Woman Enters Man...

Since we didn't have Liberian visas, Booboo and I decided to go back through the forest region of Guinea, on the Most Gorgeous Roads of our collective lives and enter Cote D'Ivoire on the west, in the region called Man. The more we learned about the rebel strong-hold there, the more nervous we became about having to deal with that when every single border control officer was already demanding bribes. The others weren't so bad: in Sierra Leone, they suggested giving an additional sum, although they didn't recquire it. Ha! The second time back in Guinea, the small soft-spoken Very Pulaar man said, "Wait but you have to pay us!" I got little farther in my speech beyond, "No we don't!" before he settled back with a little giggle and said, "Okaaaay." Bless the pulaars.

On the way out of Guinea, we literally woke up some guards who quickly tried to look as important and professional as they could, while wiping the sleep from their eyes. My favorite part was when the "security officer" said in english that he should really check our bags, otherwise how would he know what's in them? Booboo said, "I just told you!" in a petulent 8 year old voice. Then the best part: she fist pumped to the said, and in the way that you'd hiss, "Yessss!" she said, "Trust!" I bit my lip to keeo from busting out laughing and tried to solemnly nod along instead. They all let us go with their phone numbers.

It wasn't quite so funny in Cote D'Ivoire. Our reservations were not unfounded. The rebel soldiers were all high on power trips and carrying their guns showily everywhere. (Ahh, compensation.) The plan Booboo and I decided on beforehand was that I didn't speak french well-- only pulaar and english. My goal was to channel Reece Witherspoon from Legally Blonde, but less annoyingly. So we smiled and said, "What???" a lot, and giggled. At one point I was having trouble summoning a credible giggle (since I actually understood the lewd things they were saying), so I literally said out loud in english, "Giggle....!" and the ridiculousness of that in turn got a few good ones out of each of us.

At the first post, the men were all over us and it wasn't too hard to be legally blonde until they were tired of asking for money. We accepted banana cookies and nodded a lot and shook everyone's hand and didn't say or "understand" much more beyond answering our destination and saying, "touristes!" The other guys in our car with whom I'd talked to a bit must have been suspicious, but they didn't rat me out.

The next one was the worst. A camo-clad guy on the back of a moto demanded my passport and shouted about it not being stamped. So we had to leave all our bags and our arguments with the massa bus people and trudge over to the gendarmerie.

I said, "Assala Malykum" and the leader rebel soldier answered, "But I'm Christian! How dare you greet me like that!" and his underlings cackled. I tried not to roll my eyes and said, "Well then greetings under the eyes of god..."

Oops! First Legally Blonde slip! I quickly stuttered some unintelligable ameri-french, but his eyes were narrowed. So we began our worst exchange with the rebel soldiers. This guy was ridiculous, not used to ever hearing "no," and a fan of playing with his gun.

The rest of my L.B. performance should win me an Oscar, if I do say so myself. Things went mostly like this:

Rebel Leader: "I don't care that you have your rubbish visa! It doesn't matter here! This is a war-zone and now you need to answer to us. We don't work with that embassy, so now you must pay us too! It's the only way!"

Me: "Yes... visa?... we have... no to-pay..."

The guys were all quite scary and prone to shouting and on the inside my heart was racing and I kept having to swallow. On the outside, I did my best to maintain the same L.B. placid expression. I concentrated on appropriately balancing my three weapons: stupidity, charming feminine wiles, and the side of justice. Mostly the first two.

When things fell too much on the last point, "You... here... to live?... is good?" + smile + small giggle. Woo, back in balance.

When we still weren't paying, he brought in a "translater." Luckily his english was almost as bad as my fake french. I batted my eyelashes at him. (Who knew people could successfully bat eyelashes outside of loony toons? But, YOU CAN.)

After a very long and tiring interrogation; I finally stammered that we didn't even have enough CFA to give them-- just enough for the bus that was waiting for us! This was not far from the truth. I asked them if there were banks and hotels in Man. The mood wasn't at all set for this touristy question, but I wanted to blatently ignore the mood and make them feel in some sort of authority still.

