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 

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

Scrapes and Bruises

In the past month, I’ve fallen down a lot. The day before yesterday I fell into a giant hole dug for a mango tree. Yesterday I fell into the same hole…again. Today I fell over while getting on to my bike. (I know…) A couple of weeks ago my closest friend was sent home after a medical evacuation to the States – that was probably the biggest fall of all!

I’ve posted about this particular friend before, but for privacy I’ll use her Senegalese name, Fatu. Refer to "Brief Job Reflection" posted on 5/21 for other stories involving her. We traveled from Niger to Senegal together, surviving the trials and tribulations of re-readjusting and trying to fit into a volunteer culture already formed without us. She’s been the support of a lifetime in only six months. Her tale can be found in her own words at www.shelbyrajk.wordpress.com, but the long and short of it is she ruptured an artery in her intestine and had to be taken to the States for treatment. She’s ok now, but Peace Corps doctors don’t want to risk a recurrence and have decided to medically separate her from service. (The more detailed story involves almost two liters of blood on the ground, a midnight race from Kaolack to Dakar in an ambulance, and two days in a sunny resort-like clinic.)

After returning to Tamba from this impromptu trip to Dakar, I took a few days to reflect before jumping back into my work. What happened to Fatu was a rapid reminder of the general impermanence of our roles as volunteers. We make flash appearances in people’s lives and change them, for better or for worse. We remind the Senegalese of what they don’t have and inspire them to reach for better circumstances. We run the risk of antagonizing those who celebrate a different culture and have no desire to revolutionize. Not for the first time, I questioned if my presence here is right. This is a gray area for me and has been from the start. But I’m still here.
In Fatu’s case, she traveled first to Niger, next to Senegal, each time with the anticipation of an extended stay and each time denied it. I thought about my commitment to stay in Tamba and wondered if we’d all make it through the elections in January, or if I’d survive the loneliness of losing a good friend here. Each day in Peace Corps brings new challenges and opens new doors, and I’ve never experienced anything like it.

The large discrepancy between Fatu’s medical care and that of an average Senegalese was also startling. Healthcare is an enormous issue in the United States and for the first time in my life, I felt thankful, because this indicates our understanding of its importance. In Senegalese villages, healthcare often stops beyond the local healer and not because of unavailability; in fact, the government has made great strides in the past ten years to provide affordable medicines and treatment. Many people have just not grasped the importance of this change, or believe too fervently in methods that have low statistical success but are traditional. Those who do understand are often not making the decisions within families. This is the challenge given to health volunteers, not just with Peace Corps but with any organization – to modify behavior.  It’s a psychological shift more than anything else. The effort of these volunteers is incredible and their successes immeasurable, quite literally.

If Fatu had been a poor Senegalese, chances are high she would have died. I thank the Peace Corps doctors for their quick action and salute the many volunteers who are working to shift that imbalance, to not only offer good care to all poorer citizens in Senegal, but insure that it is taken advantage of.

After my few days of reflection, I tackled the workload that had been piling up in my absence. My volunteer work partner and friend has since moved on to greener pastures, and I don’t mean that as a metaphor. He moved to Thies, a city just outside Dakar, and actually much, much greener than Tamba. He’ll be helping out there for a year with new volunteer trainings and support. Unfortunately, that leaves me to try and take on two volunteers’ worth of projects. So far it’s been pretty difficult.

To sum it up briefly, I am still partnering with the Master Farmer program, as well as trying to revive the demonstration garden after a few months of neglect. I’ve taken on a women’s garden to assist and struck up a relationship with AfriCare to help with a series of gardening trainings.  The school garden is on hold for a bit until school starts in October. In theory, I am doing all of the above - in reality, I am at the Master Farmer field all day every day, with quick appearances at the demo garden to water and drive-bys of the women’s garden to say “Try to weed better! Well, I gotta go!”

I’d say so far I’m failing to maintain all the projects I’d like to be involved in. The MF field is full time and frankly, time is running out. We’re on a strict seasonal clock here. There will be a replacement volunteer in Tamba arriving in the beginning of November, and I’m crossing my fingers that I can hold on to everything until then. I don’t want to have to show him/her an empty wasteland and say “Now grow things!”  So wish me luck. I’ll need it.

