Grand Finale Quoi

Some of you might be wondering what I'm doing still on "AfriKate" and out of the States. Wasn't I supposed to be done with Peace Corps by now? Yah... I AM! I am officially an RPCV. But... I'm still here...

That is because, among many things, my dear college buddy, BooBoo aka Ryan Lindsay is visiting and we have a grand adventure ahead of us. We spent quite a bit of time living it up in Dakar stalking rumored embassy location to get our Visas. Now we're in home sweet-Kedougou soaking my mini-Herman (remember those pictures of Jordan's neck-crater?) Then we will go back to my village on a bike ride on which I will come as close as possible to regret over N'ice Cream (we have had at least quadruple the number of ice creams as we have visas). I will say goodbye and it will not be pretty. Then we will go back to Kedougou, and embark on out to: Guinea, Sierra Leone, Liberia, Cote D'Ivoire, Ghana, Burkina Faso, Mali, and back here to N'ice Cream. I mean, Dakar. (INCHALLAH). We will be accompanied by Roxy, Mary, and Andy and Annicka to Sierra Leone. THEN Booboo and I get to see my dearest MB in Cambridge and probably embarrass the living daylights out of her with our heathen ways. But she will forgive us.... right? I hope to also meet Kate in England and fly back with her to the great US of A to an airport swaying with adoring fans and readers of AfriKate who will swarm the arrivals gate with plates of nachos and oreo-milkshakes. Right? This will be at the beginning of August. (INCHALLAH. I can't stop saying this; it is like a nervous tick. Just let it happen.)

For better documenting and organization and normal perspective of this entire thing, please see BooBoo's blog. It is much better: http://backpacknomadic.net/

As for all that's been happening while I have been neglecting this blog... It's mostly about saying goodbye now. This is predictably wrenching. Except for it being hot season, it really is an awful time to leave. Yeah, two years is a long time, but if your going to a foreign senegal-exy, you kind of need it. My language came slowly and only now do I feel very confident in it. It's like I put in my pulaar-contacts and now I can see the whole scene clearly. Maybe I don't know the name of that bush on the scene but at least I can tell it's a bush and it's the one we get our tooth-sticks from. (does that make sense?)

It's been more fun in the village than ever before because everyone showers me in praises and proclamations of love everywhere I go. (So, if this doesn't happen when I'm in the States, I gotta warn you all, I might just have to come back... It's a good gig.) Their tune as far as females go has completely changed. They first used to say, "You know, I was worried about you being a female, but now I see that females can do just as much men..." Now, they are saying, "Females clearly are way better than males and do so much more. Look at what you've done! You can't leave!" I'm sure my replacement will prove to them that this isn't quite true either though. But it's still LOVELY to hear, even if I keep squirming feeling like I don't deserve to be hearing it all.

We've also been playing a lot more now that my focus is off of work. I've taught a little bit of "karate" to some of the more mature kids. I'd been promising them I would ever since they saw the photo of me breaking a board, and man, are they pumped! They are really so cute about it. We're treating it like a secret club and they're even practicing in secret! I told them not to teach any of the immature bullies anything. I'm also teaching juggling since mango season is perfect for it. I've got about four kids who are pretty good at it now, and we're even trying to add tricks like bouncing them off our knees. One juggle-focused day, I looked around and saw boys balancing long bamboo poles on their hands and feet and a girl sliding mangos down her legs in a rapid pattern, in the exact same ways I did in that Michael Moschen juggling show in high school. How incredible that they all so naturally do what I and a bunch of other prep-schoolers paid hefty chunks of money to learn to do. This is something I'll really miss: natural life. Waking up with the sun, knowing how to run on rocks in the night, discovering tricks and abilities naturally... It all feels so right. In the States, we withstand hurricanes of passive un-discovery and forget how to move naturally and sit quietly and make toys from mangos. With the advertisers choosing how to stimulate us, we forget how to move for ourselves, and can barely balance sticks without someone literally selling the idea to us in an advertised workshop.

Other things I started because I'd been intending or promising to ever since I got here: braiding my hair and learning arabic. The hair was an awful idea, as I promised all the village enthusiasts that it would be. I took pictures for proof of how hideous it was, but unfortunately (or fortunately), my USB broke with the strain of acceptance. It broke, actually while I was writing my 50-or so page COS report (single spaced) and brought me to tears until I remembered a desktop I'd saved it to. It's sad that I lost so many photos, though...

