Disclaimer

The views in this blog are mine personally, and do not reflect those of The Peace Corps or any United States Government Agency.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Battle against the 'Toubab'

The perks of living in a small village include a Cheers type familiarity - it's where everybody knows your name. No little kids screaming "white person, give me gift" because you're known, you're one of them. No incredulous stares when you speak Wolof well, or not well, or somewhere in between, because your village is used to you.
Of course, I live in a city, so all bets are off. 

I have to re-explain my purpose, my name, my single marital status, my job, no I don't know how to cook the national dish of rice and fish, no I don't want to buy you a plane ticket to France! - to almost every person I encounter. I think some Senegalese kids are trained from birth to yell "toubab!" ("white person!") whenever they see one. What really gets me is when adults yell too. Come on, people. 

Yesterday I was biking furiously to the Pentagon (my field) and a woman called "toubab!" as I passed. I stopped. I turned around. I biked back. She looked blankly at me. I told her politely that "toubab" was not my name. Would she prefer be called simply "African person" or did she go by something else? Did she, in fact, want to talk to me? Or was she just being vocally observant? Yes, there's a white person! Ta da. I got back on my bike to leave. She waved and said "bon voyage, toubab!" as I biked away. Lesson decidedly not learned. 

There's a French grocery store near to my house that sells a lot of my favorite foods such as Pringles, gummy bears, Twix bars, fruit yogurt and olive loaf. (As I write that, I realize I sound like a bizarre five year old. Can't help it...) This store, besides being the reason I don't have any money ever, is also a local hang out for the talibe gangs of Tamba. You'll remember, the talibes are the young Koranic students who are told to beg most of the day, to learn humility. Well, they see me a lot as I come in and out of this store, so I finally taught them all my Senegalese name (Aida) to avoid the typical "toubab" situation. Somehow this information spread all over Tamba so that when I see a talibe now, even in the far reaches of the city, he will know my name! I was pretty impressed by this until another female volunteer came into the regional house one day wondering why all the talibes were calling her "Aida". Drat. 

In my somewhat reluctant role as the white foreigner, I can get away with things that normal Senegalese eschew. Having a pet, for example. Pets here are very rare; most animals serve one sole purpose, I think you can guess what. 
It can be hard to see the too-skinny cows and goats and know where their destiny lies. Of course, there is something more honest in this type of butchering than in buying a pack of chicken breasts at Stop&Shop. At least you know where the meat came from.(Or is that worse? I can't decide.) Unfortunately you don't often know which part of the animal it came from...and that is how I ended up eating sheep testicles last week. Not good. Not even remotely good. 

In March I arrived in Tamba towing my tiny black cat, unnerving half the neighborhood and earning myself a reputation right from the start. Now it's September and I've adopted a puppy to live at the Pentagon, so he can run free in the field and keep us company as we work. I recently took him on a walk through the small village area next to the field and earned myself a whole new reputation. It's important to remember that as strange as Senegal seems to me, I'm giving just as much as I receive; in terms of weirdness, of course. Yes - I'm pretty sure most of Tamba thinks I am very weird. But there are worse things!

Until next time, 
<3 Phoebe


Saturday, September 10, 2011

Recent Fun


!
Wassadou, a beautiful campemant 70k from Tamba. I saw hippos!


Surpise, Muus!

Looking fancy for Korite...my younger sister Awa on the far left, followed by neighborhood friends 
Awa and friends!

More neighborhood kids :) 

Me and Awa, relaxing! 

Pure Ridiculousness

One of my great friends is leaving his job with Tostan in Dakar and moving to Chad, to work with The Carter Center for the eradication of guinea worm disease. He’s been fantastic, one of the few people I could really count on in Senegal. This past week I went to Dakar to say my goodbyes and wish him the best of luck.What follows are accounts of a few ridiculous experiences I had while visiting the capitol.

The Nightclub 
Upon arriving in the city, my friend Dan and I grabbed a taxi and asked to go to the Tostan office. Dakar is a large, sprawling city, so normally you have to tell the taxi driver the name of the quartier you want to go to. Unfortunately, I don't know the city very well, so I felt lucky when this driver told me he knew exactly where to go. Dan and I settled into the back with all our bags. 