As I said, I’ve fallen down a lot this month, both physically and emotionally. Working in this environment has tested me in every possible manner. At the same time, I've learned things about myself and the world I would never have known otherwise. I hope to keep sharing these things with you. For now, what I've learned is that for every time I fall down, I'm able to pick myself back up again.

Until next time,
<3 Phoebe

Mason! Mason! Build Me a Toolshed! But Seriously.

Hello!

It's been too long! My relationship with this blog has been infinitely better than my relationship with my journal (she'll be calling it off any day now) and yet I've still neglected it. My apologies. A lot has happened in the past month!

June passed very quickly. I spent most of it wrestling with the mason at my Master Farmer site. We hired a mason to build a stone tool shed, what should be a four day project, but one month and three masons later, we're still not done. Building projects in Senegal are troublesome, to say the least. In my case, I learned the person who builds the shed is not the same person who installs the roof...but then you need an additional mason to put bricks on top of the roof after it's in place, because the roof worker can't possibly do that. How do you get a mason out to your field? Not by offering money and work, apparently! How do you get two masons and a roof worker? You don't, you just don't. Sigh.

Now it's nearly finished but the window's been cemented in upside down, a problem I can't even deign to address right now. The roof is on! Hooray! We'll focus on that.

After struggling to comprehend the intricacies of Senegalese work patterns, I left for a much needed vacation in London with my parents. It was a week of blissful tourism in which I was paid absolutely no attention by the casual passerby...hence the bliss! Don't underestimate the power of anonymity. After seven months of constant heckling, it was wonderful not to be noticed. We ducked in and out of  famous pubs, stormed the Tower, stood in two time zones in Greenwich, visited Hell during Dr. Faustus at the Globe and in general, enjoyed ourselves very much. It was a much appreciated and restful break.

Now I'm home, back in Tamba and gearing myself up for a summer of working in the fields. So far I've battled land title rights with my garden partners, extended rice and bean seed to a local farmer and witnessed the capping of our tool shed at the MF site. I'll be doing more research than I ever have, conducting studies on why one type of seed is better than another or why this practice is more beneficial than that one, and hopefully writing a comprehensive report to submit to Peace Corps in Washington. It all sounds very official! I've said this before, but the illusion of Peace Corps volunteers sitting around in the shade fanning flies off themselves has been shattered into many pieces - although the advent of rainy season has introduced more flies than I can possibly cope with. I just ignore them. It's worked so far.

I have to run to Wolof class, but I'll try to write more regularly - I'm excited to say some of my fellow Niger refugees have recently found success in Peace Corps Ghana, Moldova, and Kenya so I'm very proud of them and can't wait to hear more!

As for things stateside, I miss everyone very much and letters are on their way. I promise. I bought stamps after three hours of general confusion at the post office, so count on it!

<3 Phoebe

P.S For a look into another side of the volunteer experience, read my friend's latest entry on her blog. It's a good insight into more frustrating part of Peace Corps and I relate to much of what she says. Just in case you're interested!

http://shelbyrajk.wordpress.com/

Magic Africa

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

Brief Job Reflection

It’s almost June. I’ve been in Senegal longer than I was in Niger. Sometimes I find myself standing for moments on end, flying back over space and time to that unfinished business. It’s an odd sensation, but the country of Niger made an imprint on my mind and I can’t erase it, even as distance stretches between me and it. 

My efforts now turn to immersing myself in Senegal. The more I learn, the more I am intrigued. As in the States, the economic, social, and religious demographic varies widely from region, to city, to village. This is mirrored in the volunteer experience. I live in a concrete house with electricity, running water, and a very small family. I visited a friend of mine in a village, and she lives in a mud hut, with no such luxuries and a large, bustling family that is constantly encircling her with chatter and laughter. Over the same weekend, I went to Dakar and viewed a friend’s gorgeous (Peace Corps funded) apartment on the top of a high rise building. We work for the same organization. Each of us has the same goal, and same motivation. We are achieving it very differently.

After getting a taste of the range of volunteer living arrangements, I became wistful for the village life that I am missing. In the city, I’m overwhelmed daily by the amount of people, the pollution, and the attention. In my friend’s village, everybody knows her by name and she is comfortably settled into her routine. She sleeps under the stars and breathes clean(er) air. Of course, I’m romanticizing it. She would probably be quick to point out the advantages of my situation, of which there are many. We always wish for what we don’t have, isn’t that the way it goes?

