The winds of Peace Corps service have brought me to Dakar to work at a week-long English language camp for Senegalese high school students. The program is funded by the US Embassy and is a chance for students to get a leg up on English comprehension during their summer vacation. We played lots of games with the students including "Simon Says," "Dodgeball," and "Capture the Flag," as well as many other adolescent favorites. The students also performed sketches that sparked very interesting and intelligent discussions about various Senegalese topics such as polygamy versus monogamy, HIV/AIDS, and gender inequality in Senegal. The games and projects gave the students the chance to practice their leadership and communication skills, which I believe to be somewhat lacking in the Senegalese educational system.
This last week was so much fun and the kids were so great that it was really hard to leave. On the last day the students surprised us by doing a presentation thanking us for coming and for our help and enthusiasm. They also gave us gifts of Senegalese clothes, necklaces, and drawings that were completely unexpected. We were all extremely touched. At the end of class we were all taking pictures and exchanging numbers when the group gradually broke out into song and started clapping, then urged us to dance-- a Senegalese farewell. I'm gonna miss those crazy cats.
Pictures to come...
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
I ‘bless the rains down in Africa’ as much as the next guy, but this...
The afternoon began like any other...
I was sitting in Boki Diawe waiting for a horse cart back to my village. When one finally showed up, it was immediately stampeded by myself and seven other women anxious to get back to our respective villages. As we were pushing, shoving, and piling on, I looked up and noticed some ominous, dark clouds moving fast in the sky. I turned and asked a lady if she thought it would rain. She replied that it probably would but she didn’t seem the least bit concerned. So we squeezed in and took off.
We were about halfway to the first village off the road when the wind began blowing violently. In a short time, the wind was joined by hail and extremely heavy rain. At first I thought, “Well this kind of sucks. All my stuff is getting wet (cell phone, iPod, books, etc.) but at least it’s not hot...”
The rain and wind grew more violent and stung my head and face. All the women were shielding themselves with their long headscarves, but since I didn’t happen to be sporting one, a lady next to me took hers and wrapped the both of us up in it. I was huddled up against this lady’s chest like a child as I watched the ground beneath us go very slowly by, and watched what happens to the desert when it rains — it floods. The ground became mud… then water… then swiftly flowing water. You can imagine how these conditions might not be favorable for a tiny, two-wheeled, one-horse cart bearing nine people and all of our stuff. Also, I believe I should note that the terrain surrounding my village is neither flat nor friendly. There are many deep gorges cut by previous rains, as well as hard clay deposits and patches of deep sand that the rain instantly turns into deep mud. Thus began our long journey home.
Wet and disheveled, we were constantly required to get off the cart and push it out of the mud or through a gorge, sometimes wading up to our chests in flowing water, shoeless I might add, because we were all wearing flip flops that would get stuck in the mud and lost forever. We were stepping on all kinds of rocks and thorns. I was cold and wet and uncomfortable and still a long way from home but surprisingly I was not in a bad mood. The women’s spirits were high and we traveled slowly along, joking all the time about how we looked and wondering aloud about why we didn’t choose to go to town the day before or the day after. The women were helpful and engaging the entire time, always turning to make sure I was still with them and doing OK. “Where’s Atoru? There you are. Come on.” Through the deep wading they would hold my hand.
Well after dark, we finally got to the village nearest mine and dropped off the bulk of our passengers. Two women from my village were the only ones left on the cart besides the young driver and myself. As we neared our village, we began to hear an eerie sound. The horse driver stopped and we all fell silent, listening. I asked what the noise was and the ladies replied that it was water.
“Like rain?”
“No, not like rain.”
We drove on and finally came upon the water sound’s source — a flooded gorge rushing wildly across our path. There wasn’t a raging river running near my village yesterday, but there was now. The two women (both in their 70’s at the very least, one small and frail-looking) got off the cart and began taking off their clothes and preparing to ford the river. I was told to stay on the cart and hold on very tight. I was sort of disappointed because I was ready to join the river-fording club and had already begun disrobing as well.
The driver and the two women took their stations behind the cart, ready to push. The road was quite bumpy and it wasn’t long before we had to halt. The cart was stuck and refused to budge. The driver began untying the horse and said we’d have to leave the cart and come back for it. The women insisted that they would move it and it was agreed that they’d give it one more shot.
These two courageous women once again took their positions and, on the count of three, pushed as hard as possible. The cart was jarred loose and everyone was abruptly thrust forward with it, sending the little old woman into deep, swiftly rushing water. In a split second she had been carried away a couple yards and without a moment’s hesitation, the other lady jumped in after her. Neither woman could be seen for a horrifying second, but soon emerged struggling against the current to get back to the cart. My heart beat rapidly as terror overtook me, and seeing that they were still struggling to find footing, I jumped in and grabbed hold of the older woman and helped her back to the cart. By this time, the cart was led back to dry ground and the two older women and I emerged from the water winded and clutching each other’s hands.
