me & me

kiddie pregnancies

Here's an interesting article. The village is about a 15-minute bike ride from me. I also know the reporter (I'm hoping she'll let me stay with her for a few days in August when I'm in Dakar) and a few of the people mentioned in the article.

shoot

Damnit, I have no band aids. They have all been stolen out of my hut. Every. Last. One.

I gave away more band aids than I used, and now there are none left. I can’t wait until the next time someone comes to me with a cut and I can say, “Sorry, someone stole them.”

Then I can look at them really hard, telegraphing my suspicions. Of course, that’s not going to work because it won’t be the perpetrator, but I might feel better.

a natural liar

Today felt a little backwards. I went for my morning walk, and had to cut it a little short because it looked like it might rain. A few hours after I got back, it did.

To make a long story short, I holed up in my room, freezing and happy while it poured. Before I knew it I was waking up and it was lunch time.

When I went outside my family asked how my nap was, and I said I wasn’t napping, but working.

I’m really not sure why I lied.

i love my passport

I had a long conversation with the volunteer who lived in my hut about 12 years ago, and my current site-mate, Dorothy.

We chatted about the difficulties of obtaining visas to America, and really immigration in general. Someone, not me, made the interesting observation that people here really don’t know what’s waiting for them in other countries. All strangers are treated well here. If you arrive in a village and don’t know anyone, you can ask for the chief’s compound and he’ll put you up for the night. The conditions might leave a little to be desired, but if you’re traveling that way you’re lucky to find anything, right?

Well, if you’re used to that way of life and you go to Europe or America, you’re in for a nasty surprise.

Sure, we get called Toubab here, but it’s rarely derogatory. There’s no worry that you’re taking someone’s job. In fact, if you’re here you probably brought money with you. Not the case for an African immigrant and the reception reflects that difference.

In conclusion: God, thank you for my American passport.

oops

Someone gave me some eggs as a gift. You can test whether an egg is good or not by putting it in water. If it floats it’s bad. I had a few floaters and lazily tossed them just outside my backdoor.

I think I’m going to regret that.

cuisine

Man, oh man do I hate the food here. Is that bad? I don’t hate the Senegalese, I hate their food. For awhile I thought it was because I live in a poor area and they didn’t have the right ingredients. Then I remembered dishes I had in the city and realized, while the lack-of-ingredients theory was true to an extent, I actually just hate all national dishes. (with the exception of lacceri jumbo, but that’s kind of tasteless, which is why I like it.)

So, because I find it so unappetizing, I “supplement” my diet. Supplement is a term the medical office uses, which is a euphemism for saying that we eat a lot better than our families. I have no problem with this. I supplement with bagged salmon or tuna mom sends me from home. Guess what? That doesn’t taste that good either, but at least it makes me feel full.

Oh, and mom? I’m running out of tuna and salmon. The 5 ounce bags are great – may I have more? 

I may not like the way they taste, but I am very grateful for them. I hide out in my douche with a spoon and look longingly at the pretty recipe suggestions on the back while I eat them. Did you know the Starkist tuna is bagged in Equador? Bet you didn’t!

Corporal punishment

I was walking hand-in-hand yesterday with Kumba and little Nduru. I’m sure it was a cute scene, but because I was linked I had to stop and watch a child receive a beating for God knows what.

It’s hard to watch children take a beating here. There’s usually a switch involved and a lot of screaming. I’m not as affected by it as I once was, but I still wince.

For those of you judging me for becoming desensitized, I have never actually hit a child myself. Some volunteers have, although never to the extent another Senegalese would. The worst I did was flip out on poor Nduru once, yelling at him to get out of my hut. That was about six months ago, and frankly, if the worst I do to that child is yell at him, well he better remember me as a saint.

simply not possible

Gawd. I just helped Tijaan (B.M.O.C.) practice his English exercises for the exams next week. I didn’t understand that text, how the heck is he supposed to get it? Tijaan has developed a persistent headache. I walked by him yesterday and he was talking to himself, reciting French texts aloud. I tried to tell him he’s pushing himself to hard, but he said he only has a week left and can’t let himself rest.