Interestingly, in this same village that I mention, poles were recently erected for electricity. My friend called to tell me, and my first reaction was “that’s great!” and she immediately said “no, it’s terrible!”

I’ve written about this phenomenon a bit in past blog entries. I would call it stagnant progress. As volunteers, we become so immersed in our community that we don’t want it to change, even though that is our job. We are change agents. In this particular village, my friend is working as an agriculture volunteer to increase millet, corn, and cereal production in surrounding fields. She is extending seeds to farmers and monitoring their fields for greater yield. Most of the men in the village are farmers. Village life centers around community gatherings and family compounds, around a slow pace of life that embraces the timelessness. How will the advent of electricity make a difference? The schedule of the day will surely be altered. Young people will play music late at night, keeping the lights on until they see fit and perhaps disturbing the neighbors. You won’t be able to see the stars. New products will be available to sell - cold drinks, yogurt, an entire market to crack into. And get ready for a wave of electronic products!

We live in the digital age, in which strangers can share entire life stories and never meet. Some think of this as an unfriendly system, and others marvel at the opportunities and technologies. For example, even with the speed and reliance of email, I’m enjoying writing and receiving letters. There’s something elusive and important in that tangible message, something that’s missing in an email. Sometimes I feel as if that square of paper is tethering me to whoever wrote it, and I feel connected, briefly, as I hold it. For someone like me, far away from home and familiarity, it helps.   

We’ve been dealing with this technological revolution for quite some time now, adapting to how it shapes our relationships and our work. Senegal is in the throes of doing the same. But it remains ‘to be determined’ at what cost.

I live in a household that has one foot in each country, so to speak. My host dad is a high school physics teacher. He leaves the house each morning looking like a well dressed American man heading to the office. My host mom is a traditional woman who cooks, cleans, takes care of her man and wears beautifully tailored Senegalese clothing. They have a nice Dell computer, a modem for internet, electricity, and running water. She attends proper social functions. He works at home on the computer grading papers. It’s an interesting and yet comfortable blend. If we were to take this house as an example, we might find no contest between past and future Senegal. You really can have both. 

Of course, I’m getting ahead of myself. My house is wired for electricity but we only have it thirty percent of the time. Senegal yet lacks the infrastructure to offer these resources properly. So villagers? Take a deep breath, because we still have a long way to go. 

A City with Cheese, A Third-World Surgery and Some Disappointment

I have learned several lessons this past month that I’d like to share with you. Most of these won’t apply to those at home in the States, but you might learn a thing or two from my experiences. For example:

Don’t take your cat to a farm vet. 

In April he gave my cat all the proper vaccines against infectious diseases, but for dogs (it’s the same!) and somehow that wasn’t enough to deter me from returning to have her spayed. Something about limited options.

Of course the vet neglected to mention he’d never worked on an animal as small as a cat before, because Senegalese people aren’t “crazy” enough to have cats as pets (his word, not mine). He started by giving it enough anesthetic to knock out a horse - his usual client - and finished by telling me sternly to “BE COOL” as I dry heaved in a corner. There’s a reason I don’t watch surgeries in the States. Hello, religion major, over here!

Long story short, the cat survived just fine with only an enormous, misshapen scar to tell the story. I’ve warned all other volunteers with pets that this might not be the way to go, although watching her drunkenly come off the drugs was pretty entertaining. (Get up, stumble, fall, drool a lot, repeat) 

Disclaimer: The vet I mention was very concerned about my cat, and followed up with me every day for a week. He meant well, and ended up doing a fine job! I don't mean to besmirch him by any means. Muus is happy and healthy. It just wasn't my most favorite experience...

Kaolack is not as dirty as Tamba.

