It makes me dizzy to attempt to empathize with the girls. I'd have to take my (relatively) limited village experience and erase everything else. All cars and food and buildings and roads... it's too much; it's really impossible. I'm generally a pretty awesome empathizer too, if I do say so myself.It's interesting taking guests in reverse trip to all the friend/family visits. For those, my visiters landed in AFRICA, found Dakar dirty, and bravely crammed into sept-places thinking but not saying, "You want me to get into this?" They enjoyed sleeping in Kedougou the way you enjoy camping, and the village and food was a whole other thing, like going back in time and having strange bad food. When they went back through the steps, Kedougou was much more impressive, the sept-place made sense, and Dakar seemed truly developed. This chain of reactions is one I understand, after all, it was mine too.
But for Fatou and Hawa, put this film strip backwards and in negative film. They knew ONLY the village. Corn mush, roosters, sweeping dirt, wiping their little sisters' bottoms. They'd seen things like cookies and fanta in Dindefello, but never gotten to try them themselves.
The cramped sept-place spread out like a Cinderella carriage for them-- their first car, and they had their own seats (we were all in the way back). When they stayed at the Kedougou Relais, which I believe my mum and Cindy innocuously referred to as a "camp" or something, it was like a PALACE. They kept asking me to turn on the shower and faucet, nearly applauding each time. They found the toilets BAFFLING ("Where does it go?!" "It goes outside?" and lots of giggling). The light switches were also a cause for celebration and needed to be played with for a bit. They also loved the crocodiles, birds, and elon that the Relais keeps as pets.
What I did not anticipate was their hesitation towards new foods. In fact I essentially planned the entire trip around all the foods we'd eat. I imagined yelps of joy and grinning over ice cream cones-- maybe because that's how I react these days! But, after thinking more about where they're coming from, it makes sense that they'd be a bit wary. After thirteen years of only eating: corn mush, sour milk, peanut sauce, leaf sauce, once in a while a seasonal vegetable, rice on special occasions, and meat even less. In addition to the fruit that grows around us, rare bread and candy, I literally think these are the only things they've ever eaten. After entire lifetimes of the same foods, in wouldn't make sense to immediately take to any other. It's evolution, psychology, sociology, physiology! Even kids in America who are introduced to thousands of ingredients are still hesitant about new foods- vegetables, pistachio ice cream, seafood... So... I have to keep reminding myself that this makes sense...even if it concerns ICE CREAM or FRENCH FRIES. My, what different worlds we come from!
On the first day, I was delighted to meet my good friend Jared on the street. He joined our Princess Breakfast: coffee (not nescafe!), fruit salad in yogurt, a cheese omelette, cheese/tomato/lettuce, and bread and butter. They each added about 8 sugars to their coffees, which is the senegalese way, but still couldn't handle more than half each. The cheese omelette was familiar enough to accept (we had street omelette sandwiches the day before). The mayonaise and everything else on the sandwich except the bread, however, weirded them out. Hawa ate some bread but was suspicious of the butter. Fatou ate some of the fruit, but Hawa took one bite and pushed it back. "It's not sour!" In the ville, the only way anyone uses milk is to let it sit for several days and it it only once it's sour and curdled. Before this, it is considered bad and unfinished. I used the word for sour milk when offering her the yogurt, figuring it was close enough, but it did not meet her expectations! I should have suggested we take it back to sit on our balcony and she could eat it at the end of the week!
Well, I asked for princesses, didn't I? So... Jared and I finished all the food ourselves.
(Which how I ended up eating roughly 9 meals a day... You might all be relieved to hear that this trip will decrease the prevalence with which I might have said "there are starving africans" comments at every future meal. I still am against wasting food, as always. I'd rather stick bread in my purse, eat the stale chips you're about to toss, and lick the bowl clean-- this is nothing new. And there ARE starving people who haven't eaten in days who might trade an appendage for that sandwich you're not that into. But as for MY starving Africans, we don't have to bring them up at every meal. They might not even want your sandwich. They've got their corn mush, which is what food IS to them. Even though I hate it, it's not bad for them. It's home.)