After fifteen minutes of heavy traffic and twists and turns, we started to be suspicious. "This doesn't look familiar, maybe we should ask him again if he knows where to go," I said. The driver waved off my concern and said "Tostan! Tostan! Yes, I know!" so I sat back. 

We finally arrive at a sketchy corner in the middle of the city, nowhere near the quartier where the Tostan office lies. The driver points out the window. Dan and I confusedly follow the line of his finger before lighting upon a crumbling, broken down nightclub called "Hoissan".

Easy enough mistake to make, I guess. After all, why wouldn't two young Americans want to go to a closed, dirty nightclub in the middle of the day?

The Restaurant
The second day of our trip, we learn our friend who is moving hasn't started to pack...at all. We leave him to it and strike off to view the big market in Dakar and get some lunch. Neither of these tasks proved to be particularly easy.
The market in Dakar is, to say the least, overwhelming. I basically tore out a fair amount of my hair while briefly walking around that day. It's full of desirable items - actually, if you can't find what you want, someone will get it for you in a jiffy. It's like a tag sale hunter's dream in that the hundreds of stalls have no direct correlation to each other and everything is cheap. If you look remotely like a tourist, however, be prepared for the harassment experience of a lifetime. 
A couple men latched on to my friends and me right at once. "Come here! See my brother's shop! Come here! See my cousin's stall! Eat this! Now give me 25 cfa!" This kind of heckling isn't uncommon in any market worldwide, but I hate being followed. 
Two men wanted us to go to a far side of the market to look at a shop. They trailed us as we were looking at fabrics, jewelry, fruit, talking incessantly and trying to move us in the right direction. My short temper finally blew up and I let off a stream of angry Wolof that deterred them momentarily, but not for long. We had to walk far outside the market area before they gave up.

At this point, wallets still full and nothing bought, my friends and I decided to eat. There are a lot of little standing room food shacks in Dakar but there are also some really nice restaurants, so why not take advantage, right? We walked around trying to find something suitable, pushing through heavy crowds and traffic before realizing we'd gone in a giant circle without seeing much. Harassment was on the horizon again so we quickly jumped in a cab and headed across town to another restaurant we'd heard of. 

After another twenty minutes in a cab, we arrive on the clear other side of the city to find the restaurant closed for maintenance. There didn't seem to be a lot in the area but we started walking, trying to find that right combination of cheap, sitting area, good food, and quiet. Hard!

We trudged down a bright, hot avenue, sidestepping into a private residential area by mistake, passing expensive hotel bars and tiny rice shacks. Finally, thirsty and somewhat bewildered about our bad luck in finding a suitable restaurant in this huge city, we stumble upon The IndoChine Palace. 

Parked on a big corner lot, this place had the full decor (inside and out) of a stereotypical Asian restaurant. We crossed a small sloping lawn, complete with statues of Buddhas and dragon fountains. Still unsure if the restaurant was open, we reached the big double doors only to have them open silently (magically!) upon our arrival. A full staff of Senegalese people dressed in traditional Chinese garb welcomed us. I looked at our ensemble in our sweaty, dirty, backpack-carrying glory, and raised an eyebrow. Typical. We were the only customers. 

We sat down at a round table with fancy place settings and cloth napkins, surrounded by eclectic Asian art. I found myself facing a giant stone bust of an African queen. Not quite what I was expecting. 

Over the course of the next hour, we proved ourselves to be unequipped to handle civilized society. After a solid month of eating with our hands, working in the grind of the fields, and showering once a week, it's hard to get back into the swing of... having any manners. To start, the waitress brought us damp hot hand towels. We didn't know what to do with this. I took mine and nervously held it out over my plate. Dan started using it to wipe the sweat off his face. Eventually they lost their heat and the waitress took them back, thank goodness. 
After scanning the menu and realizing nothing cost less than 5 mill (approx.10$, a hefty amount for our 100$ a month salary) we ordered a few things to share. The food was amazing, honestly. I could write about the savory mushroom spring rolls for an entire paragraph (I won't). My friend Minnie and I tore at the spring rolls with our hands while Dan slurped a dumpling soup. 
During the meal, out of the corner of my eye, I spied a mouse. It flitted by our table. I barely reacted. Ten minutes later, Minnie said 'Hm - I think I saw a mouse over there.' Apparently we'd all seen the mouse at different times and no one had mentioned it. Dan said, "Yep - we're still in West Africa." I think our collective lack of reaction says it all. 