As for the arabic, I don't remember if I shared yet that technically, I'm a muslim.... Hahaha, only technically, though. That is because to technically convert to Islam, you have to repeat the words, " Ashahadu anlaa ilaaha illa Allah wa ashahdu anna Muhammadan rasoolul Allah" (I bear witness that there is no god but Allah; I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah) three times (here, at least... I don't think across the world it has to be three.) So my sweet dad said, "Hey Hadiatou, say this..." And I said, "Okayyy!" and had no idea what was going on except that he was giggling at my prononciation. I realized only several months later that that is what happened. Oops! As for learning arabic, I'm not really. My dad teaches Koranic school and it sounds and looks so cool on the wooden prayer tablets. I'd always meant to learn a bit of it, but it's a bit late now. It's kind of handy to know a bit when I meet, for example, Saudi Arabian imams who can do flips 12 feet up on the Dakar trampoline and who then buy us coconuts.

It was interesting learning the prayers and talking to my dad about his philosophies of the religion while also reading the memoir, Infidel (read it!). I've read many other accounts as well that shadow my perception of Islam's influence. I won't get into that here, but I'll just say I'm very glad to have my amazing family and trampolining imams to remind me that the goodness in people more often prevails. I've met far more militant Christians than militant Muslims, which I think says a lot since this is the first really religious place I've lived. But this is a long conversation, so you can just go ahead and buy me a taco platter in America to continue it in person, hmm?

Other fun village finale things include the Anti-Early Marriage party that the middle school kids planned. They performed skits and songs and organized a huge party. I'm so proud! They asked me to be the guest speaker, which was really sweet and cute. I talked about how women didn't use to work in America either until WWII and then we had an intellectual and economic boom when we had double the work force.... etc. Neene Galle and I then did a village-wide sex-ed talk, which was sort of embarrassing for us all. We showed gross photos of STDs (her choice!) and I did a condom demonstration using water bottles with the orange gatorade one representing disease. Otherwise, we are having fun just playing in the shade. Our new hobbies are trying to do pushups or balancing tricks I learned from martial arts. And of course, Uno.

It is going to be so hard to leave these wonderful people...

Anyway, I plan on continuing updates on this blog during the trip, but I really recommend Ryan Lindsay's blog for better and more frequent news. Thanks for keeping up!

mango tree

our mouths are red-rimmed

with mango rashes but still

we claw at the branches for more

we can't help it-- there's candy

growing in our trees, and we can't

stop until we've licked the last sap

from the webs of our fingers

and are picking at the strings

in our teeth with faces like

abandoned lovers'. we poke with

long bamboo up at the speckled

sky where golden globes hang

out of climbers' reach

making our necks strain and

our dry mouths yearn, oh,

let them fall-- in the cool

protective underskirt of the

tree, beneath which we mass

attending the sermon of

whispering leaves, peeking

from beneath their indiscreet green

at the dusty hot everything else

that is not

a mango tree

River

String of life,

River, feed us your dark

drops . snake through the

village so we can flock to

you, hands and hooves out-

stretched; have mercy

and come when we call

you, digging in your dried

up promises, watching

for holes to slowly fill

with mud. we will drink it.

and when you teem with

darkness, we strip to

our ebony bones and throw

our clothes on the rocks

of your body. over and over

we slam colored cloths,

grunting to take out the sweat

and filth of our lives.

smoky swirls of peanut

soap suds and filth released swim

down river to the next

group of black skeleton women,

beating their only threads into

grey ghost whirls. this too,

we will drink. plastic and gourd

dishes and babies and each other's

backs and our own sore

arms and legs-- we wash these

too, dousing them in you, shining

majestic towers of our bodies

pause to reflect in your

contesting blackness. it's been

hard days, and you've seen

it all. you watch us sing

and weep and throw ourselves

on your shores, between broken moons

you take it in, reflecting back

our bones and furrows among

ripples, as if

to say, "I see, is it something

like this?" but you have it

backwards, always.

you only know the trees and

shade as your neighbors, and

our sighs as we splash our burning

faces. but when we fill gourds on

our heads and wrap up with

un-dried pagnes with babies

on our backs, you

squint at the dust that

ambushes on the path

away from

you

Party in the Pellel

Circumcisions:

The boys (around 9) dress in white and that's really all I see of them from the women's area, so don't worry about ghastly descriptions like that. Usually in Senegal, the boys ask for money before it happens, standing on the road in their white outfits. Sometimes it's a scam. But in my village, we like to concentrate on superior begging methods: cross-dressing women.

It's amazing. These women aren't old, but with 4 or 5 kids already, they're far from girls. They're respected and dutiful women. Pretending to be little boys. Wearing men's shoes, caps, baggy shorts, and all, they also paint their faces white, dangle corn cobs around their faces and necks, and scrounge up an odd backpack or thermos. The sing, dance, and bang cans or bottles as drums. They're pretending to be talibe and collect change from people so they can split it later to buy mint candies for everyone.