I didn't anticipate many things. I guess I expected them to be more like American kids, bored and whining for entertainment all the time. For the sept-place ride, I got them necklace-making stuff, blank books, markers, and crayons. This is because I come from a country that puts TVs in its cars. But, HELLO, K, they've never been in a car before! They loved the necklace idea, but said they'd have to wait for the end of the (14ish hour) ride. They had so many other things to pay attention to! The baboons, and horses on the road, all the actions the driver performed, the interracial couple in the seat in front of us, the speed with which their whole country passed before their eyes...
Another note of interest: they are so neat! Well, they blow snot rockets and sometimes throw the rest of their cups of water over their shoulders (even in restaurants), but that's what they know. It's just so cute how every time we leave a table or the room, they stack the dishes, wipe the table, make the beds, and smooth each crease.
Yes, mom, I know I was taught to do the same, but I did so much more consciously. These girls have been the family maids since they can remember. They know exactly what makes a mess and what it takes to clean it up. It is fruitless for me to tell them the waiter will do that... It's quite endearing though, and reminds me what good and deserving guests they are. Even as I'm still reeling from their refusal for CHEESE.
We also went to the top of the Hotel d'Independence and saw their highest city-est view ever. Including the ocean! It was hard for them to understand it, I think. The stairs exhausted all three of us, since I'm a little out of stair-practice myself. Hawa's leg shook for almost an hour afterwards! It was kind of hilarious.
After all that, and a coloring/ necklace-making hotel break, we descended upon IFAN-- late. Once the guy heard the girls' story, though, he let us in even though they were supposed to be closed! The girls, however, were not all that impressed with the museum. I didn't take offence, since there were so many reasons: they were exhausted, body and mind; they were terrified by the statues that looked like people doing strange ceremonies that even kind of creeped me out; they can't read; the stuff they did get was stuff they see every day outside of glass cases; their feet hurt from walking and especially from those stairs!; they were tired of watching guys flirt with me (although personally, I think it provided a great learning experience: how to deal with senegalese men politely, charmingly (if you ask ME, at least), but effectively. Take note, sisters!); why would they be interested in a nearly empty museum when there's the most comfortable hotel room ever with a MIRROR (literally their favorite toy) and MARKERS! Why do we even bother leaving it?
Day 3
They refused to leave the hotel room last night, so I went out to hunt and gather. I brought back the First Hamburgers which, alhumdulilai, they liked. Actually, Hawa didn't like the fries in it (we put fries in our sandwiches in Senegal: a sign that I belong here). But that just proves how impossible she is!
This morning, I brought them to La Galette where they were even more difficult! I got sugar doughnuts, pains aux chocolats, and croissants. Fatou timidly nibbled and at least ate a doughnut, but Hawa refused! She took some sugar cubes instead and said, "I'll just eat this." What?! A sugar doughnut is the same thing, but extended! I thought about giving a "There are starving kids in Africa" speech, or maybe, "You ARE starving kids.." or something about how only about .5% of their country's population would ever be offered these particular foods that are pretty much universally accepted as delicious...
Once I got over my wounded pastry ego, we went to meet a friend from the village who attends the university. It was cool to see SO many students, including many women. The library was FILLED with students actually studying at every single table. The lecture halls were so huge they seemed ready to host Hannah Montana concerts. I watched the girls watch other girls with fancy clothes and books in their hands.
Afterwards, we went next door to the FANN hospital to meet with a woman for Operation Inspiration. Fatima is stylish and impressive: she speaks pulaar, wolof, french, and english, all perfectly. She gave an awesome stay-in-school speech to Fatou, but I felt bad for Hawa when she got a pity party in honor of her upcoming marriage. I should have prepared Fatima ahead of time on this situation. It didn't occur to me that she'd never have seen this sort of thing. She said that she'd heard it still happened around Kedougou, but she didn't fully believe it. It always surprises me how little so many senegalese know about their own country. She did not hide her pity or outrage very well, and I felt bad to subject Hawa to it, knowing she has no choice here. She kept saying we NEEDED to talk to her parents. Her worldly demeanor mismatched her local naïveté. I tried to non-condescendingly explain that girls almost always were married before 20, and often below 17. And that, while I don't support Hawa's marriage and being pulled out of school three years agi, I didn't have much power to protest. Hawa herself says she wants a husband. She's not going to run away from the only family she knows and loves to struggle and starve in Dakar. She asked Hawa if she wanted to be in school and was horrified that Hawa shook her head no.
