A little known fact is that I have Wolof class every Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday at four. I'd appreciate if this fact would be taken to heart by the select few who are constantly interrupting me at this precise time (ahem, host family and other volunteers). When not disturbed, I have learned quite a bit at these lessons, and very little of it Wolof.
For example, yesterday, as my tutor Abdullaye and I relaxed in chairs under the mango tree in my courtyard, sipping sweet syrupy tea with more sugar in it than a Pixie Stick, we touched upon the topic of healthcare in Senegal. My host mom had recently been to the hospital and received some medicine for her chronic dizziness. At least I think that's what she told me - it's either that or 'chronic donkey.' See, I need these Wolof classes!
"I never get shots," he claimed. I took this to mean he had a general phobia of needles, like a lot of people. I told him about all the shots required for Americans to travel to Africa, and vice-versa. "I'm staying right here," he responded emphatically.
"What do you do if you get sick?" I wondered. Abdullaye stared at me and said "My mother heals me with her hands."
Unfortunately, it was too late for me to hold back my scornful scoff. After three months of classes, I'm fairly comfortable around Abdullaye. He's a youngish, laid back Senegalese, always good for a laugh. I'd begun to think of him as one of my Western friends, which was my first mistake. Amateur move for a cultural-sensitivity trained volunteer, Phoebe!
He narrowed his eyes. My scoff was quickly replaced with a look of polite interest. What followed was a truly fascinating introduction to mystical Africa, and my polite interest transformed into actual wonder.
"Africa," he began, "is different than America." I rolled my eyes. But then he said, "this is not religion. It's mystical. The people from here are tied to the land. The land protects us. If I am sick, I can draw on that power of the land to help me." The conviction with which he said was surprising. I sat up a bit straighter. He continued to repeat that unseen forces were at work in Africa, such an ancestors, ancient spirits, and land sprites. I watched him in amazement, completely taken in.
I think I'd been waiting for something like this to happen during my service. I've been in Africa for seven months, but because I've moved around so much, I've never felt close enough to someone to talk about 'raw' Africa, Africa before missionaries, before organized religion. I loved it. It felt authentic, it felt passionate, and it felt uncontested. During decades of non-Africans dictating what Africans should believe, most have quietly kept their native traditions, vibrating just below the surface, ready to emerge in an invisible conversation with more organized religion - so stealthy that an outsider might not detect their presence. While it might be difficult for educated Westerners to accept African mysticism, I admit I'm totally converted. Who am I to say one way or another? But if the ghost of wrinkly Great Aunt Fatouma appears to help heal the sick, I might be more than a little freaked out.
Africa is, indeed, "different than America" and you might have to come here to experience what I'm talking about.
The only source of our disagreement arose when my tutor mentioned the Gambian president's cure for HIV/AIDS. This, I have not been so convinced as to believe, and I find the fact that the president has encouraged (or rather, mandated) that his citizens cease all normal antiviral treatments disturbing. If my good friend Abdullaye were to (God forbid) contract HIV, I wonder if I should have to force-feed him medication. This, I struggle with.
Towards the end of our discussion I asked Abdullaye hopefully "So if I'm sick, your Mom can heal me too?" He said "Are you from Africa? NO!" And that was the end of our class!
Until next time,
<3 Phoebe
