me & me

Market Day

I had a really busy day today. It started out with me having to skip my usual morning walk (usual meaning this would be around day five), because the cuts on my feet are slowly crippling me. There’s one really bad spot that started out as an invisible break in the skin, but has since become infected. Really, it’s something to see. I wish Grayson were here so I could show it off. But I think the rest of you would get grossed out if I wrote too much else about it, so I’ll stop now. There are photos though, and I’m starting hot compresses so I’m hoping it will never look this bad again.

Kelly and I went to Diaobe, the nearby village that draws people from about four different countries every Wednesday for an enormous outdoor market.  That was all right, we bought avacados. Kelly’s an Environmental Education volunteer like me, and she bought some gardening equipment. I decided I wasn’t ready to commit to those purchases and didn’t. Maybe next week.

The most interesting part of the market were the Baye Falls.

I can’t tell you much about the Baye Falls, a Muslim sect, because when I ask I get conflicting information. But at the market today I finally got to see a group of them in action. They have dreadlocks, really colorful patchwork robes, and wide leather belts. Until today I’ve been tempted to summarize them as sort of counterculture, but now I’ll have to rework that description.

A group of about five of them were singing in the market, carrying bowls and asking “sisters and brothers” for donations. They were following another guy who was carrying a wooden club, walking bent over. The man was alternately thumping the club on the ground and then beating himself on the back. Beating! I could hear the thud over all the people and singing. The sound actually made me turn around. I’ve never witnessed any self-flagellation before and I found it unsettling.

I've heard these guys are a really easy-going, possibly because they smoke so much weed. The weed claim is hearsay, but clothing aside, they don‘t act like any stoners I've ever known.

As I said, I’m having trouble reconciling the information I’m getting about this group. I’ll let you know when I learn more.

P.S. Had lunch with some men from AgroAfrica, a company planning to open a bio-fuel operation in my area. They were very nice. I sort of felt like I was wasting their time, after all I’m just the local Peace Corps volunteer, but it was interesting and I learned some cool things. Plus they gave Kelly and me the best mangos I’ve ever tasted.

Cultural differences

Photo albums are really popular here, and everyone keeps the original cover - whether it’s a football player or Asian model posing on the front. Today someone handed me a photo album featuring Osama Bin Laden, and I was surprised at how much it offended me.

When I (gently) mentioned it is hard for Americans to see photos of Osama bin Laden my host said “Oh, because he doesn’t like Americans?” I almost choked. Then I tried to give the briefest summary of September 11 possible. I was able to squeeze in some Alan Jackson quotes (and Julie, he sounds good in French too).

That same host had invited me over to have lunch and watch season 6 of the American television show “24,” which is really popular here. I have never seen the show before, but the few episodes I saw featured the character Jack Bauer (who apparently cannot be killed) fighting Muslim terrorists.

The whole afternoon was a little surreal. I couldn’t wait to leave. Still though, I need to keep in mind this guy didn’t go searching for a bin Laden photo. The album was filled with posed, faded photographs dating back 20 years. People take what they can get here, he just wanted to show off his pictures.

Yup, there’s that feeling again. This country always leaves me feeling like a bitch.

Guthrie

All but one of the goats in my compound have died, and the little guy still hanging on seems to be dying a more painful death right at my front door. I heard him before I saw him this morning, lying in the dirt and foaming at the mouth (no, it’s not rabies).

Each time I left the compound I expected to come back and find he’d given up the fight. When it rained today he went under the shade structure, but he got kicked out after the rain stopped and it was really pathetic to see him stumbling away. Nobody wants to look at the sick goat.

He surprised us all by rallying before dinner, and what do you know but he tripped through my front door. I couldn’t turn him away - he’s sick. Oddly enough, now that he’s dying he’s become affectionate, lying his little head in my lap and breathing his sickly foam all over my skirt and bed sheets. If I was doing something else he would squeeze himself between the head of my bed and the wall, waiting for me to come pet him again.

I don’t know what to do. Sleeping with a sick goat at my head might not be a bad idea per se, but it doesn’t sound like a good one either. I think I’ll wash my sheets tomorrow… 

Update:
Two days have passed and the goat, whom I have since named Guthrie, died today. Everyone noticed the interest I took in him, so they were sure to leave his body lying at my front door so I could see for myself. That made me think the unkind thought that I had developed more affection for Guthrie than any actual person I’ve met so far here.