But it does make sense. If you have no choice in something, it's an adaption technique to go along with it. At dinner, a TV was playing over a low wall. I could see it from my seat, and Fatou stood to see it. Hawa exerted some effort for a couple of minutes, standing and craning her neck, but still couldn't see it. Finally she sat down with her chin in the air and said she actually didn't want to watch. I think this is how she deals with everything: her removal from school, her upcoming marriage, and every other decision made for her.
Anyway, Operation Inspiration went well despite this. I think both girls got the message that they can make something of themselves. For Hawa, I tried to resteer the conversation back into things she could do: ask her husband about returning to school, starting a business, selling things, making necklaces, braiding hair...
It seems Fatou is already embracing her education with renewed zeal. I picked up more copies of school books (still from Heather's school's donation), today, 9 copies of, "Bravo, Tortue." She spent two days copying every single word into the notebook I gave her.
After this, we lunched on thiebu-dien. Finally, a plate they could clean themselves! I figured their gravitation towards this could be compared to taking an Amish kid to NYC, suggesting caviar and sushi, and getting the response, "What about these hot dog things I've heard of?"
Then: Ile de Goree! Hawa was kind of petrified to go anywhere near that giant body of water she eyed warily from the ferry waiting room. I don't think I would have been able to convince her if my brother and the university guy hadn't come along. She pointed out every single dingy and said she could absolutely NOT touch the water. She was pretty much shaking for the hour wait. Once we left and sat on the upper deck, she relaxed and even smiled. How she must have felt with all that water surrounding her!
I'm not sure if the girls understood the slavery aspect of the island completely, but it's a pretty awkward thing to press. It was kind of funny watching them giggle and be kids in this place of nightmares. I realized toubabs-- myself included-- feel like we have to compensate for our whiteness by acting extra somber. We frown extra ferociously to tell the world how different we are from our ancestors. We force ourselves to imagine the gruesome details, slightly horrified when our companions cause us to accidentally smile in this place. Little pulaar girls don't have to do this. They can appreciate the beautiful stairs, giggle, and if they understand any of what we're saying about the history of slavery, they can at least be glad it's not here and now (never mind ongoing slavery in other places...). As they should.
In the evening we had ataaya at Amadou's barbershop. (This is the Dakarois older brother my family really wants me to marry.) It was nice to get out of toubab-land and into the real Dakar.
At the same time... I feel like this trip is giving me a taste of what interracial couples must have gone through. People never think the girls are with me and vice versa. When I went to Amadou's neighborhood, I met with some (only some!) less friendly reactions from people wondering why the heck I was there. And everywhere I bring the girls, they are not exactly treated the same as I am! At the french cultural institute, they were trailing behind a bit and I didn't realize it. I kept walking, chatting over my shoulder, not knowing they'd been stopped and interrogated in loud french and wolof, which neither of them understand. The guard was rudely trying to assess what exactly they thought they were doing there when I came up. He smiled all sugary at me and said, "Un moment, madame," and turned back to scowl at them. He was visibly flabbergasted when I said they were with me, and stammered apologies; he thought they wanted to come in a play around with stuff, you see... It's reactions like these that are intimidating the girls from leaving the hotel room and that decrease desire for things like croissants.
The funny thing is, once people do get what our deal is, they LOVE it. We get discounts, free juices, and friendly interviews-- from both sides. The two opposite walks of life converging: the toubab of fantastical wealth (so they assume) and they Kedougou kids of a poverty they know just as little about-- this is what they want to see! It's just not what they'd ever expect to see. But it's worth the initial wariness because I think we've really made a lot of peoples' days in the end.
