Do the Hadiatou!

Who doesn’t love a dance party? Especially if the other participants agree that YOU are the best dancer? But wait… aren’t I in Africa, land of people who dance in their wombs and who couldn’t do anything out of rhythm if they tried? And isn’t this ME, we’re talking about, not someone who, in fact, CAN dance?

In my Thies home stay, I observed many toddlers with better rhythm than most adults I know. Of course, these city households boogied against a background of African and American R&B from radios, TVs, and cell phones. The toddlers got plenty of practice time and were encouraged by all the family members around them who also had nothing else to do.

Sadly, life is very different in the village. We’re still a part of Senegal and West Africa, of course, where dance is deeply ingrained in the culture. But my villagers don’t live the same kind of life as my Thies family. They work and farm all day, exhausted by the end, only able to sit in the dark and talk quietly to each other and the stars, before getting up at dawn to do it again. There are few phones and radios, no TVs, and not even many drums. We dance at weddings and baptisms—briefly.

The day after Tabaski, my women’s club organized time to meet, a radio to borrow, money for batteries, and time to cook the vegetables I brought. We all wore our matching complets. I.e. we had a party.

The complets were actually the reason for the group’s existence. Tired of wishing wistfully every Tabaski that they had a new outfit, the women formed a club that met weekly. Dues were about 10 cents and over the course of the year, amounted to enough for a complet for each member, cut from the same fabric. My sister-mom is president and Mariama is the treasurer who kept the money (since she’s literate).

The women bubbled over with excitement for their NEW clothes. I surprised myself with how happy I was to match everyone. Of course I still stood out, but at least I was the same in One respect! I was less happy when my pagne fell down in the middle of the village, but luckily my village is not exactly hopping and Diardi tied it back up in a flash. (Haha! Flash…)

On actual Tabaski, the women were too busy cooking and running around working to put on their prized clothes until just before dusk. I was mostly busy painting henna on 20 peoples’ hands. When we finally had them on, the only place to go was to a soccer game, a 20 minute hike away. The walk was slightly treacherous and lit only by moonlight. As I picked my way on stepping stones in the river, I found it sadly humorous that this was the party.

The night was just as uneventful. Whereas the national tradition is to get down with yo bad self until the roosters crow (the cows are already home), my people were just tired, cold (COLD SEASON!), and ready for bed. They had the requisite primary school building party, but barely any kids could afford the admission fee of pennies. It was like going to bed at 8:30 on New Year’s Eve.

Back to the day after. This group of women is comprised of women around my age (18-30). All of them are married with multiple children. I’m not going to succumb to the pressure of the Peace Corps experience and gush about the connections of our sister souls, blah, blah. But it is true that these are some excellent women who make me genuinely happy every time I see them. They are sweet, and proud to have me in the group without turning me into some kind of mascot (“look, we’ve got the toubab!”) They are important to me, but I can’t pretend to understand their worlds to the deepest levels of intimacy. If I had been born and raised here, these women would be my very best friends. But for now, just recognizing that is enough.

So we’re all dressed up literally in our best. This already depresses me, in a childish way. I’ve always dreaded that dejection you get from removing your 8^th grade dance dress (etc.) at the end of the day. That was it? It’s over? Where’d it go?

To make matters worse, they are all passing around a tiny broken shard of mirror, one tube of lip gloss, and one eyebrow pencil—which doubles as ill-advised lip-liner. They look like they’re playing dress-up. To go where? Under the other mango tree, 15 feet away, to look into the same faces that surround them now. I wanted to run away and cry.

Instead, I cringe at the dance party portion. It would definitely fit the LAME label in the states.I imagined trying to convince my friends at home to do this. They might play along for a minute, straining laughs, and rolling their eyes, but finally suggest we do something ACTUALLY fun. For these women who are my best friends in another life, this is the best part of the Best Day of the Year. THIS. IS. IT.

I fought the urge to run. I didn’t want to dance at first because a bunch of villagers including teenage boys had collected, ready for a break in my RA-like image. But as I felt bad for the sad little spectacle, I knew I had to do my part. Sure, I could ignore it and look forward instead to the comparatively glamorous gatherings in the bars and clubs of my future—that don’t make me want to weep… But I had to do my part here. Despite the usual indifference to my toubab-ness that I usually enjoy from the women, I knew Toubab Dancing would attract everyone’s undivided attention. But I considered my dignity and comfort sacrifices for these lovely women who deserve so so so much more.