Neene Galle is the funniest. I think she's usually best at whatever she's doing, and I love that this also applies to being a class-clown. She walked and danced with an over-the-top limp, talked like a boy with a lisp, and changed even her posture and facial expressions. I love this woman.

Besides this, circumcisions are also lots of sitting and eating, just like everything else....

Baptisms:

See previous sentence. One interesting thing, though, is some of the naming traditions.

If a child is born after 3 or more deceased children, there's a jinxing kind of tradition the mother follows by "throwing out" her child. She leaves him or her in the woods and another woman in the family follows to reclaim him or her. Long ago, they used to leave the babies overnight, sometimes in a fishing net in the river. If the baby was meant to live, they'd find him or her the next morning. These days, the baby is reclaimed immediately. Then, they name the baby one of the "throw-out" names: Naari, Bono, Wandu, Hawka, Noge, Kenda... (Cat, Hyena, Monkey, Trash...) My baaba was originally a throw-out baby and was named for the basket thing you use to sift out corn fluff from the kernels. They changed his name to Alphajo because Imams in Kedougou (maybe Senegal?) must be named either Thierno or Alphajo.

If a woman gives birth to twins, there are designated names for them too. (Houssaynatu and Hassanatou, Adama and Hawa...) A child born after twins is Sadio. Names can be repeated in the family.

I was hoping to get a baby tokora (named after me) at some point, but I neglected to focus enough of my friendship attentions on women pregnant with girls. The closest I got was little Aissatou naming the stuffed frog I gave her after me. But as she is an unnaturally shy and suspicious girl who doesn't like people to even catch her smiling, I was touched. When I asked if the frog had a name and if she was going to have a baptism, she shyly said, "A girl named Hadiatou" smiled and looked away quickly. Awww! Also Diardi said she'd name her daughter after me if she ever has one. But as she had about 6 kids who died, it doesn't look like the odds are strong. She said if she has a boy she'll name him Ian or Ben, after my American brothers.

Birthdays:

We don't have them. We have no idea even how old we are. They are baffled when I try to explain the importance we place on them in America. A cake and all that hoo-haa just for a single person not even getting married-- every year? Who's weird now?

Ataaya the knot

Weddings:

The bride did not smile all day until I agreed to get my camera and take her photo. Not once. So much for "the happiest day of your life."

It started with all the women squatting next to a fence in the small bit of shade it provided. When the sad girl came, they criss-crossed black fabric over her baggy red shirt and I could see we were off to a painful start. They covered her head with an unflattering bathing-cap-type-thing made of red bin-bin beads. They fussed over this for ages, slightly moving tangles of string or trying to add even more beads. Then they tied kola nuts so that they would dangle around her face like tether balls. They must have hurt, swinging into her face when she moved. They added more criss-crosses of beads on top of the baggy sashes. Then, in a culmination of ridiculous, they ceremoniously handed her sun-glasses, which she very seriously maneuvered around all her dangling head decorations. It really looked like we were weird little kids playing "wedding" who didn't even have cable as a point of reference. Fatou mawdo snapped open a black umbrella to top things off. It was such a strange mixture of traditional and modern objects that stood out weirdly from each other.

The girl's betrothed came and we clapped and sang and paraded up to a less-treacherous part of the path at which she could climb on his shoulders, frown, umbrella, and all. We followed, clapping and singing to his house. There, people gave her 25-CFA-ish (pennies) and she and her family and nosy people counted it immediately. Everyone else danced. Because THIS is when the ladies break it out. Haaaaa ronki!

The VIPs all went through the hut and into the shower and pee spot in the backyard. We all fought over spoons like squawking chickens for the gosi. I did not fight, of course, but offered my ladle to the sullen bride. Hello, it was her day, wasn't it? But they made me take it back and got her another one later. Then, still like chickens, we fought over the gosi, slurping away in the muddy bathroom that smelled like pee. Next, rice. My hands were so filthy from painting and shaking hands so I needed a spoon, which they obliged. Since I got a late start to eating Diardi's and my bowl, the others started a dance party while we were still squatting, squished to the side. Once I realized that urine-soaked dirt was getting kicked into my precious rice, I announced I was full. I did my part in dancing, appreciating that they persuaded me only slightly more than everyone else. Obviously, I was awesome.

Then we all waited until past dark for corn to be measured out to give away. I followed the women who all carried huge bowls on their heads while simultaneously clapping and leasing the songs. I kist had my water bottle and skirt bunched so I wouldn't trip on it and still I had to concentrate much harder than anyone else on not wiping out. The moon was almost full and pretty bright, but still, rocks ha hewi. Behind me-- RIGHT BEHIND me, like blasting speakers with bouncing woofers, all the kids shout-sang at the tops of their lungs all the wedding songs. Ahhh... at least it's better than funeral wails...