When we got back to the village I took a visual inventory of what we arrived with:
A very tired and wet horse and horse cart, as well as driver.
Two half naked, very wet Pulaar-speaking women, one shoeless.
“Where are your shoes?”
“They're gone.”
And one very wet, disheveled white girl.
I was sitting in Boki Diawe waiting for a horse cart back to my village. When one finally showed up, it was immediately stampeded by myself and seven other women anxious to get back to our respective villages. As we were pushing, shoving, and piling on, I looked up and noticed some ominous, dark clouds moving fast in the sky. I turned and asked a lady if she thought it would rain. She replied that it probably would but she didn’t seem the least bit concerned. So we squeezed in and took off.
We were about halfway to the first village off the road when the wind began blowing violently. In a short time, the wind was joined by hail and extremely heavy rain. At first I thought, “Well this kind of sucks. All my stuff is getting wet (cell phone, iPod, books, etc.) but at least it’s not hot...”
The rain and wind grew more violent and stung my head and face. All the women were shielding themselves with their long headscarves, but since I didn’t happen to be sporting one, a lady next to me took hers and wrapped the both of us up in it. I was huddled up against this lady’s chest like a child as I watched the ground beneath us go very slowly by, and watched what happens to the desert when it rains — it floods. The ground became mud… then water… then swiftly flowing water. You can imagine how these conditions might not be favorable for a tiny, two-wheeled, one-horse cart bearing nine people and all of our stuff. Also, I believe I should note that the terrain surrounding my village is neither flat nor friendly. There are many deep gorges cut by previous rains, as well as hard clay deposits and patches of deep sand that the rain instantly turns into deep mud. Thus began our long journey home.
Wet and disheveled, we were constantly required to get off the cart and push it out of the mud or through a gorge, sometimes wading up to our chests in flowing water, shoeless I might add, because we were all wearing flip flops that would get stuck in the mud and lost forever. We were stepping on all kinds of rocks and thorns. I was cold and wet and uncomfortable and still a long way from home but surprisingly I was not in a bad mood. The women’s spirits were high and we traveled slowly along, joking all the time about how we looked and wondering aloud about why we didn’t choose to go to town the day before or the day after. The women were helpful and engaging the entire time, always turning to make sure I was still with them and doing OK. “Where’s Atoru? There you are. Come on.” Through the deep wading they would hold my hand.
Well after dark, we finally got to the village nearest mine and dropped off the bulk of our passengers. Two women from my village were the only ones left on the cart besides the young driver and myself. As we neared our village, we began to hear an eerie sound. The horse driver stopped and we all fell silent, listening. I asked what the noise was and the ladies replied that it was water.
“Like rain?”
“No, not like rain.”
We drove on and finally came upon the water sound’s source — a flooded gorge rushing wildly across our path. There wasn’t a raging river running near my village yesterday, but there was now. The two women (both in their 70’s at the very least, one small and frail-looking) got off the cart and began taking off their clothes and preparing to ford the river. I was told to stay on the cart and hold on very tight. I was sort of disappointed because I was ready to join the river-fording club and had already begun disrobing as well.
The driver and the two women took their stations behind the cart, ready to push. The road was quite bumpy and it wasn’t long before we had to halt. The cart was stuck and refused to budge. The driver began untying the horse and said we’d have to leave the cart and come back for it. The women insisted that they would move it and it was agreed that they’d give it one more shot.
These two courageous women once again took their positions and, on the count of three, pushed as hard as possible. The cart was jarred loose and everyone was abruptly thrust forward with it, sending the little old woman into deep, swiftly rushing water. In a split second she had been carried away a couple yards and without a moment’s hesitation, the other lady jumped in after her. Neither woman could be seen for a horrifying second, but soon emerged struggling against the current to get back to the cart. My heart beat rapidly as terror overtook me, and seeing that they were still struggling to find footing, I jumped in and grabbed hold of the older woman and helped her back to the cart. By this time, the cart was led back to dry ground and the two older women and I emerged from the water winded and clutching each other’s hands.
When we got back to the village I took a visual inventory of what we arrived with:
A very tired and wet horse and horse cart, as well as driver.
Two half naked, very wet Pulaar-speaking women, one shoeless.
“Where are your shoes?”
“They're gone.”
And one very wet, disheveled white girl.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Its a hard knock life...
The lives of children here in Senegal, specifically in villages, are vastly different from those of the U.S. and unfortunately very hard. Because kids are the best non-verbal communicators, you can imagine how much time I spend with them. (They never tell me that my Pulaar is bad or ask me for money or for visas to go to America, only to give them my hands so that we may play clapping games, or a lap to sit in.)