The women had been shuffle-dancing, without heart, in a sore, overworked-body way. That is not how a 20-something year old body should be! That was the first difference between my dancing and theirs.

I am not a skilled dancer. My strengths are that I’m not afraid to be a little “out there,” and that I get bored quickly of doing the same small movements most people do. Still, make no mistake, I’m far from talented. On this occasion, I felt a knew sense of abandon in knowing I had no choice but to be the ridiculous center of attention. Encouraged by shouts and claps, I lost myself in thought. I imagined my movements were like the henna I’d been drawing non-stop: repeated circles, stripes, curlicues, embellishments… Once I realized I didn’t even know how long I’d been in the middle of a clapping circle, I couldn’t even attempt to blend in. I kept forgetting myself, because I never realized how inherently sexual mindless American dance moves are. Very different from the tired village woman shuffle! I kept thinking, “Oops!” when I’d lapse and elicit another shout.

Embarrassed at this point, I decided to play it safe by copying exactly what the other women were doing so I wouldn’t be inappropriate anymore. It didn’t seem that hard until a new girl joined and was encouraged to do the very same move I’d been trying to copy: “Dance like Hadiatou!” Haha! Ooops…

While obviously flattering, this attention only broke my heart more. These women are African! Why are they copying me? What’s wrong with this picture? But it makes sense if you compare our lives rather than our genes. Compared to the few occasions I’ve had to dance in the village, I’ve had numerous chances in America. This is the same reason I’m the henna artist here—no one else around had the liberty to waste entire forests of drawing paper in their childhoods.

Once I felt I’d made my support of the party known enough so that I could leave, I thanked everyone and said goodbye. But I wasn’t leaving, I said, until every woman and onlooker got up and danced together. A couple groaned protests, “But I can’t dance! You can, but I can’t!” Once they were up and I danced more ridiculously, they were grinning. They shuffled, clapped, danced the Hadiatou, and smiled smiles worthy of the Best Day of the Year.

When I left them like that, I was smiling too.

Lewd Food

My mother’s and aunt’s polite but unfavorable reactions to some high-end food on our part, inspire me to further explain the food situation here. It’s BAD. I’m not kidding. After a while in the village you start thinking it’s better, like, “Hmm, is this cream of spinach tonight?” but no. It’s not. That’s called lying-to-yourself adaptation.

The good thing is that the food is mostly just bland, and not actually offensive. The menu consists of: mashed up corn of sand consistency, water, and either peanut or leaf sauce. Finis! Squash, beans, and okra make their brief appearances once grown. Small bits of onion also count as vegetables, but I suspect those are all from onions I’ve brought in. When I brought carrots with my mom and Cindy, they didn’t even know what they were. Let’s got back to the okra, though.

Dumi. Alexa called it, “Dumi-a-favor-and-get-it-out-of-my-face.” It is okra slime sauce over… what? Oh yes, corn mush. It is so very reminiscent of mucus in texture and color, that it’s hard to tell if it actually also tastes like it, or if that’s another mind-trick. So we eat dumi like everything else, 10ish people crowded around a bowl. After you’ve witnessed everyone’s unsatisfactory hand-washing show (without soap (I give up.)), they dig in. The kids almost all have large globules of snot adorning their faces. You try to keep track of these so they don’t jump ship onto the hand and into the bowl. But it’s dark and there’s some pushing and lots of little hands scooping at booger sauce, right in front of you, even, since there’s no space for your personal clean spot. And of course many globules go missing, but you tell yourself you must have missed the wipe. And you swallow.

Bon apetite!

(Anyone care to review the wish list on the left?)

More Rockin'

More-Rockin’ Notes

Casablanca:

-Convinced mom to eat brains, but I’m not that nefarious because they were legitimately delicious

-Awesome hotel! Bed like a cloud, bathrobes, rose petals, English movie channel… ahhhh!

-Cindy asked when the pool would be functioning again as it was CLEARLY empty. She kept being told it was fine and she could go swim in it!

