Her acceptance of and enthusiasm about Senegal made a truly grand impression. To be present, to “see” her embrace her Peace Corps experience with such commitment and love was worth the trip alone. The contrast in living conditions, learning the cultural norms and expectations, communicating fluently in Pulaar, and seeing her radiant happiness was a joy to behold. I was unable to understand any of her conversations but “words” were not necessary. To see her joy, laughing and smiling, within her village and beyond, watching people seek her out, her talking, joking, and teasing and laughter was priceless. (Sounds like a Mastercard ad.)

One basic thought resurfaced in my thoughts throughout the trip. People. People are the same no matter which continent. Communication between people is essential. Lack of verbal communication, due to language barriers, was challenging but messages were usually conveyed somehow. We felt welcome in our attempts to communicate through gestures and hand signals. Smiles and kind eyes reflected understanding of some of our messages. Meeting Dana’s family, we could not “talk” with them but there was an immediate understanding and sense of family from the start. Dana was the beacon of translation between both families, West African and American. Through her, we exchanged ideas and conversation that linked us and bonded us together. This emotional tie, bonding our families, was due to Dana’s Peace Corps commitment and her love of both families on separate continents. This love was reflected and radiated from everyone and it’s what I hold onto now that the trip is complete.

Twelve days of travel included many experiences that caught us swaying in our processing of these experiences. Dana was our pillar and guide, translating and explaining our whirlwind of experiences, leading us to a strong, solid bond of love and appreciation for a country and it’s people. The “dots” of our departure and arrival dates were known. These “dots” were connected by a thread woven of bold and colorful new experiences while in Senegal with Dana. The fabric of this memory will linger and remain with us forever.

Peace Corps Service By Numbers

Months in country: 22

  
Books read: 9

Movies watched: ~21

TV series completed: 4

Packages received: 21

Fish bones swallowed: 1000+

Rolls of toilet paper used: 4

Mosquito bites: ~40

Ant bites: 15+

Scorpions in my room: 2

Courses of Cipro taken: 2

Courses of Giardia meds taken: 2

Days spent in Dakar sick bay: 8

Days spent in hospital (both Dakar and US):12

Pairs of flip-flops lost and/or broken bought: 7

Meters of fabric purchased: ~50

  
Rams killed in my presence: 6

Heads eaten: 2

  
Chickens I have killed: 4

Stage mates gone home early: 11?

Kilometers biked: 100+

Hours by car to my regional house: 4-8

Number of trips to the capitol: 11

Number of villages visited: 42

Number of people in my village: 700-1000

Number of boutiques: 5

Number of tailor shops: 2

Number of elementary school classrooms: 4 for 6 classes

Buckets currently owned: 8

Weight able to be carried on head: full benior of water, ¾ rice/seed/grain sack

Blankets embroidered to completion: 0.74

Batches of soap made: 9

Tree nurseries created: 6

Trees outplanted: 221

Trees still living: maybe 30

Pulaar proverbs memorized: 11

Number of conversational languages: 4

Number of namesakes: 3+1cat

Funerals attended: 9

Weddings attended: 13

Baby baptisms attended: 20

Babies born in the family: 3

Vacations taken: 1

Number of lifetime friends: Too many to count

Months left in country: 3.5

Sharif and Sacko, my two best friends in Mbolo Aly Sidy

Yaay

Yaay – meaning ‘mother’ in multiple Senegalese languages

What does it mean to be a mother?

Faty Allisan and her firstborn boy at the naming ceremony/baptism

Joy.  It means pride.  It means dedication.  Each child, 7 days after their birth, are given a name and baptized by the elders of the mosque.  The ‘Innde’ or naming ceremony is not only a celebration for the child, but a celebration for the mother

Mettu and her baby at the naming ceremony one week after his birth. This is their third boy

The mother is gifted with a new outfit, sometimes brought all the way from Dakar to be presented to her on this special occasion.  She receives gifts from all attendees, including money, clothes, baby items such as baby-sized mosquito net tents, donations of rice, millet, sorghum, beans, and most commonly – soap.  This is one of the happiest days of a woman’s life, other than her wedding itself.  Each baby born is a chance to celebrate the mother, celebrating the joy and pride that the child will hopefully bring to the woman.

My sister Maymouna and her son Hamath (named after her father, the village chief)

The best naming ceremonies bring dancing and singing!  The entire village attends for lunch, afterwards shuffling and dancing (even in the heat of the day).  Another child is born in Mbolo Aly Sidy.  ‘Machallah’ – it is through God that this is possible.

