Thursday, December 27, 2007

Christmas break

Christmas in Popenguine was lovely. It is such a treat to sit on the shore, listening to the waves rumbling against the sand. And church bells mingling with the Muslim call to prayer. My idea of a good time nowadays is a glass of wine and stuffing myself with food, none of which are rice! So I ate a lot, and it was fabulous. Coming to the regional house is an opportunity to be American for a few days, to cook my own meals exactly how I want, to speak English with people who understand the ideas I'm trying to express, to watch a movie or two, and detox. As well as go to the bank, the post office, the grocery store, the market, and a variety of other big-city chores that can only be accomplished away from my tiny village. Also, the full-length mirror provides the opportunity for a "state-of-the-union" look at myself. I look okay, though signifigantly less clean than I was back home on a regular basis. But it's funny, because I have only a compact mirror in my hut, so I sometimes go days without taking a real look at myself. We admire our appearance multiple times a day back home, and here it ceases to matter. Tomorrow morning I head back home. While it's nice to get away sometimes, I know I'm in a good site, because whenever I approach my village after a short time away I can't help but smile, and I quicken my pace when I see the little hat-shaped thatched roofs peeking out from behind the brushy trees. So I'm looking forward to that, but not the ride to Nioro. I try to take a 7-place taxi which gets me there faster than the mini-busses, though still it is never comfortable to be crammed into a car with six other passengers (plus a driver) dodging potholes and occasionally off-roading on the way to the garage. A run-of-the-mill public transportation experience!

Sunday, December 23, 2007

Tabaski

The Tabaski celebration started last Thursday, and went something like this: in the morning I woke up and put on my nice outfit, only to go outside and find that most people were going about their daily business in their same old everyday clothes, with the exception of the men and little children who dressed up to go pray. I, therefore, wandered around and chatted with a few people at the boutique, all the while receiving compliments on my clothes. "Yaangiy noos!" is what they said the most, which translates something as "You're having fun!" but seems to carry the underlying implication of "You have a lot of money so you can enjoy yourself and your clothes are also fabulous today!" Anyway, I went home and learned a new greeting: "baalma ac", which apparantly is what is said to people during Tabaski. Eventually, the parade of well-dressed people returned from prayer and gathered in a spacious courtyard near the chief's house. The men stood in front, while I found a group of older ladies and joined them in sitting on mats behind. There was a long spell of praying and chanting, most of which was incomprehensible to me, and before long people began to disperse. I got up to greet my usual crowd, when I realized what had been going on, because the carcasses of four rams were laying there with their throats slit. As I walked the short distance home, I passed several sheep in various stages of being slaughtered and butchered. It was interesting to observe how they do it. In the US our meat comes in pretty plastic packages, and we don't really know how it got there. How many people could pick out the flank of living the cow their flank steak came from? Anyway, the idea of high-quality steaks is pretty much unknown in the village. The meat was chopped up by the men into chunks compromised of all manner of bone, fat, meat, organ and gristle. There was some pattern to it, though - we ate the organ meats that first day, while the haunches were saved for Friday's lunch. Anyway, once the meat was prepared I joined the women in the kitchen. We made a series of peppery soups with bits of meat and slurped them up, all while working on the chef d'oeuvre: a thick sauce of meat, onion, fried potatoes, macaroni and oil, spiced with the usual bouillon. I contributed by peeling all the vegetables, chopping onios, and pounding peppercorns. The overall sense of excitement permeated everything. Everybody was in a great mood, laughing and snatching bits of piping-hot meat from the pot. I can't really describe how tasty it was in comparison to the usual monotony of mafe (a kind of peanut butter sauce) and rice. And protein, real concentrated protein was such a treat! Eventually, our sauce was finished, and we ladled it into bowls which were carried to the chief's compound. There, all the neighborhood women were gathered, along with dozens of loaves of bread. We waited for everyone to arrive, then dug into the meal, scooping up mouthfuls of the stew with bits of bread. You don't savor a meal here in the same way as back home. Instead, you "lekkal ba suur" - eat until you are full - which usually translates as eating as much as possible in as short a time as possible. It was delicious, though, and afterwards people relaxed and chatted for awhile before ambling home to shower and change. Here's where the pretty clothes come in! After sudown, around seven o'clock this time of year, everyone dressed up in their finest complets and boubous to go visiting. The moon being nearly full, there is so much light in the evenings a lamp is unnecessary; it's an enchanted time, full of moonshadows. Children wandered from house to house, collecting money for sweets or tea. They also accepted peanuts, corn, or millet. A small sidenote: the women will use these crops like cash; they will take a few kilos of peanuts to the boutique, weigh it, and exhange it for other goods such as spices or rice. Also, a man comes by in his horse charette every day and he will exchange fish for any of those grains, which are later resold in the market. The overall feeling of Tabaski for me was a cross between Thanksgiving, Halloween, and Christmas, though all of course considerably less commercialized than their American counterparts. In other news, it is now bissap season in the village, which means that the women go out into the fields to harvest the fleshy blossoms (which are actually the fruit of the plant, not the flower, though they look like a flower and not a fruit) and then spend all afternoon peeling the bissap off its core. I usually join in this venture, which is relaxing in the repetitiveness of the action. It's also a good opportunity to listen to the women and talk with them. I get along really well with the women of the village, and it's nice to spend time with them. The bissap harvest was put on hold for Tabaski, but will be starting up again soon. To dress myself up for the celebration, I put henna designs on my hands and feet, which was super-fun! I think I'll do henna just for "noos" later on, because it looks cool but doesn't last too long. Anyway, that's about all. I have had probably as much meat in the past three days as I'm likely to see the entire rest of the year, and soon it will be back to businss as usual. Christmas at the beach with the rest of the Kaolack crew is next on the agenda!