           

 After arriving in Kaolack at the end of April for the master farmer training, I found all rumors of its fatal disgustingness to be false. The Peace Corps house was impeccably organized, complete with color coded signs in the kitchen for plates, bowls, and silverware, and nametags to reserve a bed for the evening. In Tamba, it’s pretty much a scramble to throw a mattress on the roof and hope there’s at least a semi-clean sheet you can snag. The city itself has a strip of water and a delta for goodness sake, what else could you ask for? Compared to Tamba, Kaolack wasn’t as hot, it wasn’t as dusty, the French grocery store sold my favorite cheese from home - the little red ones covered in wax! – all in all, a magical place. I didn’t even have many travel malfunctions, just a breezy couple of flat tires. Needless to say, I like Kaolack, for now.

Misunderstandings are Frequent and Awkward

         

It’s not easy to be a foreigner in Senegal. I’ve been warned by past volunteers and the Peace Corps bureau that many people will try to take advantage of me, either by jacking up their prices or by asking me outright for handouts, and I’ve certainly lived that experience these past few months in Africa. It’s a difficult position, because I do have exponentially more money than the average Senegalese, and sometimes I find it hard to justify saying no. Peace Corps reminds me that the program is not here to shower money or gifts on the people, but to make a lasting contribution to the community through teachings and small project funding. As a “volunteer”, I don’t get paid much more than the amount allotted for my rent and food, so it’s true that I’m not wealthy by any means. This sounds very appropriate, but running the Peace Corps mantra through my head doesn’t help when there’s a small child looking up at me and asking for food. Some days are better than others, but when I’m significantly frustrated with a project or a particular group of people, being a foreigner just exacerbates the problem.

        

I am, also, becoming notoriously bad at distinguishing when I’m being taken for a ride and when I’m being treated normally. For example, I attended a fancy wedding the other day with my host mom. The daughter of our next-door neighbor was getting married, and there was food, drinks, and dancing. I had fun mixing with the people, some of whom I’d met before. As a “toubab” (Senegalese word for ‘white person’) I was something of a spectacle, but that’s nothing new – it just means they took extra pleasure in laughing at my bad dancing. It’s all harmless and in fairness, my dancing is terrible. The Senegalese I’ve met so far really appreciate it if you can laugh at yourself.

           

At the end of the wedding, as I returned home and changed out of my fancy clothes, a younger kid came to find me saying “the bride wants a picture with you, the bride wants a picture with you!” After a night of heckling and attention I was starting to get fed up, and this rubbed me the wrong way. She wants a picture of the ‘toubab’ at her wedding, I thought bitterly. She doesn’t even know me, she won’t bother to get to know me, this is so inappropriate and frustrating, I’ll never fit in here, blah blah blah – you can see my train of thought. I went, took the picture, and sulked in my room for the rest of the night.

         

About two weeks later, the bride stopped by my house with a giant photo album, in which she proudly displayed pictures of her and every guest. That’s right – every single guest. Well, if that didn’t make me feel like an asshole!

But it doesn’t always play out like that. Yesterday, I met with a committee that is planning a festival in Tamba to celebrate the Diola ethnicity. Although I learned Wolof in training, my host family is from the Diola clan, and so this festival has special importance for them. My host mom had previously told this committee that I might be willing to help out, which I didn’t initially understand, but it turned out a lot of the people coming for this festival are farmers and gardeners, and they would appreciate the chance to talk with me and ask questions. I spoke with the president of the committee, we took a tour of the sites in Tamba where the festival was to be held, and I was becoming fairly happy with the opportunity to plan my exposition and bring some demonstrations. This falls exactly into my job description, and I was excited that they had come to me and wanted my help. 

Of course, they waited until the end of the meeting to tell me that every participant gives a contribution in money to the festival. It took about ten minutes of roundabout conversation to establish this point, but unfortunately if you’re not direct with me in Wolof I simply don’t understand. The committee seemed uncomfortable, and I suddenly realized they expected me to pay them for my space. This goes against any Peace Corps mandates, and I immediately knew I wouldn’t give them any money, but I was so affronted that they asked and disappointed that this was being revealed as their true intention.

I asked them how much they wanted. They told me I should name what I was willing to pay. It’s a “contribution”, they kept telling me. I said 25 mille, an exorbitant amount of money, about half my rent. I said this partly out of confusion (they completely sandbagged me, to borrow a word from my dad) and partly out of curiosity. I was hoping (naively) that they’d protest and say most people are giving five to ten mille, that would be plenty, thank you so much for all the time and effort this is going to cause you, but instead they sat in silence and then said “Actually, 50 mille is more appropriate contribution.”