Kids here are not viewed as humans but something lower and more unsubstantial. They are servants, hindrances, mouths to feed, and eventually an opportunity to gain material wealth (by marrying off your daughter to a wealthy man or hoping that one day your son will work abroad and send money home). They are hit, ordered around, or neglected. There is no affection shown and conversations about goals or what they want to be when they grow up never take place. If a child falls down and gets hurt and starts to cry, no one is there to offer comfort. The child is left in the sand crying until he eventually realizes the futility of his tears and gets up and dusts himself off.
You can imagine what kind of effect this has on the educational system here. Without encouragement or interest from parents, I can only speculate that most children would have no motivation to set goals and reach them which makes those that do so miraculous. Recently I have been working on a Peace Corps gender and development project that offers scholarships to girls in middle school in hopes to encourage girls to stay in school. (They are often taken out of school when they are married, pregnant, or need to help with the housework). The application process includes an essay and an interview, most questions having to do with goals and role models. Its so interesting to see the girls reaction when asking questions like, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" because they have never been asked that before and often have no idea how to anwser.
Babies are fondled and spoiled and loved. Unfortunately things go downhill after babies learn how to walk. The attention given decreases with every month and often by the time the mother is pregnant again the littlin' can kiss his happy days goodbye. He's on his own.
The other day I noticed this little baby sit quitely watching her mom walk back and forth cooking lunch and I could see the admiration in the baby's eyes. Her stare was filled with such sheer love as if she was thinking "my mother is the greatest single thing this world has to offer." I couldnt help but wonder if her eyes will have the same gleam in two or three years... only fleeting at best.
I love you, Mom and Dad.
Kids here are not viewed as humans but something lower and more unsubstantial. They are servants, hindrances, mouths to feed, and eventually an opportunity to gain material wealth (by marrying off your daughter to a wealthy man or hoping that one day your son will work abroad and send money home). They are hit, ordered around, or neglected. There is no affection shown and conversations about goals or what they want to be when they grow up never take place. If a child falls down and gets hurt and starts to cry, no one is there to offer comfort. The child is left in the sand crying until he eventually realizes the futility of his tears and gets up and dusts himself off.
You can imagine what kind of effect this has on the educational system here. Without encouragement or interest from parents, I can only speculate that most children would have no motivation to set goals and reach them which makes those that do so miraculous. Recently I have been working on a Peace Corps gender and development project that offers scholarships to girls in middle school in hopes to encourage girls to stay in school. (They are often taken out of school when they are married, pregnant, or need to help with the housework). The application process includes an essay and an interview, most questions having to do with goals and role models. Its so interesting to see the girls reaction when asking questions like, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" because they have never been asked that before and often have no idea how to anwser.
Babies are fondled and spoiled and loved. Unfortunately things go downhill after babies learn how to walk. The attention given decreases with every month and often by the time the mother is pregnant again the littlin' can kiss his happy days goodbye. He's on his own.
The other day I noticed this little baby sit quitely watching her mom walk back and forth cooking lunch and I could see the admiration in the baby's eyes. Her stare was filled with such sheer love as if she was thinking "my mother is the greatest single thing this world has to offer." I couldnt help but wonder if her eyes will have the same gleam in two or three years... only fleeting at best.
I love you, Mom and Dad.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
I cannot yet see the light at the end but am no longer looking at the light behind me…
The date is June 5th, 2008. I arrived in Senegal on March 16th, 2007. I came to my village on May 18th, 2007. I have officially been here for almost 15 months. I have past the halfway point of the typical Peace Corps service and a lot has changed in the past year, not only in my ability to live and work in this country but also my understanding of it. I am thoroughly enjoying watching the new stagaires come in and go through the various stages of freaking out that take place after debarking the plane in Senegal. Don’t be afraid little ones; I am here to help you through this hard time! I have all the answers. I am older and wiser and I am sure that I didn’t look or act anything like you guys when I first got here. I’m SURE of it.
One of the most common questions from friends and family have to do with my language ability and how its progressed after living here for a year. Obviously my language is a million times better than when I got here or even got to site but the process is a lot slower than you would, or I thought. Its very much two steps forward and one step back. Some days you feel like you are the king of the world and seem to understand everything that’s going on around you and being said to you. Other days, many days, I want to stay in my hut and not talk to a single person, because if someone tells me that I can’t speak Pulaar ONE MORE TIME, I will LOSE IT! But I know the only way to get better is to get out and get berated for not understanding the verb that’s being used until some nice villager takes pity on me and helps me understand what’s going on. I love these people. After being in my village for a year I’ve been able to pick out the families that help me and understand and these are the places that I prefer to spend my time and these are the families I feel I have developed real relationships with.