-Hassan II Mosque: roof opens like a car’s, heated tile floor, washing fountains are multiplied as if between facing mirrors. Kept thinking about bringing baaba and how he’d just implode if he saw it. But perhaps it’s easier to take the stick mosque seriously without seeing this amazing one

-Very much like Europe. Again am only one in flip-flops, and worst-dressed

Marrakesh:

-My mom and Cindy rode camels in the park of Jardin Menara. The trick was to not give my mom time to think about protesting. Camel-ride?-Yes,-she’s-interested-go-mom-get-on! SO FUNNY! My mom wrapped her legs oddly around the saddle because she was convinced Cindy’s camel wanted to bite her. And when I took her camel’s reigns and said things like, “Mush!” and “Canter!” she did Not find it amusing. I want to make a calendar out of these hysterical photos.

-Epicerie/pharmacy: Mum, Cindy, and Matt all got massages. Once I saw them all take off their shirts in the same public space, I declined and just laughed at them. Awkward and hilarious.

-In a car from Marrakesh to Casablanca with my mom and Cindy, M and I discovered we both had giardia. For those of you unfamiliar, the characteristics of this parasite are for the most part audible and smell-able. So we exhibited those disgusting signs, sulfer burping along the road, and shrugged sheepishly at each other. “Dating is very different these days!” was a line we heard a few times throughout the trip.

-SHINY THINGS! I found myself consumed with the desire for all of them. They sparkled and hypnotized the sense out of me. Personally, I think it’s caused by some unfortunate biological imbalance because I swear I’m usually a rational being. Getting out with just four things I think shows my stoic resolve.

-People dress well. I had a tear at my knee on some Senegalese-print capris and it caused quite the scandel. As we walked around, people everywhere were literally pointing and laughing at me. School girls retraced their steps just to get another peak. Haha!

-Delicious street food, rows of dates and fresh squeezed orange juice stalls, carnies charming snakes and strumming strange instruments… awesome!

Fes:

-Mesmerizing maze of souk streets. The food lanes made me want to immediately move there.

-Got henna from Fatima after arguing forever over the price. She whipped out the, “But I’m so poor!” bit too early by Senegalese bargaining standards, so I was sort of annoyed to get to her nice house and see her DVD player and fat daughter. But the henna was pretty!

-Dar Batha Museum: pretty, but I felt like all its ancient contents could be viewed just as easily out on the streets. The jewelry was the same that I haggled over; the tools were being used still right next door…

-Merenid Tombs: we just wanted to climb up this random hill and get a view and we fell on these cool ruins. Great view that seemed through a time-portal window. Creepy caves (with torn dresses, a doll’s head, and a large bone). We went down the Wrong Way and I was glad my mom and Cindy were not still with us for this part of the trip.

Merzouga:

-Secured room through sketchiest dealings ever. A guy at the bus station with a wrinkled brochure and texts from alleged tourists who “loved it!” spent an hour arguing about the price and camel-riding itinerary. He finally scribbled a “reservation” on a paper and asked for money upfront. We decided it was a scam and didn’t give him anything. But when we got there, shock of all shocks, the ride we agreed on was waiting for us! Humanity beats cynicism for the day! Hoorah!

-DUNES! The Mummy was shot here…

-Camel trek! I headed up the convoy, followed by M and 6 Italian potheads (I’ve never seen anyone smoke up this much. In the dunes under the stars, I get it, but at every public bus stop in a devout Muslim country?). The gypsyish tents were cool, and COLD. I wrapped myself in all the garments I had. Dunes + full moon= quite romantic. Running up the snow-like sand to touch the stars, and it felt like we had our own planet. In the daylight too, the sands glow red like Martian terrain in windswept shapes under the setting sun. When the moon rose HUGE over a dune, it was just begging for a biker silhouette ET-reenactment photo. Next time!

-We ate a kingly pile of meat and vegetable tajine, which was far too much for us to tackle, followed by apples and pomegranates. Among gypsy tents, moonlit dunes, and desert stars, it was beautiful, delicious, but with tinges of absurd unfairness and arrogant extravagance. We were in the DESERT, for god’s sake! Eating better than my village family in the entire past year. I just hoped the camels got spoiled too as they did all the work.

-There were several things in the desert that lead me to conclude that it is both a more hospitable and more industrious environment than Pellel. Such as:

-House cats. Even among dunes in the middle of nowhere. NOT starving, and in fact doing magnitudes better than the one my family tried to raise on lachiri and hut mice (who I believe is now deceased)

-Working wells and forages. *$@*%#*&@@%#$!

-Coldness. The sand dunes felt like snow

-No malaria or snakes. Humph.