I’ve got to go bleach the cup I’ve been letting him drink out of. If he hadn’t been caked in feces I would have let him die in my room, now I wish I had. At least my room still smells like him.

P.S. The name Guthrie was an effort to pay homage to Julie’s pet Alice, a goat who never wanted my attention. The only Alice reference I could think of was Alice’s Restaurant (where Grayson took me to breakfast) in the Arlo Guthrie song. So there you go.

I'm back

I think it’s pretty clear from recent blog posts that I had a lousy week, but a call from mom and dad this morning did wonders and sufficiently restored me to help cook fish balls for lunch. For some reason the fried fish balls always remind me of hush puppies at Captain Eddie’s, but there is not much similar there. *I hate cooking, but the company's good and it helps my Pulaar.

I went to another baptism today. The family wasn’t as wealthy this time, but the highlights were the same. Once again the new mother was a sight to see; the metallic eye shadow and lipstick was just at startling this time around and I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Normally this is a nice, sweet looking woman, but the makeup gives her a bitchy look. She looks like an Ice Queen (although to be honest I always think of ice queens as Nordic, but she’s the African version), not very maternal at all.

I went with Kumba, and she was pretty clear it was going to be a hit and run event.  We were there for the food and then leaving. So I got about 15 minutes to watch the dancing then we ate and sprinted off, still licking our hands clean by the time we cleared the crowd. It was a good length of time for me.

*I don’t know how, but I seem to have given people the impression that I want to learn how to cook Senegalese food. Nothing could be further from the truth, I don’t enjoy cooking food I like. In college I occasionally ate raw tofu just to avoid the prep work.

bad directions

So visits are really important here, and I keep getting not-so-subtle hints from people that I owe them a tme at their compound. (more on that another time). Today I decided it was time to visit a family friend who had dropped more hints that most. When I told my family where I was going they insisted I take a guide. The 4-year-old.

Now, 4-year-olds are good and all, but as tour guides go I found Mom lacking. Her route was circuitous at best, she kept getting distracted and when I asked her to be more specific she would try to eat her shirt. She’s cute, sure, but I would have been better off without her.

Also, do they really think I’m so dumb a 4-year-old’s going to improve my chances?

sorry about that

I owe Andrew an apology. It’s about eight years overdue, but it’s sincere. I got stuck at a middle school dance party tonight. (don’t ask, my life is weird.) It was enough like an American middle school party that I find the event too painful to write about right now.

The thing was, I was told I could leave whenever I wanted. That was NOT true - I couldn’t leave til 1 a.m. Also, today I went with the women to work in the fields. On the way home they stopped at every freaking compound they passed to go in and visit. A thirty minute walk stretched into an hour.

Which brings me back to the apology I owe Andrew. When I was in college I had a summer internship in Manhattan and he came to visit me for a long weekend. It was a great time, and I think two memories remain foremost in our minds; the ice cream we got in West Village (he still talks about that) and my repeated lying about how far we had to walk to our next destination. I lied constantly. Each time we set out somewhere Andrew wanted to know how far and I would lie or be vague. That wasn’t nice of me. People like to know where they are going, for how long, and when they can escape.

None of you might get the connection, but while I was clenching my teeth during that party I was thinking of those lies I told Andrew.

quick cultural gaffe

Greetings are huge here, I know I’ve mentioned that. Often someone will take your hand and hold it through the entire exchange, and it can be difficult to gauge when said exchange is over. I was in a hurry to continue my evening walk tonight when I greeted an old woman in my village. I thought we were done and started to walk off, but she thought otherwise and kept holding onto my hand. She almost fell over.

Naturally I backtracked and we didn’t mention it, but it was awkward for both of us.

annoying

Today had some highs and lows. It started out with my community counterpart coming over and slipping “you need to buy me a phone” into the conversation. I said no, but I had to hear about how I’m a bad person for the rest of the day. That was annoying.

Yesterday I went to the local forestry office to introduce myself and discuss my favorite topic, plants. Overall it was a success with him promising me eucalyptus trees to plant as a wind-break for the women’s garden I am supposedly a part of (truthfully this will be my first contribution, I just found the damn thing today.)

The meeting had one low point when the man told me and the other volunteer I was with that we should bring a Senegalese person back with us when we go to America. When we said that would be hard to do he said “oh, because you don’t like blacks.” Personally, I was in favor of just letting that one go, but my fellow volunteer was feeling more socially conscious and explained the visa difficulties and costs.