My new Peace Corps neighbor in the village closest to me, in all her naivety, asked when it was that I became comfortable with the language and how long that took… Umm… Sorry to break it to you, little one, but that hasn’t happened yet. I am not, nor do I believe I will ever be “comfortable” with the language. I can get around, ask for things I need, have simple conversations but if you think after a year of living here you’re going to be able to have the ability to discuss Nietche or the fundamentals of economic growth in the Middle East you are sadly mistaken. And admittedly, it is hard. It gets lonely when real, substantive interaction is beyond you. But you find ways to deal with this lack in communication by reading or writing (a blog for instance) and knowing when its time to get together with friends and speak some English. Also, knowing that my parents will call every Wednesday night helps me through long periods of village dwelling. Letters are great too! (hint hint.)
But as you could imagine, my progress of work parallels the progress in my language. The only way I can describe my (our-Peace Corps) work is…slow.
But even the small level of comfort we develop in our language (for us Pulaar speakers) gets shot to hell when we travel to other places in Senegal, like Dakar for instance. Most people in Dakar speak Wolof, and although some speak French many do not which leaves me in constant turmoil and leaves those Pulaar speakers that don’t speak French absolutely nowhere. It’s almost a necessity to have some Wolof speaking volunteer around at all times when we’re in Dakar. “Do you speak Wolof? Wanna be my friend? *smile*” But that can’t always happen and things consequently get lost in translation. What can you do?
My parents have recently visited as well as a close friend and I loved having the company. Having an outside perspective to my life here is amazingly enlightening and I’d love to have more. ;)
Along with the proverbial pat on the back, you also get a thorough medical examination when you’ve completed a year of Peace Corps service including a TB test, a pelvic exam, a stool analysis, a dental exam and the remaining vaccinations. All this probing is really pumping me up for the next year! Lets save the world, I am READY!
One of the most common questions from friends and family have to do with my language ability and how its progressed after living here for a year. Obviously my language is a million times better than when I got here or even got to site but the process is a lot slower than you would, or I thought. Its very much two steps forward and one step back. Some days you feel like you are the king of the world and seem to understand everything that’s going on around you and being said to you. Other days, many days, I want to stay in my hut and not talk to a single person, because if someone tells me that I can’t speak Pulaar ONE MORE TIME, I will LOSE IT! But I know the only way to get better is to get out and get berated for not understanding the verb that’s being used until some nice villager takes pity on me and helps me understand what’s going on. I love these people. After being in my village for a year I’ve been able to pick out the families that help me and understand and these are the places that I prefer to spend my time and these are the families I feel I have developed real relationships with.
My new Peace Corps neighbor in the village closest to me, in all her naivety, asked when it was that I became comfortable with the language and how long that took… Umm… Sorry to break it to you, little one, but that hasn’t happened yet. I am not, nor do I believe I will ever be “comfortable” with the language. I can get around, ask for things I need, have simple conversations but if you think after a year of living here you’re going to be able to have the ability to discuss Nietche or the fundamentals of economic growth in the Middle East you are sadly mistaken. And admittedly, it is hard. It gets lonely when real, substantive interaction is beyond you. But you find ways to deal with this lack in communication by reading or writing (a blog for instance) and knowing when its time to get together with friends and speak some English. Also, knowing that my parents will call every Wednesday night helps me through long periods of village dwelling. Letters are great too! (hint hint.)
But as you could imagine, my progress of work parallels the progress in my language. The only way I can describe my (our-Peace Corps) work is…slow.
But even the small level of comfort we develop in our language (for us Pulaar speakers) gets shot to hell when we travel to other places in Senegal, like Dakar for instance. Most people in Dakar speak Wolof, and although some speak French many do not which leaves me in constant turmoil and leaves those Pulaar speakers that don’t speak French absolutely nowhere. It’s almost a necessity to have some Wolof speaking volunteer around at all times when we’re in Dakar. “Do you speak Wolof? Wanna be my friend? *smile*” But that can’t always happen and things consequently get lost in translation. What can you do?
My parents have recently visited as well as a close friend and I loved having the company. Having an outside perspective to my life here is amazingly enlightening and I’d love to have more. ;)
Along with the proverbial pat on the back, you also get a thorough medical examination when you’ve completed a year of Peace Corps service including a TB test, a pelvic exam, a stool analysis, a dental exam and the remaining vaccinations. All this probing is really pumping me up for the next year! Lets save the world, I am READY!
Monday, April 28, 2008
Bean battles....
Gauntlettes were thrown,
enemies were made,
beans were eaten.
There are a few jokes that never seem to lose their humor amoung the Senegalse. One of these entails the consumption of beans. Apparently in Senegal it is an insult to be accused of being a "bean eater" because traditionally beans were cheap and only eaten in the absence of money to buy anything else. (This isnt really true though because beans are sort of expensive and as a health volunteer I must say that beans rock the house as far as nutrition is concerned).