Bus ride to Ouarzazate:

-Had to pee unbelievably badly. I held it for as long as possible and M asked the driver to stop. When they did briefly to let someone off, I leapt off too, yelling, “Btlma?!!” When people pointed to a second story while the bus guys shouted at me to get back on, I said, “I’ll just go here!” I thought a slightly shadowy corner of a building would suffice and began to unzip. But I looked up to meet the stares of at least five guys. “Uhh… don’t look? Stop looking! Can you just… I’m just gonna… No, but stop looking!” They did not stop looking, and a few even stepped closer thinking I was asking something. I was going to explode. The bus driver was about to bust his honking apparatus. I looked around wildly, praying I wouldn’t wet myself. I spotted a bush over a wall, jumped it, and peed for a good 100 seconds. I heard kids giggling and suspected the dumbstruck men could still make me out pretty well, but cultural sensitivity and exploding bladders don’t exactly correspond. I ran back to the franticly honking bus amidst laughter and some applause. I embraced it, and jogged through victoriously, waving even, like an Olympic runner. The bus lurched off before I was completely in, only to stop one minute later for an official 10-minute pee-break. Oops! It ended up even being double that when the engine wouldn’t catch… Oh well!

Bus to Marrakesh through High Atlas Mountains:

-Ribbony roads wrapped all around the mountains, sometimes corkscrewing, always with breathtaking views on the open side. Sometimes the views showed terrifying plummets that the bus careened carelessly past… but quite picturesque! Canal systems, beautiful gardens, olive trees everywhere, geod sellers at the most random and uninhabited turns, school girls skipping in headscarves, the very picture of purity, farmers, sheep… I just wanted to hop off and talk to/help/ photograph everyone and maybe live there for a year. Or, indefinitely. The soft boxy towns seemed to be carved out of the mointains themselves. With such fertile gardens and freakin’ unbelievable views in their doorways, I fantasized about a Peace Corps service in one of these pastorally perfect, simple mountain villages. Then I noticed that every single house had a satellite dish on top. Whaaaaat?! Now I’m even more envious—what do they Not have? (Along this vein, the boutiques also have waaaaay better selections, often including things like snickers or Limited-Edition-Dark-Chocolate-TWIX (WHY WOULD THIS BE LIMITED?! OH WHAT A CRUELLY BRIEF GODLY GIFT!), lots of chocolate and chip things… HUMPH, again!)

When I got off the plane in Morocco and faced more hijabs and veiled women than I’d ever seen, I was a little suspect about how I’d feel about the place. The impersonal bustle of Casablanca, and the Disney-like theatrics of Marrakesh (we kept deciding certain scenes had to be staged. See previous poem), also didn’t move me. But the frequent cafes and sidewalks and all the girls with school bags impressed me. Ahh, development! That, and the tastes and beauty, the pride in agriculture and mosaic architecture, the culture of art and literature and haunting arabic melodies—this is what I was looking for. Rockin.

Fes Tale

an old lady stoops, halves her

bread, shaking arm out

like a gnarled branch, offering

it to the gnarled

man who wears rags

awash in matching dusts.

end scene one, act infinity.

the young girl with hair

brushed smooth clears coke

bottles from the roof top table,

grinning over her

shoulder at the boy working on

the roof

across the street

when she comes back, they lean

over

railings, smiling, silent laughing,

mouthing the words

no one else speaks.

in lulls they watch the people

below, amber-lit, warbling music

cinnamon winds

the girl tosses her hair

as the birds sing endlessly

the shoemakers work

in the shoe-shops and the

shoe-shiners stand by

woodworkers, tailors, leather

tanners and craftsmen

earthenware potters, weave to work

squinting among shimmering

beads on sale, interchangeable

to the ancient ones

in the local museums.

cell phone shops fringe

snakes, charmed among

hanging baubles, genie lairs,

gypsy queen wares

the old city beguiles

the visiter who turns

up, down and around

twisting shifting

sneaking snake paths, breathing

the saffron cinnamon

drugging maze air

the gem-like fruits turn

to body parts, a man

holds a chicken head

in a kleenex, you bump into

a camel’s head while turning

from the milky marble

eyes of a lunatic

you choke on the

putrid stench of

drying skins, dying

leathers, the crowd

pulses

closer, the

walls triangle

up to just a

sliver of sky, like

the eyes

of a veiled woman

the doors

are shaped like

locked

keyholes

and then the voices from the sky

cover their shivering

people, they wash hands, arms,

face, neck, feet, making

perfect lines of persian

carpets or strips of cardboard, falling

to their knees

at once, face down

buried, eyes in the woven dowries

woolen shapes and colors

that chronicle the stories of the illiterate, smooth-

haired girls growing

up among other peoples’

candle-lit dinners until

the eyes

of a boy shine

like stars across

the street scenes and

unreal night

HUP deux trois quatre…

"But if we go rock-climbing, we gotta go at sunset."