A group of American high school students are coming to my village to do a Senegalese home stay for about a week. I don’t know anything about it, except its some sort of cultural exchange program called “Where There Be Dragons.” I really think they should rethink the name, or at least use a different one while in country.

I was chatting with one of the 14-year-old girls I live with and she said “It always seems like foreigners are coming here, which is nice, but I never hear about Senegalese going over there.” That was sad, and true. I said it’s because the Senegalese don’t have any money. It sounded a little harsh, but it’s the truth and I doubt any of these dragon hunters are on welfare.

fight

Remember how I said life was boring? Forget that. I got back from the city this morning and there was a fight! I was helping make something (I don’t know what, but I didn’t like it) for dinner, and there was yelling in the street. Everyone ran out and saw the 13-year-old crying and screaming at the neighbors, but that’s not the good part.

An hour later during dinner one of the women, Kumba (who had a baby a month ago, I just last week realized it’s a boy) heard about the fight and went charging over to the neighboring compound. Most of the women went with her, but I sat with the stragglers until the decided they didn’t want to miss out and sprinted off. I followed at a more sedate pace. I was torn, because I didn’t want to use my headlamp to announce my arrival, but my bogus claim of night-blindness placed me in a quandary. In the end I shuffled while aiming my headlamp on a low-beam.

When the fight erupted into full on fists and screaming I decided I could and should hurry off because 1) no one was monitoring my supposed night-blindness and 2) as a new volunteer in the village I didn’t want to be part of the brawl.

After the fight the women in my family rehashed it endlessly, congratulating Kumba on her fighting skills. This has sort of taken me by surprise. I was just telling dad last night that I’ve yet to see any public disagreements. Direct confrontations are unusual. Still, people are people and it was entertaining.

I wish I hadn't promised to write today

It’s occurred to me I could lie to all of you about how exciting my life is here, which would be much more entertaining, but then I would probably catch myself in a lie so I’ll just stick to the facts. So, the truth is my life is pretty boring. Really boring in fact. I‘ll probably write more about that at a later date. The problem today is I partied with other volunteers last night and don‘t feel like writing.

Since you’ve last heard from me I’ve cleaned a chicken. Did you know if you pour hot water on them the feathers come off easier? Chickens are everywhere, I'm constantly chasing them out of my room. They peck around your feet during mealtimes and try to steal your rice if you aren’t careful. Most egregious, they wake me up ever day before dawn. Still, I didn’t like seeing the chicken die but it did answer a lot of questions. Maybe I’ll write more about that another day.

I went to a baptism. I didn’t understand the invitation though and showed up about six hours early. Once I realized my mistake I found it impossible to escape until late afternoon. There’s nothing interesting to report about those several hours (except slaughtering a goat), but when I went back for the evening portion that’s when stuff started happening.

The mother must have dressed somewhere else, because she entered the party after everyone else had arrived, accompanied by a drummer and about 20 women from her family dancing behind her. She shook everyone’s hand, collecting money from guests and posing for pictures.

She was dressed in a gauzy red gown, and wearing thick gold jewelry (fake?). It was her face though that commanded the most attention. The makeup was layered on, and even though I had spent two hours meeting her the day before I honestly didn’t recognize the woman underneath. I couldn’t stop staring, she looked just like I imagine a Japanese Geisha would look if black. Her face didn’t change expression throughout the ceremony, probably because it would have cracked.

The drumming and dancing were pretty cool. I feel like I dance a lot in this country. I usually try to be as inconspicuous as possible, but some woman always throws her headscarf at my feet when I least expect it and then I have to get up and dance while everyone laughs. Oh well. (Baptisms here happen about a week after the baby’s birth, and the baby is named during the ceremony. )

I didn’t bring a camera, but I promise to try and snap photos at the next baptism.

P.S. One requirement of any Senegalese gathering, whether it’s a government meeting about Malaria or a baptism, are huge-ass speakers that blast music at painful decibels. It’s really uncomfortable.

P.P.S.  As for me personally, I’ve got a small infected cut on my foot that is looking weird. Other than that I’m fine, adjusting slowly and getting used to the way things work. For example, one day this week I boiled a pot of water for tea, but also used the water to cook an egg and clean a jar I want to turn into a piggy bank. Then I used the water to clean my feet and sandals. That really hurt because I didn’t let the water cool long enough. Maybe that was good for the infection.