I felt very used. First of all, if I am going to give 50 mille (about 100 dollars and my entire month’s rent) to a cause, it is not going to the Diola culture festival. It will go to something worthwhile. Second of all, I’m coming to realize that my host mom likely described me to this committee as a rich American who would gladly give money, and that makes me sad. She should know what Peace Corps is about - I tell her often enough. Instead, she raises expectations that I’m a walking bank. I feel as though I can’t trust anybody here. This is why Muus the cat remains my only Senegalese friend. (And also, I don't really speak the language. It helps that I can speak 'cat' fluently.)

I left things with the committee uncertain, as I was too befuddled and disoriented by being one moment lifted up by project potential to suddenly confused and disappointed. I’m going to have to call the president and let him know that I can’t contribute money, but if they’d still like me to come and answer questions I will. However, if you’re reading this, perhaps you can shoot me an email with some advice. This “exposition” would take a lot of my time over the next month and I’m not convinced by any means that it’s worth it. I don’t feel like they truly want my knowledge, and so I’m tempted to back out all together. I’ll keep you posted. In any case, there are sure to be several misunderstandings in the future both comical and frustrating, so keep reading!

My Garden Partners are the Worst…Just ‘the Worst’.

This is another delicate situation. The volunteer in Tamba before Austin set up an abysmal system with the family that lives right next to our demo garden. The deal was, they water the garden twice a day, and we pay them ten mille a month. To give you some perspective, some workers in Dakar make ten mille a month working 9-5 jobs. They are already receiving a disproportionate amount of money to the amount of work. On top of this, they are unpleasant people, always fighting in grating voices and they don’t take the watering seriously. We have suspicions that when both volunteers are out of town, they simply don’t water. The other day, I arrived to find the five year old boy struggling to lift a full watering can and subsequently drenching himself and little of the actual garden. This is a problem on a couple levels. 

Other volunteers have similar systems in which they hire a Senegalese person to water and work in the garden. These people have been carefully selected as capable, friendly, and hard-working. They are not paid directly but are able to sell the produce of the garden, thus giving them an interest in its maintenance.  They make a comfortable living off this and usually learn a lot from working with the volunteer, thus affording the skills to start their own garden or contribute to the demo garden.

Somehow we ended up with this hostile family that lets its kids trample the beds, spends all morning screaming at each other, and barely does the work for an enormous amount of money. You might suggest that we allow them to sell the produce, creating a similar sense of ownership and pride in the garden, but as I was surprised to recently learn this is the case. They're able to sell everything except the trees we pepinere for our own projects. For some inexplicable reason, they just don’t care, damaging their own meager income and our project. It’s hard to believe.

Austin has considered terminating their contract with us, but hasn’t for a couple of reasons. One, they live right next to the garden, and are spiteful people. It’s easy to see them taking revenge on our work. Secondly and more importantly, they are dirt poor. The family has several kids, three under the age of five, and without this income they would likely starve. (Again, baffling that they don’t take their job more seriously.) But they’ve found the correct way to milk the system, because as perhaps they’ve guessed, we’re loathe to cut them off completely despite their dismal performance.

I’m formulating a plan to continue paying them some money but bar their entrance to the garden. I just don’t want them in there, they’re destructive and distracting and unfriendly. I’ll let you know how it goes, but I refuse to spend the remaining sixteen months of my service dealing with their incompetence!

Volunteers in Tamba are Great

I’d like to end this blog post on a cheerier note! Over the past couple of months I’ve gotten to know my fellow volunteers in Tamba Nation (as we call ourselves) and it’s been really positive. I like everyone I’ve met and they’ve welcomed me into their close-knit circle, which will sincerely help me succeed. That support network is crucial.. We’re getting ready to welcome the new health/environmental education class that ends training this Friday, and although I’m going to miss their installation, I’m excited to have them here. I’m missing their move-in because I’m headed to Dakar for a much needed break from the heat, and also to catch one of my best friends from college who is passing through for other reasons. I’m going to buy a guitar while I’m there, and hopefully get back into my music a bit. It’s been too long. Things to look forward to! Missing everybody as always and ta-ta for now!

<3 Phoebe