"Oh yeah, it's beautiful there?"

"Naw, just the way my muscles look when the light hits 'em."

Working with the army is interesting. As you might imagine, these guys are a bit different from Peace Corps guys. I’m a bit biased of course, and happen to think there’s no better type of guy than a Peace Corps guy. But the change was still refreshing and rather hilarious.

Most amusing was the blatant machoism. I’m still not sure if they were kidding. For example, we had to pull a cable to tow a ferry platform over the river. Usually this is a lazy endeaver for the Kedougou folk, because who really cares? These guys.

They pulled their little hearts out until they were doubled over, panting, with blisters despite the gloves they donned (someone doesn’t farm/ pound corn!). I just sipped at my coffee-in-a-nalgene (we biked over at sunrise everyday to meet them as they rolled from their beds to their SUVs…) and wondered what kind of strange society I’d signed into. They even insisted we have a boys vs. girls contest. I thought this was an odd proposition. The men were all beafy combat guys; the girls were nurses, doctors, and three Peace Corps volunteers who’d probably had about a pound of protein between them in the last year. If I were in normal shape, I might be all over this, but as it was, I just kept saying, “Are you kidding me?” It seems I’ve gotten rather used to saying any number of not-so-polite things in english with the expectation that no one will understand them.

The G.I. Joes were literally bouncing up and down before the contest. They synchronized watches, got two timers, repeated rules, and announced the ladies would be granted a 30 second head-start. Once we were off, I of course pulled my corn-mush-fed heart out (while my public position remained Disinterested). With the 30 seconds, we ended up winning. The manly man promptly declared they were just kidding about the 30 seconds, and leave it to us to enforce double standards whenever it suits us. Wow.

At the clinic, things ran smoothly enough. When they didn’t, some sort of army PANIC MODE switch was flipped. This was incredibly funny. Winds came and the tents billowed up. We PCVs watched serenely with the villagers, in a dozy, “Hoh, will you look at that…” way. The G. I. Joes, however, SPRINTED around, pumping their arms, eyes flashing, bellowing orders, “MOVE it, MOVE it, MOVE IT! Secure the tent cords! GO, Get that side, GO!”

When this all started, I was on lunch break in the VEHICLE (it is never referred to as a mere “car”) savoring delicious army food (pita chips! Apple jacks! Cheese tortellini!) when I saw the absurd commotion outside. The guys looked like they were overacting for a war movie, with dumbstruck spectators accidentally walking onto the scene. I was confused—was the Vehicle that sturdy that I couldn’t feel what looked like (reactions to) a hurricane on the weather channel? I leapt out to help with whatever catastrophe was causing the panic. Once I confirmed nothing was actually wrong, I returned to my beautiful snack pack and giggled at the ridiculousness.

I’m not going to say these guys are not tough; we all know they are. But on this particular occasion… complaining about standing/ sitting all day, about it being hot, about a 2 hour plane ride (instead of a DAY-long sept-place ride), about food, about missing hot showers… Seriously? One person asked, “So do you not have air-conditioning then?” “What, like in my hut?!” I choked a bit. “Um, yeah, wherever you live?” Oh my.

I don’t mean to just poke fun (even though they were quite funny to me). I can’t even imagine what some of these guys have been through. Also I must say that despite their vast difference from the PCV-prototype, these were some more of the nicest guys I’ve met. They were thrilled to do humanitarian aid work and helpful in every way. I was happy to work with them (I did translations and causeries on first aid, dehydration/ORS, and malaria/neem lotion). It just startled me how different they were, and surprised me to find I could understand the villagers much better. It’s lucky, really, to be in my position. I knew with all confidence that the lady coming in the back door with the rushed look about her was looking for her child. As obvious as it seemed to me, these guys seemed to think she was breaking in to attack us. Seeing that didn’t make me laugh; it made me sad.

We’re all trying to serve our country. And now I realize how lucky I am that my method has brought me ease with others, a quickness in determining “it’s not so bad” (vs. Panic Mode), and a true and pure appreciation of pita chips. Alhumdulilai.

