Easter in Senegal

This is a very dated picture of me and a few other Volunteers, at the WAIST party. Don't we clean up good?

It's Easter monday so, of course, we have yet another "jour ferie". Although less than five percent of the country is Catholic, everybody gets the days off. Also, last wednesday was the "Gamou" celebration of the prophet Mohammad's birthday. Almost everyone cleared out of my village to go to Kaolack for the event, which left only a few of us in an unusually quiet Keur Ali Gueye. They all came back wearing fancy clothes, new jewelry, and toys for the kids. Noos yu bare! Meanwhile I have finally got a little tree nursery started in my backyard. Hopefully I will eventually have a hundred baby trees to outplant in the rainy season. I also plan to have sacs and seeds available to the villagers, if they want pepinieres of their own. We'll see how that goes! Mango season is starting, too, which makes me very excited. I love mangoes. There will be a stash of them hidden in my hut. The trees are shady and beautiful, with the heavy fruits hanging off in all stages of development. It's so exciting! Yesterday of course was Easter. It was an awesome time! I went to a friend's town, where four of us congregated to celebrate. Celebrations are of a significantly different caliber here. Ours involved going wallowing in the shallow salty river nearby, cooling off in the heat of the afternoon. Dinner was another highlight of the day. We bought a ton of vegetables at the market: lettuce, carrots, eggplants, tomatoes, onions, and green peppers. These we sauteed lightly, then simmered in spaghetti sauce with a little salt and pepper. The spaghetti we bought had bugs living in it, but, we shook out most of them and boiled it anyway. Extra protein, right? Boiling sanitizes everything. For the side, we mixed a green salad in a bathing bucket. Ah, Peace Corps gourmet! The dinner was truly delicious. We wound our fingers into the piping hot spaghetti, tipping our heads back to dangle it into our mouths. With fresh village bread we wiped up the chunky vegetable sauce, and we took handfuls of salad, dipped it into an impromptu oil-and-vinegar dressing (vegetable oil; cheap red vinegar) and it was amazing. Laughing and chatting all night, eating real, good food - these are the essentials to a fabulous evening. Happy Easter to all!

Random thoughts

I will take this opportunity to write out some of the many, seemingly-insignificant details of my life that, when taken as a whole, turn out to be surprisingly interesting. Here we go!

Names
The Senegalese people are big into names. They are very important. Everyone is named after somebody else, and some people play important roles in the lives of their namesakes. In terms of family names, there are running jokes between certain ones. I'm still trying to figure them all out, but for example, some people when they hear my last name of "Gueye" will say, "Oooh! Gueyes like to eat!" It's pretty funny for them. That being said, there are very few origional names, and it's difficult to figure out who is who because they have the same names (first and last) as everybody else, only perhaps in a different order. Anyway, here is an incomplete list of common first names in my area. If you live in my village, chances are you or one of your many siblings has one of these:

For Women:
Fatou
Aissatou
Penda
Xhadie
Amy
Awa* (Interesting fact I just recently learned: if twin girls are born (which happens rather often, surprisingly enough) they are always named Awa and Adama. That might explain the unusual prevalence of those names.)

For Men:
Ibrahima
Moussa
El Hadji (This is the title given to men who go on the Hajj, or pilgrimage, to Mecca. I don't believe it is technically allowed to be passed on to others, but here it is anyway, resulting in many, many men and young boys (namesakes) named El Hadji who never have (many never will) made the Hajj)
Papa/Pape (I find this name hilarious, especially when a little kid has it; for obvious reasons)
Abdullaye

Fun words in Wolof
In my opinion Wolof is not the prettiest language in the world, but it has plenty of fun words to play with. Here are a few of my favorites:

"tigadegie" - meaning peanut butter - pronounced tig-uh-deg-ee
"jafe-jafe" - meaning problem - pronounced jaf-eh-jaf-eh

I guess that's only two words. But they're funny ones! And now my least favorite word in Wolof:
"xalis" - pronounced ha-leese - meaning money. I hear it way too often.

The shirt off my back
One of the annoyances I deal with on a daily basis is being asked for things. Not just money, though there is plenty of that, especially in town, where there are a seemingly inexhaustible supply of big-eyed, ragged "talibe" - street boys - begging for food or coins. Also not including the frequent requests for me to take so-and-so (their baby, their husband, their son, themselves) to the United States. Despite frequent earnest repetitions of the fact that I cannot get visas for anybody, they'll have to go to the embassy in Dakar; or, when that gets old, joking that my checked baggage isn't big enough to fit them inside, this is a constant and predictable question. I am resigned to responding to it regularly for the next two years. No, what I am talking about is an aspect of the village culture that is very difficult to get used to, and that is that people directly ask for what they want. Example:
"Give me your bracelets!"
"You're going to the boutique? Buy me a lollipop!"
"Your skirt is pretty. Won't you give it to me?"
Mostly, these are said jokingly, and can be brushed off more or less easily, depending on the intensity of the request. It's best to use humor, if possible, and then it just becomes one big joke and everybody laughs. But, after being asked for the sixth time to give somebody my shirt, I get sick of it and the creativity of my denials descreases signifigantly. Being a naturally nonconfrontational person, I am every day putting on an act by meeting such events head-on. Just ignoring it or trying to change the subject will not work; it must be battled through to the end. This can be stressful and exhausting. But, it's part of life for me now. And no, I will not give you my hat.