They finally let us go after getting our numbers and giving us theirs. (They wouldn't have rested otherwise-- with all the other soldiers bound to ask them what they got out of us, they needed to be able to show off something.) Of all the preposterous ideas, though. Like I'm really going to call up some power-tripping jerk and try to have another terrifying conversation with him? What are they thinking? I almost can't wait for them to call my American cell phone while I'm in line at Starbucks or something. I'll say to the cashier, "Hold on, it's a corrupt rebel soldier leader in Cote D'Ivoire... just a second... but I'll have a cappucino..."

There were many more soldier checkpoints after this and over and over we took out our passports, refused bribe demands, summoned fake smiles, and took peoples' numbers. If we weren't young women, I honestly don't think we could have ever gotten through all those with any money left. But instead of feeling celebratory about it, our terror kept growing. On the road, every spotted outfit and farming machete slung over regular peoples' shoulders looked like camo-clad soldiers with guns. Over and over, our hearts hammered from the psychological mirage. When we finally got into a hotel room and locked the door, we hugged each other and tried to laugh. But all night our terror still reigned and we both had camo-clad nightmares.

This experience has given me a new respect for people who go through battles and war. If we were so affected by a single day without even any true threat of being killed, I truly can't imagine what it's like for soldiers or the civilians caught among them. At the same time, I feel like I hate the concept of soldiers more than ever. I know so many poeple becomesoldiers, but I really think it's hard to impossible for this to not negatively affect them. The uniforms, the guns, the power, the separation from "regular people", the tangled responsibilities of following any order and dismissing previous independent philosophies of what's right and what's wrong. What else but these philosophies makes us humans?

I hope I'm not offending anyone by this. I know it's a sensative subject to criticize a practice for which so many of our loved ones have died. But I mean to criticize the system that killed or broke them, not the original people who enter into it.

Anyway, being on the side of the somewhat hunted, I began to wonder what exactly the differences were between rebel army occupation of northern Cote D'Ivoire and American army occupation elseware. I know we're more organized, with at least some official systems in place for answering for your actions. And we have fancier equipment and sweeter rides. But in how many people's nightmares do our American soldiers feature?

To end lightly, I'll share a bizarrely coincidental message from the fates: As I wearily settled back into my half-seat on the bus after yet another check-point, I was starting to doubt the way I was dealing with it all. Suddenly, a moto comes by, and in pink letters on the driver's shirt says: LEGALLY BLONDE. If that's not a sign that it'll all be okay, I don't know what is!

How to Take Roads Less Travelled: West African Public Transport

1. Play dumb. It's easy. You won't often understand what's going on anyway, even if you are fluent in the language. Stand around with your pathetically confused expression until someone has pity on you and takes your bags and gestures you to the front seat. If no one does (for shame!), point to it yourself and batt your eyelashes. No, it's not fair, but you just think about all the hissing and catcalls and grabbing on the street and then decide whether or not you deserve a few toubab perks after that!

2. Beware of the front middle seat. I took this in a tight skirt (flowered one from you, MB) and it was rather too much excitment for me. As they instructed me to get in, I just stared at the non-seat before the gear-shift and I had no idea how this would work. Then a guy grabbed my thigh to pull it over to the driver's side. I slapped him off my bare skin and said I got it! So I sat with one leg pressed up against the driver's and the other awkwardly straddling to the passenger seat which was pretty full already with Booboo and the bony old man who kept diggin his elbow into her. My skirt became extremely short in this position which ended up mattering because the gear shift was IN MY CROTCH. I put a water bottle against my goods to act as a barrier. The driver was annoyed to keep hitting it when he shifted, so he threw it aside at one point. But I insisted. So the whole trip involved my thighs getting groped and my crotch getting knocked. When I'd try to move my knee aside a little to give him space to shift with less contact, it would get wedged under the wheel and prevent all steering. So, groping it was. The keys also fell out a few times (which doesn't stop the car because it's hotwired anyway) and he had to feel blindly around ly entire bare leg to find them on my toes.

Remarkably, the driver was impressively professional about it all. I guess that's a common occupational situation, but for a very muslim country with more headscarves that I'd seen in Senegal and even some full out hijabs, I felt like a complete 'tute. I waited for him to linger on my thighs or do some less-necessary shifting but he actually remained quite focused. Still, I do not ever want to be in that seat again-- at least not without pants!