Day 4
I've learned my lesson and went to get and bring back bean sandwiches for breakfast. The girls feel much more comfortable squatting on the hotel room floor than eating anywhere out in the scary city. I brought little orange juice boxes and chips as an experiment. The juice was accepted and it warmed my heart to see them sipping from straws like my conventional idea of a kid. The chips however, were returned to me and I promptly ate all three bags. I think I'm growing another chin.
Next up, zoo! Too bad I didn't know much more than 5 animal names in pulaar. Hopefully it was still interesting. The fences mostly had huge gaping holes in them and it was extremely depressing to see a tiger in a space the size of my hut, pacing madly. All those cats and primates displayed clear signs of environment-induced mental illness. Where's PETA when you need them? The cages were also about 2 feet away, the perfect distance to injure the curious. This would never work in America, where kids grow up expecting their boundaries to be marked in baby-gates/ rubber/ plexiglass. I think kids here have a much better understanding of consequences, which is why my toddler little sister is perfectly capable of stoking the fire.
Anyway, while talking about the horrible circumstances of the animals, Jen (who I was thrilled tagged along for the day) told me about Ota Benga, the man kept in a zoo. I can't believe this isn't a more infamous story. We can't brush these things under the rug or we (as a society) will never learn from our mistakes of subjection. But I digress! Next... MAGIC LAND! It's probably obvious that Jen and I were way more excited than the girls for this. And it defied even our expectations. Here, the girls had their first: chicken nuggets, roller coaster (an extremely tame one but being next to them made it more exciting for me too), bumper cars (LOTS of fun), teacups (lots of giggling and too dizzy to stand in the end), and lastly, the spinny saucer thing. It's a good thing we did that one last as it would have finished us off anyway. Hawa was pretty close to vomiting. I'm proud that she held it in, but once we got off, she was immobile for the next several hours. Poor thing! I had planned to follow Magic Land with the trampoline, but this was not our destiny. (I still want to go to it though!)
Ice cream, anyone? Jen and I waited as long as we could as Hawa moaned face-down in her bed and Fatou giggled at her. The girls were of course not keen to leave the room again, so I went for another delivery run. They broke my heart a little bit by not being that into it, but at least they had some and smiled at the taste. Maybe they were still full with their TINY STOMACHS and Magic Land-ill.
Don't worry, though. Every drop was licked up... somehow...
Day 5
Shopping spree day! Since the girls had saved us so much money by not eating like chubby american kids, I gave them each 10,000 CFA to go wild with. The greatest fortune they'd ever held! I was excited for them to feel like heiresses, imagining Julia Roberts on Hollywood Boulevard. Someone would stop them assuming they were poor pulaar girls and they'd fan themselves with their purple bills and swish away after saying, "You work on commission, right? Big mistake, big, Huge! I have to go shopping now!"
Of course it didn't really pan out that way. Sandaga n'est pas Hollywood. Pushy hawkers and sellers got in our faces immediately. I was hoping that like everyone else, they'd have a little sympathy when they figured out the girls' deal, but, nope! They shamelessly bullied them to buy their stuff in abrasive wolof. We, however, don't do wolof, thank you very much!
After walking a bit through the market, stopping every once in a while to see if they liked the shoes, bracelets, or lotions, and swatting off wolofs like flies, I perked up at an old man meekly advertising his clothing shop. What the heck. I thought it might do us good to step off of Main St, Chaosville and into a quieter avenue. Bingo! They were relieved to understand someone finally and loved the fancy blue teen-complets he carried. Very un-Julia like, I argued over the price for a while, even playing the "they're poor kids from Kedougou" card, which in retrospect I realize was not very classy of me. But it worked in the end and they had enough left over to buy the fanciest shoes they've ever seen. And boy are they STOKED! Highlight of the trip, for them, I believe. After this, the second best part of their week- getting their hair done! I can't wait for them to stroll back into the ville feeling like big-shots for once.
After this, we went to greet every random family relation ever. The last new person we met up with? HAWA'S FIANCEE. I didn't know he was coming but everyone was acting kind of weird and not-exactly-excited about it. When he came into Amadou's barbershop and Hawa turned to me and dug her fingers in my arm with a wild/scared expression, I realized.