Working for Peanuts

If you had asked me this time last year what I would be doing in March 2008, I would not give you the one-word answer I have now: peanuts. Yes, peanuts make up the majority of my days' activities. This is what the women of my village are doing now, every day, morning to night. Shelling peanuts, sorting peanuts, threshing peanuts, storing peanut seeds, cooking with peanuts...I'm sure it goes on! The pads of both thumbs and forefingers are rough, callused from hours of cracking the shells against a hard surface. Often the women will dampen the peanuts to make them easier to shell, but the sheer volume of them - bathtubs-full of peanuts! - overrides such efforts. Peanuts also offer social opportunities, which I enjoy. In the afternoons, women will bring their peanuts (side note: peanut shelling/threshing/sorting, etc, appears to be exclusively women's work, like so much else) into the shade of a big old neem tree, spread out their plastic mats, and talk together as they work. Often, we'll all pitch in a little money to buy tea and sugar, or packets of powdered milk, which they sweeten with mint candies and drink in the little tea-shotglasses. The Senegalese tea ceremony is very interesting. It involves slowly boiling the leaves in hot water, adding measured sugar, and frothing the liquid back and forth between a pair of cups several times, to make a foam on top; then, it is quickly consumed with a series of slurps. Same goes for the minty milk. Now, a story of the life cycle of a peanut, as I understand it: first, they are shelled (a sharp snack against a rock or wooden stool will do the trick; experts get a two-handed rhythm going on, which I am trying to emulate) and then the nuts and shells are put back in the bucket to be threshed. This means they are shaken so the lighter shells move to the top, where they are scraped off; this is repeated until only the nuts remain. The shells are later used for cooking. Next, we spread the peanuts out on trays and pick through them. The pretty ones are destined to be seeds for next year. Those that are cracked, shriveled, or misshapen will be made into "tigadegie" - peanut butter, the base of several sauces. These are also the ones that will be weighed and traded for fish, or other foods, at the boutique or traveling horse-cart salesman. So, that's what we do!

On the road again

I'm back in Kaolack after a heinously cramped, four-or-five hour sept-place ride from Dakar. But, it is very good to be back where I know the ropes, and I feel comfortable in my (rather disgusting, but familiar) surroundings. I just had a surprisingly quick and painless trip to the market, where I picked up gifts for my Wolof family: new knives and powdered milk for the moms, tea and sugar for the dad, and new spoons, pens and notebooks for the kids. I also grabbed a petit pagne for myself. These are sheer pieces of fabric that go under the normal pagne - wrap skirts - of a complet. When women dance, they whip open the two flaps of the pagne, to reveal whatever they're wearing underneath, be it panties, a petit pagne, or nothing. I'm excited for the next dancing event, where I'll spread my skirts to flash the petit pagne. It will definitely be surprising and will make them laugh. If nothing else, laughter is something I feel comfortable sharing anywhere in the world. But first I must to the post office, and the bank, then I'll pick up some tasty cocunt beignets before hopping in a route taxi home. Only 150cfa, and if you're lucky you won't be sitting on some guy's lap in the front!