3.Get ready to have your style--not to mention body-- cramped. What I thought was a cramped sept-place (taxi-sized peugeot with 7 official spots) ride in Senegal becomes at the Very Least a neuf-place in Guinea and beyond. They don't have seat ratio laws, so they pack it in like I had no idea was possible. The driver shares his seat. Three or four adults can sit next to him (one straddling the middle) with at least as many kids. The three seats in the back and way back may hold double their numbers, plus kids on laps/ floors/ partly standing. I have seen up to eight people sitting on the roof and have no doubt that more is not rare. So one taxi= 8 seats (including driver's) = give or take 20 people. It's INSANE. The same applies for any vehicle. In our Guinea pick-up, over 20 passengers had to spill out of the back over and over to walk up the hills all throughout the night because the truck couldn't bear them. Expect elbows/ shoulders/ hips/ etc to dig into you. Expect to wear the scents of multiple people's sweat by the end. Try to avoid armpits.

4.If you feel nauseus... (which is more than likely due to the off-roading, smells, heat...) it is generally expected that you will vomit neatly into your own handbag or lap. It is a good rule.

5. If someone misses a bit and gets some vomit on you or baby pee/poo, don't freak out. They will feel bad and offer you water or a cloth. C'est la vie, and you're not clean anyway.

6. If there is frozen meat or live animals on the roof, be wary of window seats. On long trips, the meat will unfreeze and rain blood down the windows, horror-movie style. It will splatter through an open window, but closing the window makes it stiffling inside. The animals will pee and poo, but at least this is a limited number of times. People in the middle usually escape unscathed.

7. Otherwise, window seats are KEY. Sometimes the wind is strong, but keep it down as a courtesy to the poor unfortunate souls behind you.

8. Window crankers in their entirity are rare, but don't let that stop your ventillation ambitions! The driver will usually have a wrench or some other way of jerry-rigging it down.

9. Bring a scarf or bandana. If you have long hair like me, it will whip visciously into the face of your more-or-mess innocent neighbor in strong winds, if you don't wrap it up. More often, you might need it to wrap around as a dust mask in every season but rainy season. The dust can be an undefiable force-- it has covered my whole face red when I've worn a scarf ghost-sheet style! Also, scarves are handy for wipes, make-do pillos, and sweat rags.

10. Bring also on your lap instead of stored up on roof: water (for drinking and bush-sh*ts), zippered-up valuables (you could be pick-pocketed in your sleep, even though it's rare), book (even if you get car-sick while in motion, you'll want it when you break down), sunblock for your window-side (but try not to sit on this side! calculate ahead of time!), change for peanuts/ fruit/ biscuits/ eyc sold through windows, and needless to say, your sense of humor! So your driver may be an ***, but he'll be a lot easier to bear if you can successfully convince him (and the entire sept/ neuf-place, thank you very much) that YOU are the girl in the ever popular Madonna (singer) sticker. (My story is that's why I'm in Africa-- to tour and promote my cool sticker!)

11. Bed or bruise. On overnight rides, like our one from Kédougou to Labé (24.5 hours, they will pull over for about a three hour nap. This is why everyone else will have brought matts to sleep on. I had only my thin sleeping bag, but we zonked outn EASILY anyway. It was only in the morning did we process the intense discomfort of sleeping almost directly on a bed of rocks. "Princess and the Pointy Pebbles" I muttered as we groaned, shifting around our bruises as goats sniffed our toes.

12. If you get food, share it with everyone around you, and the driver. If there are 20 people behind you, it's okay to just stick to your own row. It's good to get other passengers on your side because you'll be the main target for cheating/ lying/ taking general advantage of. Be more selfish with your water. I shared mine with a woman and her toddler on the way to Guinea, but should have held on to it when the guys over the popped hood asked for it. they ended up dumping all the rest into the engine and then took my bottle to fill with gasoline! Which I stole back in the end, not realizing it was clear "essance." Payback...?