Perhaps my impression isn't shocking, but I DO NOT APPROVE! He is a hoodlum! He didn't even greet me right! He just kind of mumbled from underneath his sweatshirt hood, which was already weird. Was that his impressive costume? Because no one else dresses like that except american rappers. He seems about 5 feet tall and his teeth go in any and every direction. He sat there under his hood like a dementor while Hawa giggled into the mirror and covered her face in panic. It would have been kind of cute how 13-year-old nervous she was, if this wasn't her arranged HUSBAND whom she was meeting for the SECOND TIME.
It was even more trippy when Fatou burst out laughing at how nervous Hawa was acting. She teased, "Speak up! Hahaha, she's embarrassed!" and even I started hitting her to be quiet. It was so weird that on the one hand, thirteen-year olds SHOULD be able to immaturely tease their friends like that... but that this wasn't an innocent summer fist-base-only boyfriend... ahhhh! My head was reeling. He slipped her three dollars and a bag of soaps and we left about 5 minutes after he got there. Hawa ran ahead to the taxi and didn't even say goodbye. She wasn't showing any signs of fear or disgust-- in fact, she was giddy. But it was just so wrong.
I tried to shake off all my unsettled thoughts and enjoy the concert with the girls-- the grand finale. Steelbe and the Wranglers was the group, a cool Burkinan reggae sound. They were fascinated with the stage, lights, audience, and female performers. We danced home on the streets afterwards and Hawa declared she too be be a singer. As long as Mr. Bucktooth Hoodlum doesn't stop all her dreams, it's a success of sorts. Her life won't be over, let's remember. That night I taught her about birth control.
Day 6
Sept-place to Kédougou
So when I went to the french cultural institute to buy our concert tickets, I had to wait in the middle of some line/consultation process for something I didn't understand. One of the guys called over in his fancy pressed suit was a Camara! I grinned to myself and waited for him to settle on the seat next to me. He greeted everyone classily. I, on the other hand, smugly said, "Your last name is bad!" The appropriate response here is for him to slap his knee, yell, "Ohhhh!" and laugh at this. Instead, he looked at me blankly and said in perfect french, "Pardon, I don't speak that." (pulaar) I was still grinning dumbly and hastily explained that I was a Souaré, i.e. his joking cousin, i.e. we can laugh now! He looked at me like I was in a hotdog costume advertising my cart of weiners, nodded, and turned away.
This is what made me miss Kédougou. What kind of snobby senegalese man doesn't play the bad-name-game?! I felt like I was in overalls at the Metropolitan Opera House, telling redneck jokes.
Today, however, in the Tamba garage, I met a Camara on my level. I went for a few more, "Your name is BAD! You steal!"'s than normal, just for good measure. He gave them right back and we were howling with laughter by the end. It's good to be almost home!
Day 7
Luumo car to Dindefello, walk to village.
What was my favorite part of the trip? Seeing the girls laughing hysterically while driving themselves in circles in the bumper car. Watching them shyly watching stylish school girls walking by, imaging little thought bubbles above their heads, "That's gonna be me!" Seeing Fatou stand a little straighter instead of her usual "don't-look-at-me" posture, under the Mariama Ba Lycee sign on the education-themed day. Seeing Hawa relax and seem unable to blink, scanning the horizon of ocean on the Goree Ferry. On the last day, walking behind them, seeing them look for cars before crossing the street with some confidence, clutching their shopping bags and talking about when they'd come back to Dakar...
Thank you so much to everyone who helped make this happen.
-One ANCIENT lady sounded very distinctly like a gremlin but we loved each other. She kept hugging me and saying in her smoker-gremlin voice, "You're my baaaby!" Haha! Hilarious!