WAIST 2008: Dakar, Senegal

Kaolack's part in the annual West African Invitational Softball Tournament ended today. We played some awesome games - our team was really good! - but didn't quite make the finals. I did my part by cheering from the sidelines, wearing my bright red Kaolack team tee-shirt and yelling myself hoarse. Our region chose "toxic waist" as our theme; this is something of an inside joke, considering the volume of waste and general nastiness of Kaolack city itself, affectionately referred to as "the cesspool". So, the past two days have been full of softball, interspersed with frequent trips to the snack bar for (pork!) hot dogs, fries, baked treats, burgers, and other American deliciousness. One thing we Peace Corps Volunteers tend to do, whenever possible, is pig out on good food. Anything but ceeb u jen! Additionally, we had space to spread out, root for our favorite teams, relax, splash in the delightfully chilly swimming pool, and socialize. WAIST is an attraction for Volunteers from all over West Africa. I've met people serving in Mali, Benin, The Gambia, Guinea, and Mauritania. Plus, several groups of ex-pats, American and otherwise, who live here in Dakar. These people have been extremely generous to us. They've opened their homes to the Volunteers, so we all have places to stay, not to mention organizing all the games and events! It's really been a fantastic week-end. Dakar, it must be said, is not Senegal. Just like Paris is not France, and New York City is not the USA; Dakar is similar in that it stands alone, practically a country unto itself. Here are restaurants of every ethnicity, florist shops, clothing boutiques catering to every taste, shiny new cars, street lamps, trash cans, parks - all mostly unheard-of elsewhere in Senegal. Certainly a far cry from my quiet world several kilometers to the South, where people still go to the well every day for water, grow peanuts for a living, and there is no electricity. Dakar is dynamic; new buildings are going up everywhere, and the population is very cosmopolitan, with people of all walks of life and different heritages. Still, one is occasionally reminded that this is a developing country. Now and then, the smoothly paved roads give way to dirt. Horse charrettes can be seen trotting alongside sports cars, and street vendors hawking fruits or bean sandwiches are just as common as restaurants. The difference between the lifestyles of les Dakarois, and we villagers, is startling. It's not something you think about on a regular basis. But here are beautiful high-rise apartment buildings, while I live in a mud hut! Actually, I am looking forward to getting back to Keur Ali Gueye. There is a certain charm about living such a basic life, where needs are met but not exceeded, and time moves at its own pace. I passed my five-month anniversary, and I can't believe I've been here so long. The individual days are slow, but weeks fly by. Before I head back to the village, though, I'm going to enjoy my time here in the big city. And go dancing! We've had dance parties every night so far, and I plan to keep it up.

Chicken dibi-licious

Yesterday I went with a couple friends for the "famous" chicken dibi of Thies. This place is, literally, a hole in the wall, with a roaring fire (fed by logs that spill out into the walkway, burning on one end) over which meat and chicken are grilled. Ignoring the many food handling violations it would have earned in the US, I and my two brave companions settled down and ordered chicken for three. (As a side note, this was misunderstood as three chickens; a delicious if costly mistake.) Fabulous music was playing in the background - Youssou Ndour, an excellent Senegalese singer - with a beat so catchy we wiggled in our seats, dancing around. At length our dinner arrived: an enormous platter with grilled chicken arranged around a bed of salad, all drizzled over with mustard and mayonnaise. We dug in with our hands, grease smearing our fingers, with sighs of pleasure at the deliciousness of the crunchy skin and perfectly cooked meat. Oh, it was amazing! I realize now that many of my most ardent blog posts revolve around food. Coincidence? Definitely not. We have one more week of training in Thies before an all-Volunteer event in Dakar. More good meals on the horizon!

Ile de Goree

Happy Mardi Gras! I'm celebrating by having a nice dinner at a new restaurant in town, with free wi-fi Internet. How bizarre, to be using this fancy wireless computer here, with a guy selling nescafe from a cart strolling by, and kids dressed up in their best "yere wolof" for Mardi Gras. This past weekend I and three friends took a one-night vacation to Ile de Goree. It was amazing! We took a ferry to the island Saturday evening, at a time when most of the tourists were leaving for their hotels in Dakar. Ile de Goree looks like a town in Southern France, with its homogenous architecture of courtyard gardens, metal balconies, and red tile roofs. In the evening, quaint streetlamps came on, illuminating the narrow stone walkways - no cars on Goree, just pedestrians, which is completely relaxing. We had dinner at an oceanside restaurant. I'd forgotten how much I love the sea, the special smell of salt air and how relaxing the waves sound. Goree is a quiet paradise at nighttime; we strolled around, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere. The next day we followed crowds of tourists around to visit the island's attractions. Most famously, the slave house, which is veyr well preserved. The top floor is a tiny museum, once the old airy masters' quarters, built directly on top of the stone-walled cells beneath, where the slaves were housed. A door leads directly out to the sea - they called that, dramatically, "the door of no return." Goree also has a very nice little museum dedicated to Senegalese women, and another great museum covering the history of Senegal from prehistoric times, built upon an old fort. Of course, being a popular tourist destination, there was tons of art for sale (of varying quality) bombarding us throughout the day, all the way up the hill to the summit of the plateau. Bits of old military bunkers and defunct guns scatter the island as well. Several artists set up their studios in the empty cement buildings - an appropriate reclaimation, I think. For me a night on Ile de Goree was a heavenly respite from the stress of training, not to mention the constant noise. And I took my first hot shower in Senegal! Oh, it was so wonderful, it defies description! Needless to say my backyard bucket bath can't quite compare. But, now it's back to Thies and long training days. Today we practiced grafting trees. It's a fine art I definitely have not mastered.