13. Get ready to ride the rage. The worst representatives of every one of these countries are the ones at airports/ garages/ other transit stations. Here, everyone will try to cheat you because they assume all white people have more money than they know what to do with. My blood has never boiled as it has in garages. Examples from this trip:

Over breakfast at a Guinea garage, a particularly crude oaf graced me with his disgusting presence. First, he asked for his present. Nothing new; I asked for mine. He said it was in his room, and continued down this vein more graphically than I may have ever heard, at least in pulaar! I told him our conversation was over-- several times. I ignored him. I asked him to leave. He was loving it. I threw his sunglasses several yards away, impulsively. He still grinned lesdly. I finally got up and expressionlessly grabbed the huge knife the cooks were using to cut bread. The boys scattered and laughed nervously. I sat down with the knife and he decided to leave for good. I explained to Booboo what was happening and breezily said, "First death threat of the day and I haven't even had breakfast yet!"

My second, third, and forth death threats were granted to a driver. He kept demanding that I pay for empty seats when people got out so he wouldn't have to fill them (as if they aren't really already "filled"). He did not stop, even when I scolded him for his rudeness and incorrect assumption that I'm rolling in it. I told him in english that I'd slit his throat, which is a gratifying method of feeling better without the person understanding the horrible thing you just said. When he still didn't stop, I said it again-- this time with CLEAR hand motions. I also acted out choking him from behind. He got better after that...

14. Obey the law, not the law officers. In Senegal, they're usually OK, except when they want extra cash before the holidays and will invent bogus fines and i.d. card checks. (Ask Jared about his arrests°. In Guinea, they suck a lot more. They held our passports for ransom, basically. When a guy who spoke english tried to coax me to pay up, I unleashed the wrath that I can't quite correctly unleash in pulaar. I berated him for breaking the law when it was his primary job to uphold and defend it. I would not ever pay a bribe to him or his evil cohorts because we already bought the visa. He could make ur whole car wait all day (gesture to woman and two infants), but that's still that. I was inwardly quite impressed with my little speech. I guess once the english started, and I realized exactly and correctly how I wanted to respond, I couldn't hold back. He let us go. And asked for our numbers. I wanted to spit on them as we left, especially one who condescendingly taunted our backs, but I settled, thankfully, for a Very Dirty Look.

This happened way more in Cote D'Ivoire, but see the next post for details of that.

Often, the gendarmes are comically ridiculous and you can see so clearly how they just wanted the job so they could wear the uniform. When we first checked into Guinea, by a guy in a "Xena: Warrior Princess" tee-shirt, another passenger came in to get water. A guard stopped him. "Are you military?" Nooo... "Then where did you get those boots?" Sure enough the mere civilian was sporting the same boots as the grandly powerful border control gendarme. "I bought them in the market..." The gendarme was extremely put out. He and his coworkers sported a variety of official-wear themselves-- one just had the hat. Another had flipflops, but most wore the same black boots. The guy looked betrayed, as if he were thinking he could have skipped all the training and long hours and just bought the beautiful boots, the prize and point of his occupation-- at the market! He made quite a fuss and demanded the guy take them off. I guess eventually it blew over, because Mr. Boots later got back into the car, rolling his eyes, adorned still in his boots.

15. Figure out what everyone else is paying for their bags and argue adamently for the same. In Senegal it's around 500 CFA, sometimes less. Guinea: Nothing. Sierra Leone: sporadic-- nothing to a mille. Cote D'Ivoire: Nothing, but that doesn't mean they won't try. I have yet to see about the others.

16. If you can get your hands on any old cassette tape even partially bearable, you might want to bring it to gift one of your drivers. A lot of drivers have just a single tape which they have no problem replaying 30 times. Even if you started out liking Akon or Youssou or Celine, IT GETS OLD.

17. Motos: don't wear tight skirts-- they rip (yours again, MB! but I sewed it back up). Hold on- best not around driver's waist because he'll be in love with you enough as it is already. Find a bar beneath or behind your seat. Careful with your baggage. I had a mosquito net explode like a party cracker out in the middle of the road, which made driving a bit tricky... Don't be afraid to ask your driver to slow down-- they often try to show off for you until you do. That said, moto rides in West Africa are excellent! You can see so much and pass all the cars getting stuck in ditches, and not dye pedelling yourself on your own bike. It's fantastic. The best and most beautiful rides of my life have been on motos in Guinea.

18. Tips from Booboo: "Focus on the scenery and not on your situation. Become a very creative daydreamer. Take comfort in the knowledge that those giant beads of sweat will cool you when the wind blows by. Acceptingly settle into your uncomfortableness with the knowledge that it will end... eventually."

Bon, donc maintenent: BON VOYAGE!

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.