The Mayor's Office of Love

One of Peace Corps' finest-- Michele-- recently traded vows with one of Kedougou's finest-- Ousemane. He was her host brother first, but they quickly grew past brotherly love... They are very cute and lovely together, but instead of that, let's talk about the hilarious ceremony.

As "witness," the only title role, I worried a bit about how I could possibly perform maid-of-honor-ish duties HERE. The bachelorette party too... as high-profile people trying to keep a professional image in Kedougou, during Ramadan.... it didn't seem possible to do this right. But we did. Unfortunately I am not at liberty to share these details...

As for the wedding day, I got up as usual with the roosters and proceeded to pace around all day, reminding people when to get there, and even putting on my Nice Dress. I meant serious witness business, people. Several hours later though, and still no word from the blushing bride. I pictured her surrounded by odd cosmetic contraptions, clouds of hair spray, and those mice and birds from Cinderella. I'm coming, poor, frantic friend! She picked up the phone, "[Yawn] Uhh, yeah, come over. And bring a movie!" Uhhh... what?

Roxy and I showed up ready for action and was greeted by a girl in pajamas. "Hey! What's up?"

"Ummm.. isn't this your wedding day, Michele?"

"Yeah, crazy, right?" I asked about preparations and she waved her hand at the door and said Ouseman went to get her shoes. She got her outfit from the tailor yesterday. Want to watch the Office?

I grinned. Now this was a pace I was much more comfortable with! We watched and chatted and I unsuccessfully snuck candy (both she, Ouseman, and Roxy were fasting for Ramadan.) Ousey returned with some steller purple shoes and promptly took a nap on the floor.

Half an hour before the wedding, we convinced her to maybe, you know, dress? Now, 28 minutes to the wedding. Hmm.. We played around with the tiny pile of makeup the three of us compiled and tousled around her hair pretending it did something. She wore her mom's old earings, her brand new purple shoes, I gave her 100 CFA to borrow, and as for the "something blue" I just took a pen and drew a dot on the bottom of her foot. I felt like we were playing pretend wedding.

Especially since I then biked to the ceremony. The other volunteers were there in full form, mostly in ridiculous Senegalese outfits. We waited, true to all things Senegal, for over an hour for the mayor to show up. During the wait, the hidden donkey charette with the "Just Married!" sign and trailing tomato paste and fanta cans-- ran over and ruined the surprise. These sounds of jingling, braying, and people running to catch it became steady background noises to the event.

At the ceremony, the officials seemed a bit uneasy about having a room FULL of toubabs for probably the first time. They made us-- especially me and Michele-- switch seats about ten times. Then they wouldn't start until everyone had a coke or fanta in front of them-- even though about half the room was fasting and wouldn't touch it. They called Michele by her middle name. They spoke in such a rapid Wolof-ish french that we all struggled to follow. We held our breath when Ouseman didn't understand the "monogamy vs. polygamy" option at first. Whenever things were directed at me, I leaned forward and frowned in concentration. "Uhhh... OUI." I think I got everything until the end, when I inadvertanly promised to come back the next month to marry another senegalese guy. Oops!





My greatest failing as a witness was probably that I couldn't stop giggling throughout the entire affair. But everything-- EVERYTHING was so funny! The guys trying to put on a good show for the toubabs, the looks on the other PCVs' faces, the donkey outside and shouts of people catching it, the blue dot on the bottom of Michele's foot... I don't feel too bad, though, because the only other person giggling as much as me was Michele.


Hands down, the best wedding I've ever been to. Felicitations, Madame et Monsieur Kante!

Fatou and Hawa: Revised Plan

(This is in reference to the previous blog entry)

So Melinda Gates does not read my blog. New plan-- let's work together! You can comment on this page an amount to pledge-- or email me if you want to remain anonymous. That way if we can't raise enough, you never actually paid anything, and it just won't happen. If we can successfully bring our forces together, you could give checks to my mother who could transfer them to my account. Sound like a plan? (As far as where to send the checks, I'd rather email the address individually rather than publish it on the web. But don't send anything yet until we know we have enough pledges to actually accomplish our goal!)

Also, I just learned they have a Guinean husband in mind for Hawa, so I'd really like to do this as soon as possible! Thanks so much for your support!



Click here to Pledge

Never Been Missed

Fatou and Hawa are two of my favorite people in the village. Always patient and friendly with me, they really stand out as genuinely nice people who aren’t trying to milk me for anything. They amaze me with their consistently positive attitudes and the respect with which they treat others. They work harder than anyone else I’ve seen: from dawn until bedtime, they pound corn, wash clothes, pull water, clean rooms and dishes, feed and move the animals, help with harvesting, find firewood, cook meals, and are the main caretakers for the children of their households. They are both 12 years old.