Friday, December 7, 2007

Waiting

I now have something of a routine, as I've been in site for almost three weeks. Mostly I don't do a whole lot. In the morning I greet people, and maybe go to the boutique to buy some beignets (a lady named Amy, one of the boutiquiers, makes them fresh every morning - millet beignets are delicious!) and hang out with the family. Sometimes I stay at home and read, sometimes I wander the village and chat with various families. Lately, almost everyone clears out of town for the day, to sift through the earth for stray peanuts. The women are especially adament about this. They want the extra money to buy new clothes and meches for Tabaski. "Meches" are hair extensions that the women weave into their own short hair, to make long braids. It's a lengthy process, and in the afternoons almost all the women in the village can be seen sitting in the shade, braiding each other's hair. Tabaski - a big Muslim holiday - will be celebrated soon, shortly before Christmas I believe, and involves killing a sheep (in rememberence of Abraham, who killed a ram instead of his son) and apparantly new clothes as well. I do not have new clothes or meches, but I think I will bust out the old Korite outfit and take lots of pictures of everybody looking their best. Meanwhile, time passes slow in the village. In terms of actual work I have none, except what I make for myself. Due to the water shortage in Keur Ali Gueye, I thought encouraging people to have small container gardens makes more sense than a large-scale gardening project. So, I have three tires in my backyard, planted with collards, onions, and carrots respectively. We'll see how it goes. People don't seem too impressed so far. They are impressed, however (and a little bemused) that I insist on going to the well myself every day to draw water, instead of letting my little sisters do all the work for me. I carry my two yellow tubs to the well and wait my turn to step in and add my meager muscle to the pulley rope, drawing up water. The women laugh, but I refuse to give up, and lately they've been saying, "Abbi men na!" - Abbi can do it! - which is clearly a big surprise. I only fill the 20-liter tubs a little over halfway, but I carry they home myself. On my head. Actually, it's much easier to do that than to haul them home by hand; my back is much stronger than my arms. Anyway, as you can probably tell, I'm quite proud of myself for doing the work. The one break from the daily visit to the well came last weekend, when I was sick for the first time. This is not fun. I stayed in bed for two days, feeling wretched, but after that things got better, and now I am back to normal. Well, as normal as someone raised on American food can be while existing on a Senegalese diet. Each Tuesday, I head to Nioro for the market to buy vegetables. It's a busy place, as people from villages all around go there once a week for their shopping. Also it's perhaps the only time I will ever be mistaken for being Japanese; there are some Japanese volunteers there as well as Americans, so children's shouts are split between "toubab!" and "japonais!". A refreshing change from the norm. Otherwise, I spend my time hanging out in the village, talking to people and trying to get a feel for what activities they may be interested in. Already I have found some families with whom I am comfortable, so I go there often to chat. Sometimes we drink sweet tea, which is quite a ritual in itself: they heat a tiny teapot on a brazier, fill the pot with tea leaves and sugar, and cook it until it's very concentrated. Then, then fill a shot glass and proceed to pour the tea in a high arc from one glass to another, back and forth, creating foam on the top. By the time it's actually served the tea is thick and heavily sweet, hot, and you slurp as you drink it. Tasty, though terrible for the teeth.
I forgot before to post my new mailing address. I love mail! Here it is:

PCV Abigail Fay
BP 2089 Ndorong
Kaolack, Senegal
West Africa

The guys at the post are really nice; they're used to Volunteers.