Guest Blog by Cindy: The Little Mother

Jan wrote a comprehensive blog entry - I'm not sure how much I can add to it, other than to express my fascination with Senegal, the Peace Corps, and the lives you are all living there. I am so glad that Kate managed to get us over there, and all the way to her village (NOT an easy trip!), and could share her Senegalese family with us. Wow.

I'm trying to remember my most/least favorite parts, and already, only two weeks later, so much of it seems like a dream. I have a feeling that, if I live to 100, I'll be sitting in an old folks home (OFH) talking about the mud huts and African imams and primitive conditions I so briefly experienced, and the aides at the OFH will be winking at each other and telling each other to humor me, that I've just watched too many old movies. I can't begin to imagine the incredible adjustment that all the PCVs have when they return to the States.

So....least favorite parts (with the obvious exception of seeing K get so sick, which was in its own class of terrible): the heat and dust, and feeling like I would never again be anything close to clean. The bouncy/jouncy, knock-your-teeth-out, 8-Advil-A-Day-won't-cut-it, sept-place rides.

Most favorite: the amazing graciousness of the "village people", and seeing their daily lives.

Oh - and most bizarre part: Again, the "village people". We were enough of a novelty to them that they were entertained by our mere existence. I never realized that I could amuse a whole village just by sitting, and that my eating dinner could mesmerize hundreds (well...dozens?). And I wasn't even the important one - Jan, as Kate's real mother and not just the "little-mother" (their interpretation of "aunt"), was truly a crowd pleaser!

So, in summary: There is SO much to learn and see in Senegal, and I didn't have time to even scratch the surface. The adjustment of the PCVs is amazing. I am incredibly proud of Kate - she has done so much, in a country that doesn't speak her language, in a village that is as remote as you can get. In a place where women are considered second-class, she cowed all the men I saw her with. Strong, independent, caring. AND - she managed to find Matt out there in the back-of-the-beyond: amazing! These are good people, folks, though if you're reading this, you already know that!

Mother Corps

GUEST Blog; Senegal, October 2009

By Kate/Kay/Katie/Hadiatou’s mom..

On Oct. 16, (aunt) Cindy & I arrived in Dakar at 4:15 AM, and thank goodness Kate & Matt were there to meet us. I started by shaking hands with all the taxi drivers who were hustling us for business......well, K DID say she had a lot of brothers, & they were so friendly! Welcome to Senegal, (rightfully) noted for its hospitality. I can’t describe how wonderful it was to see K after 19 months! She has grown into an amazing woman, yet I can still see the little girl who used to get stuck in trees, run around naked (sorry hon, but you WERE very young!), and draw on everything from her clothes to the kitchen walls. But over and over I watched her deal gracefully and competently with situations which left me far out of my depth and gaping in admiration - and all in Pulaar and French. I believe English is rarely spoken there, quite a difference from so much of the rest of the world. She bargained, joked, chatted, sealed deals, got food, got rid of bothersome people on the street, and in general functioned effectively as a Senegalese. And we hadn’t even left Dakar yet.

Lunch at the lovely French Cultural Institute, the endless stream of men (and a few women) going to Mosque, since it was a Friday, and a Vietnamese dinner filled up the rest of that first day.

Heading for Kedougou the following day was fascinating, from going to the ‘garage’ to bargain for a sept-place which would last the trip to the sept-places themselves. These vehicles are amazing in that it’s hard to believe so many actually make it to their destinations. 12 hours to Kedougou - broken by a stop in Tamba - and I’m told this is AFTER road improvements which cut many hours from the trip. The pcvs tend to do the whole thing in one day.

My impressions of Senegal include red dusty roads, awesomely persistent people hawking everything under the sun and not shy about getting in your face or surrounding your vehicle when it slows down or stops, the sept-place driver handing a screwdriver over his shoulder to whichever passenger wants to open a window (these things are usually missing door handles, window handles, and/or various other things), new and strange smells, thatched round huts and poverty, goats and cattle wandering all over the place, anything you could think of carried on people’s heads, (not so easy - I tried it), babies slung on girls’ and women’s backs, omelet sandwiches, cornfields, the mixture of languages often spoken together - the harsh Wolof of Dakar gradually ceding to the softer sounds of Pulaar as you go south and French throughout - a fierce sun, monkeys, beautiful blue starlings, and so much more.