These poor kids. The school system is based on the French one. Look, I was an exchange student in France my senior year, and even then I was put-off by the intense memorization and exams (admittedly, it doesn’t take much to put me off academics). There’s little creative thinking, and a lot of rote learning. Basically, if someone had expected me to perform academically I would have been royally screwed.

Well, so are the Senegalese children. I don’t think they’re any more prepared than I would have been. At least I was used to school everyday. Sure, the French were on strike a lot – they are French – but the Senegalese teachers seemed to be on strike more than they were in class. If they weren’t striking, the students were because they didn’t have enough teachers.

I can’t blame the teachers or students, because the government doesn’t pay teachers salaries. Every now and then I would hear a rumor during the school year that a Senegalese musician was going to help the government out and pay the teacher’s salaries.

I think that’s a reflection of 1) how desperate they are for a working system, and 2) how little they grasp the enormity of the problem.

But I digress; Tijaan’s got a headache that won’t go away because he has to take an exam he’s not at all prepared for. It’s not his fault, either. He studies all the time. But the system is such that the students are stuck in grades they can’t test out of because no one is giving them an education.

more of the same

Andrew called yesterday. He’s the only one who ever calls. They’re brief conversations, but it’s the high point of my day all the same. He made the interesting observation that every time he calls me and asks what I’m doing, I respond, “oh, I’m just laying in my hut,” prompting him to call me a “hut slut.”

That’s sort of true at the moment. I’m in a holding pattern. I’m waiting for computers, books, and maybe mosquito nets. The students who are in school are set to take their exams next week, so I’m no use at the school either.

Summer’s dull, so I read a lot. And it’s not as if I’m not social. I try not to be, I really do my best, but I have a steady stream of visitors in my hut because no one here grasps anti-social behavior, or at least an attempt at such. I guess that’s nice, although sometimes I wish people would leave me alone.

I’ve given up on being a recluse though, and I’m sitting with the women right now as I write this. I’m not typing on my computer, but my AlphaSmart, which I’ve explained before. Yes, I’m the wealthiest person for miles. It’s an odd feeling, because I’m actually broke. Everyone’s over my AlphaSmart, it’s boring to them, so that makes it possible for me to type. Also, the women are all illiterate, so they wouldn’t have much interest anyway. 

family

So Jenneba, the former volunteer who is visiting, made an interesting observation yesterday. She said other volunteers seemed to have “normal, traditional families,” while ours is the dysfunctional one that is just a hodge-podge of people. Of course, ours is traditional in the sense that everyone is taken in, but it’s impossible to figure out how everyone is related to whom.

For example, Guiro, the orphan, I have no idea how he is related to the family. It must be distant though, because he never has new clothes (or anything new for that matter), and he seems to be responsible for all the grunt work.

Tijaan (who only answers to B.M.O.C. now – that’s my doing) is the grandson of Bala’s father’s second wife. Did you get that? Yeah, it’s confusing. The second wife, Uma, showed up last month. People kept telling me she lived here, but she had left for Dakar right before I came and I assumed she was never coming back. I was wrong, because 15 months later she showed up.

Another student, Foude, was apparently Fatimata’s nephew, but I never verified that. Baddu is Bala and Fatimata’s child, but he lived in Velingara for the first 16 years of his life because Bala apparently gave him to his sister to raise as a “gift,” or so I’m told. I think that gift had more to do with marital troubles between Fatimata and Bala, but don’t want to ask.

There’s other children, some who come and go, some who stay. I don’t bother trying to figure out the relations anymore. It doesn’t matter because if asked they all claim to be family anyway. I guess they are, and if I tried to explain the western sense of family, I would really hurt some feelings.