I was recently in Bernard's village for a few days helping out with some health activities with a few of the new Peace Corps trainees and, let me tell you, there was no end to the bean harrassment. Bernards village name is "Modi Sow." My village name is "Atoru Dia." Historically, Dia's and Sow's are cousins and therefore we are required, by BIRTH, to give eachother copious amounts of redicule. Bernard's village is riddled with pesky Sows just waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting, visiting Dia, much to my chugrin. I couldn't go anywhere without being called a "Naamo Niebe" (bean eater) or being offered beans.
"You look hungry. You want me to cook you some beans?"
"Im sorry, I dont have any beans, you should go somewhere else."
"Where are you going? To buy beans?"
To add insult to injury, Bernards family actually cooked beans for dinner one night and they all sat around watching me eat and laughing. When will the maddness end?? OK! I admit it. I EAT BEANS! I LOVE THEM, CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF THEM! GIMMEE GIMME GIMMEE!
My name is Atoru Dia and I am a beanaholic!
And as if I'm not laughed at enough, this morning I was attempting to disembark from a horse cart (jumping off gracefully as the horse is still moving) and my bag fell off my shoulder and around my ankles and when I jumped off I got tangled in bag and fell over. I'm an idiot.
Besides that, Ashley, how are you doing with the heat, the wind, and the tiredness?
I am here only.
enemies were made,
beans were eaten.
There are a few jokes that never seem to lose their humor amoung the Senegalse. One of these entails the consumption of beans. Apparently in Senegal it is an insult to be accused of being a "bean eater" because traditionally beans were cheap and only eaten in the absence of money to buy anything else. (This isnt really true though because beans are sort of expensive and as a health volunteer I must say that beans rock the house as far as nutrition is concerned).
I was recently in Bernard's village for a few days helping out with some health activities with a few of the new Peace Corps trainees and, let me tell you, there was no end to the bean harrassment. Bernards village name is "Modi Sow." My village name is "Atoru Dia." Historically, Dia's and Sow's are cousins and therefore we are required, by BIRTH, to give eachother copious amounts of redicule. Bernard's village is riddled with pesky Sows just waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting, visiting Dia, much to my chugrin. I couldn't go anywhere without being called a "Naamo Niebe" (bean eater) or being offered beans.
"You look hungry. You want me to cook you some beans?"
"Im sorry, I dont have any beans, you should go somewhere else."
"Where are you going? To buy beans?"
To add insult to injury, Bernards family actually cooked beans for dinner one night and they all sat around watching me eat and laughing. When will the maddness end?? OK! I admit it. I EAT BEANS! I LOVE THEM, CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF THEM! GIMMEE GIMME GIMMEE!
My name is Atoru Dia and I am a beanaholic!
And as if I'm not laughed at enough, this morning I was attempting to disembark from a horse cart (jumping off gracefully as the horse is still moving) and my bag fell off my shoulder and around my ankles and when I jumped off I got tangled in bag and fell over. I'm an idiot.
Besides that, Ashley, how are you doing with the heat, the wind, and the tiredness?
I am here only.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Corki and Eric’s African Adventure
Toubabs ambling willy-nilly in search of fromage
Corki (aka Mom) ...
I’m sorry that I’ve taken so long to add my thoughts, but I’ve had a really difficult time paring down the experience to a few paragraphs. My original attempt turned out more like a diary and when I stopped, I had six pages in Word -- and I was only halfway done. I’m not going to pretend that anyone is THAT interested. So here is the condensed version -- I hope!
Senegal is a foreign country in the truest sense of the word. I know what you're thinking -- “DUH, Corki, it's freakin’ Africa!” But it's hard to get a sense of just how foreign it is. Foreign sounds, smells, heat, tastes, and of course, sights and language. At times it's sensory overload and it's easy to lose all sense of reference. Very little is real as we know it.
Sounds... In the villages and road towns, the first thing you notice are the active family sounds that extend late into the night. Since the villagers nap in the heat of the afternoon and eat dinner late, they stay awake late, even the children. And most of their living is done outside. There are constant animal sounds, bleeting sheep and goats meander around everywhere along with the occasional cow and burro.
Feral cats fight at night. Perhaps the most foreign of all is the Muslim call to prayer which begins around 4:00 am and continues at intervals throughout the day, ending at sundown. The speaker is right next to Ashley’s hut. But this followed us throughout the country. Everywhere we stayed, a mosque was never far away.
In the bigger cities, it’s more about the traffic and people. We were routinely followed by people trying to sell as merchandise as well as services. Everywhere, talibé boys beg for money and food (see: article on CNN.com). At the airport men offer to help you get through, carry your bags, and find you a car. Of course they then want money. This is also common in the cities. They will offer to give you tours, show you the best shops, restaurants, etc. -- of course, they always have some relationship to the places they’re leading you to, or get a kickback. Because of our expert personal guide daughter, we were taught early on how to deal with these people -- ignore them. I got really good at the dismissive hand wave.