The Bars
Third night of our trip, Minnie and I decide to go out on the town. We stop first at a well-known hotel bar for happy hour. The bartender took a liking to us and kept refilling our drinks, so we stayed a while. The clientele consisted of a few overweight foreigners and a old lady dressed in a tennis outfit with a mullet haircut. After whiling away some time with chitchat and wine, we walk a few blocks to the French Cultural Center for dinner, a place famous for exotic burgers. I've probably eaten three burgers in the past six months, so this was a draw. Of course, we get there, and they don't have any burgers. If fact, they didn't seem to have half the menu. With my dismal French I couldn't read most of the entrees, so I asked the waiter to translate into Wolof, which he found hilarious. With his help I ordered a great steak. Success. 

After the restaurant, we walked two blocks to a bar called The Viking. The fact that there is a bar in Senegal named after Nordic blonde warriors is amusing. There were a smattering of people there, mostly foreigners and one very intoxicated Pulaar man. He struck up a conversation with Minnie that was half Pulaar, half incomprehensible slurring, 100% annoying. We left our bar stool seats and went to a table in the half lighted interior. We nursed our drinks and engaged in conversation. After a while, I noticed that seated next to us was an extremely attractive Senegalese woman and a dumpy male white guy. I watched them curiously and saw some money exchange hands before they left together. Not hard to tell what was going on there. At about 2 am, Minnie and I called it quits and headed back to the packed Peace Corps house where I stayed up a bit longer before falling in a sweaty heap onto my bed and waking up five hours later with my shirt stuck to my back, off to the garage to catch a car back to Tamba. 

Overall, a fun trip. West Africa is a colorful place. On the way back, our car broke down four times due to an over-hot engine, so I didn't get home until late. But I'm back and ready to get back to work! Well, sort of. 

Until next time, 
<3 Phoebe 

Monday, September 5, 2011

Start of a New Season

Last night, I woke up suddenly around 3 am. It’s time for a change, I thought. Something’s gotta change.

In my last post, I wrote about falling down, getting up, and moving on. I rearranged my blog, something more ‘fresh and so clean, clean’, and I’ve put out a hit on my stress and anxiety. This whole evacuation, re-adjustment thing has bogged me down for too long, so if I’m going to stay in Senegal, I’d better quit dragging and start living.

Conveniently, Ramadan is over! The rest of Senegal has picked up its feet right along with me. During the month of fasting, i.e the month of food-related aggression, productivity dwindled and tempers ran hot. I accomplished very little and sat in stuffy heat for hours on end. I couldn’t seem to please anyone by fasting or not fasting (see dialogue below). I played dreary rounds of a board game akin to ‘Sorry’, although my board was decorated with pictures of the longest standing African presidents. So, my board was decorated with pictures of Qaddafi.

Needless to say, I’m glad lunch is back. Work can progress and I can stop looking at pictures of Qaddafi’s face for so long that he morphs into sandwiches, roast chicken, or a bucket of ice.

Future plans:
Heading to Dakar to say goodbye to a great friend who traveled with me from Niger to Senegal and is now moving on to Chad. It’ll be sad to see him go, but I know he’s excited for new work opportunities, so I wish him the best!

Finally installing the fence at the Pentagon (aka the Master Farmer site. My Master Farmer, Salif, told me very seriously that his field would be named “The Pentagon. For the national security of food and the elimination of poverty.” Can’t argue with that)

Meeting the new volunteer in Tamba! He/she is already in Senegal, the new class of trainees arrived on Aug 31st. Site allocations won’t be decided for a few more weeks, but the prospect of help has me almost drooling in anticipation. Give them to me NOW!)

Preparing for Halloween. Tamba hosts the Senegal-wide volunteer Halloween Party, so we’re getting prepped early. If anyone wants to send me orange jello…or black spray paint…

That’s it for now! Thanks for keeping up with the change of blog, and keep in touch. :)
Until next time,

<3 Phoebe