Do you remember what you did at 12? If I remember correctly, I wore mismatched socks, went to the movies almost every weekend, and secretly had not yet given up my collection of stuffed animals yet. I probably had more stuffed animals than these girls have articles of clothing (which is probably about 4 each).

My favorite subjects were art, science, and english. I didn’t feel like I took school completely for granted, but I definitely faked sick many a time. Hawa was pulled out of elementary school a few years ago even though her sharpness is evident within the first 5 minutes of talking to her. She had to stay at home to take over household responsibilities from her frail mother. Fatou is lucky to have not yet been pulled out, but without any free time to study and do homework, she’s falling behind and apparently resigned to this.

They are bright beautiful loveable girls just becoming women. It’s refreshing to see how gracefully they take these changes—none of the embarrassment or awkwardness that accompanied them for everyone I know in America. But sometimes I want to grab them and cover them up and keep their growing a secret. With all the times I’ve heard I should really get married since I’m developed, I know they’ll be married off sooner than I’d like. By law they’ve still got a few years, and I doubt this law will be broken at least with Fatou, my sister, while there’s a PCV living in the household.

But then they will be, and their lives will very much most likely match the lives of their mothers and grandmothers before them. One of multiple wives, they will most likely bear many children and do the same work all day every day that they did at 12. And no books or soap operas or shopping sprees will line their clouds, either. Hopefully they’ll have nice husbands who don’t abuse them and who use finances appropriately to ensure everyone can eat enough. Unfortunately, these elements are far from guaranteed.

By the time I was 12, I was fortunate enough to have visited several countries, museums, zoos, and to have tried many varieties of food. Fatou and Hawa have only ever been as far as Kedougou, 1-2 times, and aren’t likely to ever travel beyond, as they are/ will be women. Of course they’ve never seen a museum or anything of the sort, and other than my “pop-kabba” and “espaghett” ventures, have had less than ten dishes in their lives, usually the same three over and over.

I would like to change at least these few things. Another PCV—Kevin—took his two village brothers to Dakar for their first times, and I would like to do this with Fatou and Hawa, the most deserving girls I can imagine.

Their first trip to their country’s capital would show them many more firsts: hotels, showers, toilets, sinks, swimming pools, hamburgers, french fries, ice cream, pastries, seafood (etc. etc. etc! important category for these twiggy malnourished girls!), museums, boat (to Goree Island to see the House of Slaves and the best school for girls in the country—stark opposites!), zoo (I hear the Dakar zoo is depressing, but I think it might be more depressing to have never gone to a zoo?), movies (french cultural institute), live good music, grocery store, big market, beach and view of ocean, views of nice mosques (unlike our stick one), views from tall buildings in Dakar (first stairs, in fact!), other sightseeing (Presidential Palace, etc.), and the first/only time they’d feel like they’re living it up like toubab princesses.

I’d also want to show them successful working women, first-hand. Awa, in particular, is a fantastic role model who could life-alteringly inspire any girl within 10 minutes. I’d give them both photo albums to remember the trip forever. They would find themselves in the new positions of authority in the village and sad as it is, I know people would treat them with more respect afterwards. They would gain an invaluable greater understanding of their country and the world. They would be able to buy gifts for their families, and in Senegal, there is no greater feeling than this.

Here’s the thing. I’m a PCV with no money. Kevin was able to do this because of a private donor. I have a sinking suspicion I have no private-donor-types reading this blog, but I’m going to try anyway. I estimate this three-day trip would cost about $850, everything included. If I had to cut out some hamburgers and gift-buying money, I could go down. I know I’ve been soliciting a lot lately and all you over there in the great Amerik are worried enough about money already. But this is a really important cause to me. Hopefully I’ve been able to express the impact this trip would have on Hawa and Fatou. If anyone out there is interested in funding this, please please contact me. I can provide a budget, photos, thank you letters from the girls, receipts—whatever you’d like!

I promise you would change the lives of two of the sweetest, most hard-working girls I’ll ever know. Please help me make this happen.

Ingley Troisieme Tour

I meant for these to go in the opposite order, but the prospect of attempting to make that happen at this point overwhelms me. This is our trip to Ingley, in photos... in reverse...

Stick Bridge

Until dry season returns, it's this or a dug-out-tree canoe, every time I want to go to or come back from my village.