Heat... I’m thinking 100 degrees kind of speaks for itself. Especially when you are in the very back seat of a sept-place (think a Ford Taurus station wagon with an extra, smaller back seat in the rear area) packed in like sardines. Air conditioning in cars is pretty well non-existent. And Ashley's village is in the desert -- 10K off the road into the bush. Let me tell you, in the afternoon we were virtually unable to do anything except sweat and breathe.
Smells... Imagine a mixture of exotic spices and oils, and mingle that with garbage and animal manure. That's pretty much how it smells. Near the coast add in fish and people smoking fish in the sand. Away from the cities, the air was pretty fresh most of the time. But even at the coast, there was an occasional waft of garbage.
Tastes... I didn't find the food bad at all. We ate well at the coast and in the cities. It was easy to find French food, crepes, and the occasional pizza. We even ate at a restaurant in St. Louis that served pina coladas and margaritas! Ok, they wouldn't have won an American bartender any awards, but they had alcohol and were tasty in their own right. We also discovered a new delicacy that’s available all over Senegal -- omelet sandwiches -- eggs scrambled with various vegetables and served on a baguette. Yum! In the village we ate oily rice and fish out of the communal bowl. I think it was almost more strange to eat sitting on the ground than it was for everyone to eat out of the same bowl. It’s rather uncomfortable, too, when there are a lot of people and you have to contort your body to allow someone to sit very close in front of you. And since we are not as used to squatting on a daily basis as the natives are, our knees weren't so much up to the task, either. But again, we had been taught beforehand so we were up to the challenge. Many of the villagers we visited also offered us sweetened milk and sweetened hot tea, much to Eric's dismay. He would try to discreetly pass it off to me so he didn't look ungrateful, but I think we were caught. I guess I really will eat or drink pretty much anything.
Sights... If I really get into this, it will be another six-page diatribe so I will do kind of a stream of consciousness string without a lot of elaboration. As you can see, I have included a few photos. Many, many half-built and abandoned buildings crumbling -- big ones in the cities as well as smaller dwellings and businesses in the road towns; sheep and goats everywhere; people staring at us wherever we went; really cool individually decorated long wooden fishing boats; eight-lane freeways with no lane markers painted; no stop lights or even stop signs anywhere and we never saw an accident; primitive donkey and horse carts sharing the road, even highways, with vehicles; piles of garbage, blowing garbage, garbage washed up on the beach; modern buildings next to ramshackle tin boxes and mud huts; lovely women in brightly colored traditional dress and head wraps, often carrying things on their heads and many with babies tied on their backs; lots of lots of kids (who always seemed to be fascinated by white people); many tiny local restaurants with "Fast Food," in English, painted on the front (not so much, as it turns out); totally awesome baobab trees; MONKEYS!, gazelles, large sand crabs, odd birds, a couple of camels, burros, longhorn cattle, one scorpion, and did I mention sheep and goats?; Lots and lots of sand with lots of dried animal dung on top of it; white mosques with turquoise accents; sleeping under mosquito nets; small villages with dwellings laid out in a way that makes no sense; sand paths; kids and men in 
western clothing (we saw lots of American cast-off clothing, in fact the moment we arrived in Ashley's (her village name is Atoru) village we were greeted by a woman with a “White Bear Lake High School” t-shirt on over her traditional skirt -- this is where my mother-in-law grew up and went to school); men in robes and turbans as well; mud bricks drying in the sun; fences made out of mud bricks, sticks, and combinations of sticks and rolled up thorn bushes; roadside markets with small, tin-covered stalls; beautiful azaleas in surprising places; and stars that go on forever, breathtaking, defying description. To sum it up, Michael Palin said it best when talking about Senegal -- “...it's a place where beauty co-exists with squalor.”
The country and the people are genuinely beautiful. They have very little, but the villagers share what they do have with complete strangers without hesitation. They are warm, they are funny, they are proud. I am honored to have been welcomed by them and I will always treasure them in my heart.
I can't close without mentioning how proud we are of our awesome daughter! She was the parent wrangler, the translator, the negotiator, the guide. the teacher, and the leader. It was amazing to watch her converse easily switching between French, Pulaar, and English in all types of situations, from negotiating a price for a taxi, to schmoozing a gendarme (policeman) as he was checking our passports, to formally greeting the elders of the village. She showed an amazing amount of poise, skill, and maturity and we are just so proud of the woman she has become -- again words just can't convey the depth of our pride and gratitude. I have tears in my eyes just thinking about it. Aturo, my love, you truly rock!
_______________________________
Eric (aka Dad)...
I just wanted to ad a few foot notes to Corki’s entry. Travel in Senegal is very hard, everything is public transportation of different degrees of difficulty. Once you got outside the airport virtually no one speaks English with the exception of ”Igiveyougoodprice“ and ”howareyouiamfine“ both spoken as one word. You could get by along the coastal areas if you speak French. Also the random traffic stops by the military police are somewhat bothersome as you sit on the side of the road for 30 minutes in 100 degree heat as they argue with the driver.