4 Million Funerals and A Wedding

I realized I never wrote about cultural events here in Senegal. We have funerals all the time, and just enough happier weddings, baptisms, and circumcision ceremonies to make up for them. Here are snippets from my journal on the four:

Funerals:

rising at 5 to eat and drink before the sun can witness. sleeping again until the somber call of the drum. pound, pound, pound. someone has died. people run around frantically spreading the news, with an urgency that seems out of place in the village, head scarves flying behind like banners from a plane. when we hear, we clap our hands over our mouths and say, "waiii neene!" and recount the last times we saw the person, how sick they were. pound, pound, pound, the drum even sounds like death. a sporadic then racing heartbeat-- and then it stops. people shudder themselves into their best clothes, women hurrying to cover their heads and take off like vengeful ghosts to the house. on the way they start wailing. a cluster of hunched men under the tree, but women file through the stick fence. like bowing or kneeling or crossing oneself in a holy place, the thing to do here is crouch and wail. this wail... it reaches the spine... like dying animals, like haunted houses, like drunken over-actors, like warped amazon war cries, like murder victims, like the deaf being amputated, like if pain could only be represented by sound, captured in a pandora's box... I could not make this sound. whether I was more afraid of offending with audible fakeness or of finding myself unable to stop once I started... I couldn't. but like magnets the tears on the crumpled wet faces that are only ever composed pull out my own tears too. hunching together on rocks or on the ground for hours and hours, stomachs protesting forced thirst, shaking hands with everyone, "Kori a munyiti? Have you mourned?" every shade or shadow found itself host to grief. the men chant, forever, it seems. how do so many know all these words? perhaps it has something to do with the other person who died today, and the 18-year-old new bride three days ago, and the last villager less than a week before. Kori hida munyiti?

pound, pound, pound. the elder women pound corn for the traditional meal for deceased elders-- the same served at infants' naming ceremonies. pound, pound, pound, they crowd around, taking turns, up to five pestels in one mortar at once. it could be an act in a talent show, a section of stomp! yet something so sad about performing this grueling daily labor even in grief. like if women in america gathered at a funeral to scrub the floor-- if scrubbing gave calluses. who are these people I share my life with who fast from the little insignificant food they have and still farm an hour's walk away in the cruel sun? who deprive themselves of water by day whether it's rainy season or drought? who pound corn while weeping for their brother or sister or neighbor? who are they and when are they rewarded?

they never cry but for funerals. I suppose they come often enough. but it's clear from the haunting wails that this is all their pain and fury and plea at once. if women cry in the regular sitting areas, they are ordered repeatedly to to to the allocated grieving spot, outside the person's hut. it sounds insensitive unless I re-translate it to, "get it out; there you go." then again, it still only allows a person to mourn for as long as their can crouch in the dirt under the hot sun.

an old gypsy-like lady with multicolored headscarves starts singing. her voice is clear and beautiful and ancient. she's like an unreal disney character, her face in a tree. she calls out in her clear voice and we answer like pacified children. people keep coming in to add howls to the background, but we keep going and it sounds and feels so comforting. "muusu reedu yoni, ko nela ameng; hadi jentidoden, ko nela ameng... muusu hoore yoni, ko nela ameng; hadi jentidoden, ko nula be ni... nawna maaya yoni, ko nela ameng; hedoden, hedoden, ko nula be ni..." (stomachaches are okay, it's what's sent to us; listen up, it's what's sent to us... headaches are okay........... sicknesses that kill us are okay, it's what's sent to us; listen up, listen up; it's ours to receive.)

women get bored during the prayers, but some men take machetes and return with bamboo and bark. the latter they bite into strips to tie the body-stretcher with two arches. when the shrouded corpse is carried out over the heads of two men dressed in white, the women leap up, their anguish reawakened in a now-or-never urgency. a beautiful young girl beats the rest of the wails, score to a nightmare. she collapses; the performance draws tears from my eyes, as do other poignant screaming staggers and the supporting hands that catch them. the hair stands on my neck and i cray because it is the only answer to the sound of all that pain. sometimes I can't even recall the face of this corpse over whom I weep. I am a stowaway to horror. today I do, and cry real tears of my own when her husband walks placidly in front, singing a prayer in a quiet but clear voice. the other men go with him down the paths, winding among huts and past my own, to the burial grounds in the woods. the women are left behind. just outside the fence, talk of fields, and breaking fasts.