The country becomes greener and hillier as you head southeast and the area around K’gou is beautiful, Pellel Kendessa - K’s village - the most beautiful. Everything there is still green and there is plenty of water in the rivers, though I understand it’s not always so. I really enjoyed finally getting to see the Kedougou regional ‘house’ and meeting some of the pcvs there. There may be electricity by now, but there wasn’t when we were there. I’m sure some of the charm soon wears off when you’re working under the conditions these guys are and as hard as they are, but from our perspective, it was a pretty cool place. (I’m sure he’s been asked many times, yet again I have to ask.......Matt, how do you do it?)

Going to the K’gou market with Kate was an experience I’ll always treasure. It was my first glimpse into her relationship with the people of the area. Not only did all her language, bargaining and competency skills come into play, but I got to learn about ‘joking cousins’ and the funny and lively give-and-take which keeps her on her toes and must sometimes exhaust her. She quickly decided on veggies and other things for her family - ataaya, cookies, salt. etc. Or as quickly as the prolonged greetings and exchanges allowed, which despite her decisiveness, wasn’t quick at all.

This is another thing about the Senegalese, at least those in this region. Greetings are an inimical part of daily life, never to be skipped or taken lightly. From the initial ‘ajarama’ (hello, goodbye, thank you) through ‘tanala’, ‘jam tun’, more ‘jam tuns’ (peace only), ‘hono bengure ma wadi’ (how is your family), more ‘jam tuns’ in response to a lot of other greetings I never quite mastered, these take up a lot of time. They can be frustrating, yet there’s a certain comfort there also and a kind of civility often lacking today. And shaking hands....never have I seen people shake hands so much. Old people, little kids, people you shook hands with a few minutes ago, people with whom you will shake hands in another few minutes, waiters, vendors, watchmen....it’s phenomenal.

Due to Cindy’s occasionally wonky back, we hired a car and driver for the 50k trip to Pellel. It’s not the limo-type ride that might suggest. It’s impossible to overestimate how terrible that ‘road’ is, though it was SO bad it almost seemed funny. I’m pretty sure K wouldn’t agree, having biked it for 1 1/2 years in all conditions. We stopped in Dindefelo, where I’d hoped to hike to the waterfall, but the heat got me first. I knew we were nearing Pellel when I heard kids’ voices shouting ‘Hadiatou’!! (aka Kate). Our welcome was astounding, and the royal way in which we were treated for the next three days, something I will only be able to dream about in ‘real’ life. It’s all a reflection of K and their respect for her, of course, though I know they are naturally hospitable people. Village life was incredible, especially for those of us who didn’t have to lift a finger. Nevertheless, we tried pounding corn, pulling water, and digging up peanuts, much to the amusement of the village. Kate does all these things easily. As Kate’s ‘neene Amerik’ and ‘neene tosokho’ ("little mother" literally), we were assigned special places to eat (for me, the choicest spot, the hammock, for Cindy, the chair). Kate and baaba (her dad) were on tiny stools, and everyone else, somewhere off in the darkness, the women cooking over fires and handing the bowl to baaba, who put it on the ground and gave us each a spoon (unusual, I think). You’re supposed to say ‘mi hari’ when you’re full, then he indicates you should eat more, then you try ‘mi hari’ again and hope you can really stop this time.

The food is notably bad, although K says she’s never experienced it so good as when we were there. The veggies she bought were used up the first day, well-prepared and poured over the daily corn mush which is dinner every day. The roasted corn was an exception - really good. Her ‘baaba’, the village imam, is a sweet and intelligent man. He has three delightful wives and I’m not sure how many children. They respect him tremendously and obey instantly. One thing I really loved was the daily predawn prayer, led by baaba, very long, powerful yet calming. I’m sure the luxury of being able to roll over and go back to sleep during it didn’t hurt, but I really was impressed. I hear it’s not so nice in many areas, where there are often tinny recordings 5x a day calling Muslims to prayer.

K’s hut is tiny and rustic, yet she has made it homey and as clean as wildlife permits (she usually manages to keep the chickens outside, but the bats, frogs, and mice are harder). There are, of course, no electricity, running water, or even latrines in the village, except for K’s. Chickens and goats roam freely and babies crawl placidly through all the dirt.