Something else that really surprised me was the large piles of trash you would see as you got close to the populated areas. If you look close at them you will see they are almost entirely made up of plastic water bottles and black plastic bags (every time you buy anything in a store no matter how small it is carefully wrapped in a black plastic bag) introduced by our modern civilization without any way to recycle or dispose of them.
The talibe boys that would gather around your car every time you stop would really tug at your heart strings. They would recite alms which are the Islamic version of bible verses and in return you were supposed to give them money. We would try to give them food if we had any and what really surprised me was that instead of the person you gave the food to wolfing it down on the spot, they would walk a few steps away and split it up to share with the others. Please read the link in Corki's blog about the talibe if you have not done so, it is a very eye opening story, parts of which we witnessed first hand.
It was really great to get home and I am not really sure if I would want to go back to Senegal, but it was an experience of a lifetime, some good some bad. Ashley was an awesome tour guide and parent wrangler and we never would have been able to do this without her. Her ability to handle all of the different situations and watching her converse in multiple languages was just amazing and we were so proud. When you see the mud hut that she lives in on a daily basis I do not see how she does it. The prisoners in the La Porte County Jail have better accommodations. Also it was great to meet some of the other peace corps volunteers. As future leaders of our country I can't help but feel they will do better than the ones we have now.
Corki (aka Mom) ...
I’m sorry that I’ve taken so long to add my thoughts, but I’ve had a really difficult time paring down the experience to a few paragraphs. My original attempt turned out more like a diary and when I stopped, I had six pages in Word -- and I was only halfway done. I’m not going to pretend that anyone is THAT interested. So here is the condensed version -- I hope!
Senegal is a foreign country in the truest sense of the word. I know what you're thinking -- “DUH, Corki, it's freakin’ Africa!” But it's hard to get a sense of just how foreign it is. Foreign sounds, smells, heat, tastes, and of course, sights and language. At times it's sensory overload and it's easy to lose all sense of reference. Very little is real as we know it.Sounds... In the villages and road towns, the first thing you notice are the active family sounds that extend late into the night. Since the villagers nap in the heat of the afternoon and eat dinner late, they stay awake late, even the children. And most of their living is done outside. There are constant animal sounds, bleeting sheep and goats meander around everywhere along with the occasional cow and burro.
Feral cats fight at night. Perhaps the most foreign of all is the Muslim call to prayer which begins around 4:00 am and continues at intervals throughout the day, ending at sundown. The speaker is right next to Ashley’s hut. But this followed us throughout the country. Everywhere we stayed, a mosque was never far away.In the bigger cities, it’s more about the traffic and people. We were routinely followed by people trying to sell as merchandise as well as services. Everywhere, talibé boys beg for money and food (see: article on CNN.com). At the airport men offer to help you get through, carry your bags, and find you a car. Of course they then want money. This is also common in the cities. They will offer to give you tours, show you the best shops, restaurants, etc. -- of course, they always have some relationship to the places they’re leading you to, or get a kickback. Because of our expert personal guide daughter, we were taught early on how to deal with these people -- ignore them. I got really good at the dismissive hand wave.
Heat... I’m thinking 100 degrees kind of speaks for itself. Especially when you are in the very back seat of a sept-place (think a Ford Taurus station wagon with an extra, smaller back seat in the rear area) packed in like sardines. Air conditioning in cars is pretty well non-existent. And Ashley's village is in the desert -- 10K off the road into the bush. Let me tell you, in the afternoon we were virtually unable to do anything except sweat and breathe.Smells... Imagine a mixture of exotic spices and oils, and mingle that with garbage and animal manure. That's pretty much how it smells. Near the coast add in fish and people smoking fish in the sand. Away from the cities, the air was pretty fresh most of the time. But even at the coast, there was an occasional waft of garbage.
Tastes... I didn't find the food bad at all. We ate well at the coast and in the cities. It was easy to find French food, crepes, and the occasional pizza. We even ate at a restaurant in St. Louis that served pina coladas and margaritas! Ok, they wouldn't have won an American bartender any awards, but they had alcohol and were tasty in their own right. We also discovered a new delicacy that’s available all over Senegal -- omelet sandwiches -- eggs scrambled with various vegetables and served on a baguette. Yum! In the village we ate oily rice and fish out of the communal bowl. I think it was almost more strange to eat sitting on the ground than it was for everyone to eat out of the same bowl. It’s rather uncomfortable, too, when there are a lot of people and you have to contort your body to allow someone to sit very close in front of you. And since we are not as used to squatting on a daily basis as the natives are, our knees weren't so much up to the task, either. But again, we had been taught beforehand so we were up to the challenge. Many of the villagers we visited also offered us sweetened milk and sweetened hot tea, much to Eric's dismay. He would try to discreetly pass it off to me so he didn't look ungrateful, but I think we were caught. I guess I really will eat or drink pretty much anything.