-Fumbling with a man's crotch when he said he had to pee: We were all shouting and running around. We brought his wife in to help him, but she refused to step even towards the table. I went in for it and the nurse shouted that wait!- I should have gloves. Come to find out the man was able to hold it in the end anyway (unlike last year when the pee was thrown multiple times at me and Michele)
-witnessing the rapid descent of hygienic standards: The medical team started out appalled, alcoholing everything until we kept running out of alcohol. A fly entered the room and they freaked out. It eluded murder efforts and buzzed around the Sterile Area. I was able to secretly chuckle behind my mask. I tried to help them feel better about it all, but it was hard for me to summon the correct mindset. I'm about as far as I could get from it. I picked up cataracts from eye goop and blood puddles on the floor. At lunch one day, I licked sardine juice from my fingers and tasted the iodine I'd rubbed on patients' eyes. Had I washed my hands? Ooops!
-Fumbling with a man's crotch when he said he had to pee: We were all shouting and running around. We brought his wife in to help him, but she refused to step even towards the table. I went in for it and the nurse shouted that wait!- I should have gloves. Come to find out the man was able to hold it in the end anyway (unlike last year when the pee was thrown multiple times at me and Michele)
-witnessing the rapid descent of hygienic standards: The medical team started out appalled, alcoholing everything until we kept running out of alcohol. A fly entered the room and they freaked out. It eluded murder efforts and buzzed around the Sterile Area. I was able to secretly chuckle behind my mask. I tried to help them feel better about it all, but it was hard for me to summon the correct mindset. I'm about as far as I could get from it. I picked up cataracts from eye goop and blood puddles on the floor. At lunch one day, I licked sardine juice from my fingers and tasted the iodine I'd rubbed on patients' eyes. Had I washed my hands? Ooops!
-Even at my personal low on the hygiene front (clearly pretty freaking low), I could tick off the things wrong when the Senegalese team swept in to borrow the OR for C-sections (of which I saw 3). They know they don't want to track in dirt... so they take off their shoes. However, their feet are still filthy as mine, cracked open, and tromping around those blood puddles I just mentioned. C-sections bring a LOT of blood. Two people had booties at least.
-Even at my personal low on the hygiene front (clearly pretty freaking low), I could tick off the things wrong when the Senegalese team swept in to borrow the OR for C-sections (of which I saw 3). They know they don't want to track in dirt... so they take off their shoes. However, their feet are still filthy as mine, cracked open, and tromping around those blood puddles I just mentioned. C-sections bring a LOT of blood. Two people had booties at least.
cataract removed, hook going into cut above eye
in the eye, dialing in the replacement lens
-On the last day, an emergency c-section (baby dead, but arm and leg already emerged) kicked us out of the OR. Three of the four medical teamsters were ready to pack it in. They were at the end of their two weeks and clearly over Senegal. They waxed poetic about their beds at home and moaned about the dogs barking at night and the AC shutting off. We tried to be sympathetic. Anyway, they were done. Dr. Judith, however, refused to cancel the last cases and decided to do them in a non-OR instead (the "pre-op room" as it was). Dr. Donald McDonald III (I did not make that up) refused to work outside of the AC so we helped Judith mop the floors and walls so she could set down to it herself. She is AWESOME. But it was so far from sterile: windows open, pollen blowing in.... Oh well, it worked!
This is what senegalese feet look like and why I will need the first pedicure of my life when I get back. Thankfully mine aren't quite this bad yet.
cataract removed, hook going into cut above eye
in the eye, dialing in the replacement lens
-On the last day, an emergency c-section (baby dead, but arm and leg already emerged) kicked us out of the OR. Three of the four medical teamsters were ready to pack it in. They were at the end of their two weeks and clearly over Senegal. They waxed poetic about their beds at home and moaned about the dogs barking at night and the AC shutting off. We tried to be sympathetic. Anyway, they were done. Dr. Judith, however, refused to cancel the last cases and decided to do them in a non-OR instead (the "pre-op room" as it was). Dr. Donald McDonald III (I did not make that up) refused to work outside of the AC so we helped Judith mop the floors and walls so she could set down to it herself. She is AWESOME. But it was so far from sterile: windows open, pollen blowing in.... Oh well, it worked!
This is what senegalese feet look like and why I will need the first pedicure of my life when I get back. Thankfully mine aren't quite this bad yet.