Our idyllic stay ended badly, with K developing chills and a high fever during our last night there. She toughed it out back to Kedougou and the PC house, but by this time was feeling truly awful. She got tested for malaria the next morning but the test was negative, so we headed back to Dakar and PC headquarters and a doctor. Subsequent tests showed no bacterial infection, so it was some kind of virus. As we were all (Cindy, K, Matt and I) going to Morocco in a couple of days, it was crucial that she rest. Matt took Cindy & me on the ferry to Goree Island, which was really interesting. The slave house, the artists and jewelry-makers everywhere, the tiny streets, and Matt bargaining with Fatima - these are some of my impressions of Goree. At the time Cindy and I left Morocco, K seemed okay as far as the virus went, but then there are those pesky bacterial infections......I’ll leave Morocco to Cindy and/or K to write about.

My feelings about K and the PC have become more complicated, as far as reassurance about her well-being goes. I feel reassured by the Senegalese people in her region, especially those in her village, by her great relationship with them and the way they seem to have her back, by all the pcvs I met, and by the structure of the PC itself. I feel reassured by her ability to take care of herself and rise to any occasion. I am terrified by the vagaries of disease and nature. Seeing K so ill was horrible and frightening, and I know it’s not the first time, and that sooner rather than later, they all get sick. This is truly an impressive group.

Although I’ve turned K’s blog into a multi-volume work, I can’t end without mentioning Matt again (carrying through the book theme). I appreciate his humor, levelheadedness, and his unbelievable patience with the middle-aged ‘ducklings’ following him around. And I am so glad I finally figured out when to tell when he’s serious and when he’s kidding. At least I’m pretty sure I did.

And although K’s time in Senegal is winding down, I suggest anyone who’s still thinking of visiting her go to her village. It’s worth it all around. We had no flat tires or sept-place breakdowns or encounters with animals, but I do see that between lack of infrastructure and an apparent total indifference to the concept of time (did I ever see a clock in Senegal? No. Only those for-sale-on-the-street watches) (although come to think of it, I think they may be onto something with the obliviousness to time thing), I now understand about the need for plans a, b, c, d, e, f, g...

In short, a memorable vacation!

Fille that Victory!

Good news: Fatou and Hawa's trip has been fully pledged! Thank you to everyone who is contributing:

Jacqueline(!!!!!), Grace, Allison, Matt, Mum, Ian, Cindy, "Danfakha," Mida, Julie, Heather, Shelley, Cecile, Carol, Kathi, Annette, Jean Anne, Jean, Boo Boo, the Bartz'z, The Ladies of Florenceville...

If you're still interested in donating to excellent causes, see the pckedougou.org site or hold tight until the school project in my village gets off the ground. Thanks!

I will keep you updated on this trip, which I hope to do as soon as possible-- Hawa's (pictured above) husband has been chosen, so here's to her last/first hoorah!

Korite and Freeing Bat from fly tape

Champ Camp

Thank you to anyone who contributed to this year's youth leadership camp. It may be the best place your money has ever gone. It was a great success with double the campers and programs as last year, as well as a three-day senegalese counselor training.

This year's schedule included: tree nurseries, tree grafting, neem lotion, business classes, food security, plays, goal-defining, arts and crafts, awesome field games--
hiking up to the waterfall source (the group pictured below MAY have completed the hike in record time, led by the lady in blue...)
soccer,
olympic games (we lost the spoons for the egg-spoon race and joked they had to carry them on their heads. We should have known this isn't a joke in Senegal. Three people could!)

some of the best kids in Senegal,
popcorn in a cauldron for movie night-- Indiana Jones in French (I was on popcorn duty and now I know I will think of these cauldrons and buckets whenever I make microwave popcorn for the rest of my life... and I love that)
monkeeeeyyyyy,

sex ed classes (behold my shining role as a condom demonstrator),
gender and equality classes,
and career day, which was the winner. To adress the distressing lack of imagination encountered upon the "what do you want to be?" question, we introduced the concepts of about 50 professions. Everyone had a card stuck on his/her head with a career like "archeologist" and "tabboo" words beneath that you couldn't say when giving the person hints as to what their card says (ex. "digging"). Real professionals participated as well and gave a panel discussion afterwards. This provided the best most inspiring if-I-did-it-so-can-you, you-are-the-future-of-Senegal speeches. I literally just gave myself goosebumps writing that. That's how awesome it was!

Now, none of these amazing kids can go back to their villages and settle. That won't be good enough, now they know that "zoologists" exist. Look out world, here comes the youth of Kedougou!
See Peace Corps Kedougou's website for more photos, videos, and detailed accounts:

http://www.pckedougou.org/

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