Sights... If I really get into this, it will be another six-page diatribe so I will do kind of a stream of consciousness string without a lot of elaboration. As you can see, I have included a few photos. Many, many half-built and abandoned buildings crumbling -- big ones in the cities as well as smaller dwellings and businesses in the road towns; sheep and goats everywhere; people staring at us wherever we went; really cool individually decorated long wooden fishing boats; eight-lane freeways with no lane markers painted; no stop lights or even stop signs anywhere and we never saw an accident; primitive donkey and horse carts sharing the road, even highways, with vehicles; piles of garbage, blowing garbage, garbage washed up on the beach; modern buildings next to ramshackle tin boxes and mud huts; lovely women in brightly colored traditional dress and head wraps, often carrying things on their heads and many with babies tied on their backs; lots of lots of kids (who always seemed to be fascinated by white people); many tiny local restaurants with "Fast Food," in English, painted on the front (not so much, as it turns out); totally awesome baobab trees; MONKEYS!, gazelles, large sand crabs, odd birds, a couple of camels, burros, longhorn cattle, one scorpion, and did I mention sheep and goats?; Lots and lots of sand with lots of dried animal dung on top of it; white mosques with turquoise accents; sleeping under mosquito nets; small villages with dwellings laid out in a way that makes no sense; sand paths; kids and men in 
western clothing (we saw lots of American cast-off clothing, in fact the moment we arrived in Ashley's (her village name is Atoru) village we were greeted by a woman with a “White Bear Lake High School” t-shirt on over her traditional skirt -- this is where my mother-in-law grew up and went to school); men in robes and turbans as well; mud bricks drying in the sun; fences made out of mud bricks, sticks, and combinations of sticks and rolled up thorn bushes; roadside markets with small, tin-covered stalls; beautiful azaleas in surprising places; and stars that go on forever, breathtaking, defying description. To sum it up, Michael Palin said it best when talking about Senegal -- “...it's a place where beauty co-exists with squalor.”
The country and the people are genuinely beautiful. They have very little, but the villagers share what they do have with complete strangers without hesitation. They are warm, they are funny, they are proud. I am honored to have been welcomed by them and I will always treasure them in my heart.I can't close without mentioning how proud we are of our awesome daughter! She was the parent wrangler, the translator, the negotiator, the guide. the teacher, and the leader. It was amazing to watch her converse easily switching between French, Pulaar, and English in all types of situations, from negotiating a price for a taxi, to schmoozing a gendarme (policeman) as he was checking our passports, to formally greeting the elders of the village. She showed an amazing amount of poise, skill, and maturity and we are just so proud of the woman she has become -- again words just can't convey the depth of our pride and gratitude. I have tears in my eyes just thinking about it. Aturo, my love, you truly rock!
_______________________________
Eric (aka Dad)...
I just wanted to ad a few foot notes to Corki’s entry. Travel in Senegal is very hard, everything is public transportation of different degrees of difficulty. Once you got outside the airport virtually no one speaks English with the exception of ”Igiveyougoodprice“ and ”howareyouiamfine“ both spoken as one word. You could get by along the coastal areas if you speak French. Also the random traffic stops by the military police are somewhat bothersome as you sit on the side of the road for 30 minutes in 100 degree heat as they argue with the driver.
Something else that really surprised me was the large piles of trash you would see as you got close to the populated areas. If you look close at them you will see they are almost entirely made up of plastic water bottles and black plastic bags (every time you buy anything in a store no matter how small it is carefully wrapped in a black plastic bag) introduced by our modern civilization without any way to recycle or dispose of them.
The talibe boys that would gather around your car every time you stop would really tug at your heart strings. They would recite alms which are the Islamic version of bible verses and in return you were supposed to give them money. We would try to give them food if we had any and what really surprised me was that instead of the person you gave the food to wolfing it down on the spot, they would walk a few steps away and split it up to share with the others. Please read the link in Corki's blog about the talibe if you have not done so, it is a very eye opening story, parts of which we witnessed first hand.
It was really great to get home and I am not really sure if I would want to go back to Senegal, but it was an experience of a lifetime, some good some bad. Ashley was an awesome tour guide and parent wrangler and we never would have been able to do this without her. Her ability to handle all of the different situations and watching her converse in multiple languages was just amazing and we were so proud. When you see the mud hut that she lives in on a daily basis I do not see how she does it. The prisoners in the La Porte County Jail have better accommodations. Also it was great to meet some of the other peace corps volunteers. As future leaders of our country I can't help but feel they will do better than the ones we have now.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Our awesome toubak radio show!
Pulaar skits
Caitlin and Angela skitting their socks off...
How much cooler can you get than this?
Caitlin and Angela skitting their socks off...
How much cooler can you get than this?
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