Kadja, the baker’s wife, and Aissata, one of the most recent twins

Being a mother is not easy, however, as my neighbor Kadja knows.  She has now had two sets of twins as well as two older children and one adopted.  “I am no longer a human,” she confided in me the other day. “I am just so tired.” Having a child means so much work – bathing them multiple times a day, feeding them while also cooking lunches for the whole family, changing diapers, toilet training others, keeping them away from sharp objects – razor blades, knives (common household items), watching out for the ones that are crawling so they don’t crawl out the door, keeping them from eating goat/cow/sheep poop, and keeping the cows from charging/stepping on the children.  I walk past Kadja’s house (she is the wife of the village bread maker) multiple times a day and rarely, if ever, do I see her sitting.

Diapers – pieces of clean cloth wrapped up and tied in a rubber sheet

Aissata and Ibra Sy

Even though exhausted, Kadja says she loves each and every one because they are each so different.  Each one of the twins has a different ‘jikku’ or personality.  They thrive from having her around all day every day.  Women in Senegalese villages rarely work, staying home and dedicating every second of their time to their children.  The ties between mother and child grow strong.

The pride of motherhood only increases with age and the birth of your first grandchildren.

Proud Grandmother – Djeyneba Djallo

And then there are the ones who have never given birth.

My host mother and her co-wife’s son

As a woman, it is understood that a main role in marriage is to provide your husband with a child, so as to further his lineage and name.  Providing him children to outlive him after he passes away, continuing his legacy.  A woman unable to have children sometimes feels like a failure.  She has been unable to fill her role to her husband.  At times this is means for the husband to search for a second wife, someone who will hopefully be able to provide him with children.  My mother Kadja Kaya Kane (pictured above), however, is the third wife of my host father.  She has never had children, but has adopted two (I count myself as her third adopted).  She was given Kadja (her namesake, now 20 years old) from her older brother, who she raised since she was a baby.  She was then given Adama (the son of Maymouna, another woman in my house) who is now 9 years old.  Not only did she raise these children like they were her own, but she also has been the ‘mother’ figure to most of the children in the compound.  Most recently, she has taken the role of ‘mother’ to Mamoudou, the only son of her husband, and only child of his fourth wife.  He is the baby of the family, and when he is hurt or crying, he cries ‘Kadjaaaaaa’.  I have learned that, anyone can be a mother, whether or not they have given birth to a child.  Being a mother is an idea.  It is a mindset.  It is a lifestyle.

First Rain

July 7^th The first rain. Well, not officially… It has rained twice recently but just tiny sprinkles that didn’t last more than a few minutes. Today it was so strong it woke us all up. The family had woken up at 4:32am to eat before the sun rose before the 19^th day of fasting for Ramadan and then proceeded to lay down again and go back to sleep until sunrise. Sunrise, however, was preceeded by the onset of a downpour complete with thunder and lightning! Someone grabbed my foot, waking me up to tell me to come inside. We sleep under a large shade structure roofed with zinc sheets. Our beds are made out of a woven board of bamboo perched atop yellow oil bidons. I sat up, thinking it was time to wake up, but was immediately struck by the full sensory impact of the rain. The smell, the sound, the feel. I was dry where I was, but the mist being carried by the gusts washed over my body. The rain sounded like hail as it hit the zinc roof, rushing down, splashing on the sandy puddles below. I didn’t want to move. This was the most amazing place in the whole world at that exact moment. It was cool, calm, and yet chaotic and urgent at the same time. I was enthralled, and laid back down to try and make this moment last forever. But, my mother called out to me, “you need to take your mattress inside. There is too much water. Bring it into my bedroom, yours is too far away and you will get really wet. Come inside and lay down.” I got up reluctantly, muttering that the rain probably wouldn’t really last that long, it wouldn’t really matter if I stayed there.. But I went anyways. Inside the room, she and my sister were arranging the blankets and mattresses that had been taken inside from the rain. We set mine aside and I collapsed on the large mattress on the floor with my sister, my mom taking the one by the wall. (Something I really still don’t understand is why we never use the bed, instead choosing to sleep on mats on the floor.) I got up a little while later to use the bathroom. My mother quickly instructed me to take a benoir with me and carry it over my head so as not to get wet. It was about 6:15am by this point and still dark as night as I turned on my cell phone flashlight and perched the big plastic bucket over my head, holding it steady with my other hand. I trudged slowly across the yard, my $1 flip flops squishing in the wet mud and unseen puddles. I added some layers to what I was wearing and hurried back to my mom’s room, my cell phone in my mouth, flashlight on again. I fell back asleep, awakened another hour later to the squeals of the kids outside frolicking in the puddles, a sight so rarely seen and experienced. The puddles are short-lived, as the sand quickly sucks away all the moisture back into itself. I had plans to travel to Ourossogui (our regional capital) early this morning to get some work done and to pick up millet seeds to bring back before the first rain (HAH! Irony). I obviously had not left at 6am like I had planned. I now drank my coffee, thinking maybe I could still make it there and back today, sending the emails I needed and picking up the seeds in hopes that people wouldn’t have seeded their fields at the first rain (silly hope). I got all the way to the garage to leave when I realized: my whole family is out in our field sowing the seeds for the year, why am I not there? I immediately turned around, refusing the available car, and changed into my work pants and a t-shirt to head to the field where we spent the rest of the morning seeding, singing, dancing, and praising God for the wonderful gift of such a healthy, generous rain.  What a day.

Chellal ko Afo Ngaalu

Health is the premier gift.

If you are not healthy, you cannot work. If you are not healthy, you cannot farm, you cannot care for your children, you cannot cook. If you are not healthy, you cannot do anything. Health comes first. It is so simple but often taken for granted.

Lamine Abass Kane is the surveillance de ecole college Mbolo Birane (the middle school surveyor). He works closely with all teachers, staff, students, and families. He was the one I worked with for the Michelle Sylvester Scholarship last year (coming soon, keep your eyes out for info) because he has a relationship with every single student and their family. He is the one person in perhaps the entire village who knows every single person, including children, and knows their personalities and tendencies.

When Lamine mentioned that he wanted to do a program about hygiene and waste disposal, I couldn’t refuse. This came up after a recent event in which the Miss Senegal of Paris, France – this year Ms Wuri Ba, from Mbolo Birane, came back for a visit and sensibilitization program. Her award for winning Ms Senegal was a paid trip back to her home country and the financing for an educational program of her choice. She chose hygiene and malaria. Her village sweeping program was a hit. All day, the village gathered and swept the area around the main market. This had such a great turnout and created such a visible difference, that it became a weekly activity- every Sunday. Headed now by Lamine Abass. The program continues to this day, but ever since the first day it was evident that the materials are extremely lacking. People end up standing around waiting for their turn at the one take or passing off brooms, arguing over who’s turn it is next. The grant I have purposes would help finance the availability of brooms, rakes, wheelbarrows, metal collection bins and personal protection equipment such as gloves and masks. This program is focused on helping them help themselves.

The main form of dealing with trash in Senegal and other developing countries is to burn it. This, obviously, is terrible for the environment and for those nearby. 

This, however, is not common knowledge. In Mbolo Birane currently, the waste disposal/collection/burning site used to be outside the village boundaries but, due to growth (machallah), this area has become a more central area in the village – children running through, picking through smoldering pieces of this and that, the wind taking the fumes into the houses while mothers cook. With these materials, the village would be able to move this trash area to a further away point, away from people and families.

Here’s where you can help! This is a Peace Corps Partnership Grant, meaning it is a joint effort between Senegalese and American people. The community members here are providing all available rakes, brooms, and equipment from their houses as well as the time and labor (and sweat because it’s hot as death here). We, Americans, can provide the means that they may not be able to achieve themselves. Here’s the link 

https://beta.peacecorps.gov/donate/project/health-is-the-premier-gift/#amount-form

Please note the ‘other amount’ option because I do not want any one person to donate a huge weight that they cannot afford. Little bits go a long way. This is something I’ve learned time and time again here. Little by little, we reach our goals.

Mbolo Birane knows that this program is being made possible by my ‘koreggi’ – family and friends. They thank me a hundred times over for everything that my friends and family are able to contribute and I feel completely honored to be the face of my community and relatives back home to my community here. You are all the ones to be thanked. It is through your support that I am able to make this two year mission a success. If it weren’t for the support I have back home, I wouldn’t be where I am. 

Ajaraama no fewi- Thank you so much.

May Allah yob moyyere- may God pay you in goodness 

Sewing Through Our Day

Sewing,
In and out
Back and forth
Up one, back two
Cross one, loop the previous
Up, side, left, up, loop, backwards, side.
Each stitch, its own name,
It’s own personality.
It’s own level of challenge.
The ones who sew – their backs are stooped,
Their fingers hardened,
Their eyes tired.
Each sheet is a part of them for the months it takes to create.
It is the pillow when they need rest,
The scarf when shade is needed.
Anyone who stops by is free to pick it up,
Sew for a while, give rest to the owner.
In this way it becomes a product of the community.
Everyone’s hand has touched,
Everyone’s time given.
The beauty in the detail,
The sheer amount of attention.
Constant.
“Lend me the needle, I have a splinter.”
Steady.
“Lend me some yarn, I’ll tie up my braids.”
Peace in a spinning world.
And then when finished, just like that, it’s gone- sold.
Another begins.

These blankets are the work of the entire village, usually many people have their hand in any one blanket. They take months. They are the sole income of the women in Mbolo Aly Sidy apart from the meager income they get from their gardens during the cold season. These blankets allow them to buy things for themselves that they wouldn’t otherwise be able to buy.

These blankets usually run for about $42, the simpler ones running around $25. If interested, please email me at

Dana.e.roth@gmail.com

Shipping would have to be considered as well, and I’m not completely sure how much it is from here, but I don’t think it’s more than $20.