To Cure a Foul Mood in Pellel Kendessa

1. Leave Pellel Kendessa
2. Enthusiastically un-fast with a Ture's omelette sandwich and milky coffee in Dindefello
3. Make the market ladies giggle
4. Tell all the fasting food vendors that they're either very strong or very crazy
5. Pet the 2 domesticated monkeys and avoid watching abuse
6. Steer clear of the campement sai-sai's, as good as a beer would be... not worth it!
7. Walk to waterfall, through gorgeous viney jungle bits
8. Upon arrival, crane neck and admit it actually is a cooler waterfall that you give it credit for (even if yours is better, at least this one has a path)
9. Sigh in relief to be in sweet sweet solitude-- no villagers OR tourists!
10. Prop up on Throne Stone and contemplate waterfall. Decide it could be a gutter drain from Heaven. Holy refuse. Notice how drops of water seem to hand suspended and distinguishable after last drop-off before careening in down-arrow shapes, looking like diving angels. Imagine that this is how guardian angels get delivered and decide to stick your toes in the water in case that's how to pick one up.
11. Realize that you really are along and no one else will come. FREEEEEDOMMMMM!
12. Besides taking off clothes, for which it's a bit chilly as you're next to the fall's mists, there's really only one way to celebrate your solitary situation. Sing like you haven't sung since a shower in America. It's like a really big shower, so raise your singing volume proportionately. Feel like a waterfall diva goddess. Wail "Wicked" songs at the water, christmas carols at the opportunist waterfront property trees, "Amazing Grace" at the sky, classic rock to the forest. Oh how you rock.
13. Picnic on tuna sandwich, also from Ture's sandwich stand.
14. Shiver. In SENEGAL!
15. Sing Beach Boys, Mariah, and Rent on the walk back. Even as you pass people going to different parts of the river to wash their clothes. Assume you're probably brightening their days with a crazy-toubab-sighting.
16. Charge phone and get texts. Phone service and electricity are also nice things...
17. Turn a crying toubab-a-phobe baby into one that giggles every time you smile at him
18. Buy lots of breaking-fast foods for the family and bask in adoring appreciation once you deliver it
19. Go to bed while you're ahead.

storm

the unbearable heat of the day mounted
the mountains, building up until it
broke out in thunder and ex
ploded in lightening. the sky was lit
as often as dark, I tried to keep score
in seconds: 1:1, 2:2, 1:3, 1:1, 3:1, 1:1...
It lit my father praying,
standing, kneeling, bowing,
kneeling, standing, praying,
it lit Balla next to me singing verses I never
knew he knew, head whipping, trancelike,
it lit the bodies that fast for it,
who were already starving,
it lit us all, suddenly,
exposing us, bent in the effort of blinking
dark out of the thing or people we most wanted
to see; it captured us staring at each
other. light, dark, flickering,
night
fighting day for control of the sky,
channel 1
no, channel 2,
channel 1, I said! and the tears flow...
the edges of thatch roofs mourning the most,
like children in the midst of their parents' divorce.
heads tilted to see if holy things might spill
as things are thrown across heaven, smashing,
cracking on the floor until
even the beating
of the ground turns into a
lullabye, the rest, a hovering dream.

I'll Be Right Back and We'll Breathe More, OK?

8/21

This is the emerald city.. er.. village. It is a village of corn. Corn yards, corn avenues, corn in the bathrooms, corn obscuring huts, cows, people, and of course corn in every bowl. The kids call out, work blurring with play. Are they chasing each other through vibrant green rows or shouting goats and baboons off our crops? Children of the corn as well. I remember last year at this time, that thought actually spooked me. The obscure shadows rustling in the night... Now I'm thankful for the visual feast of green, and for the buffer layers of privacy keeping the eyeballs of kids from the gaps in my fence. It's almost like privacy...
The picture of pastoral perfection, as well. Rising high into stormy skies or painted sunsets, the stalks might seem dignified themselves if not for their ridiculous firework crowns and crazy-haired infants they cradle. Their leaf appendages rustle fabrics as they shake each other's hands and scratch their own mosquito bites. They make the village smell like life again.
Other than corn, you may recall, we grow cotton and peanuts. There exist also the odd rice or funio field too, but I've sadly yet to taste the delicious fruits (or grains) of those labors. Since the fasting of Ramadan begins tomorrow, we've been having work parties to get the work done while people have some energy. This is when farmers bribe their friends to work in their fields for the day in exchange for lunch and company.
Over the river and through the woods... and over another river and some fences, up and down some hills, through the mountains in the mud, and over 3 more rivers... to the fields of Guinea we go! (so stop bitching about your commute.) Lunch is brought in huge bowls on women's heads, along with their laundry. The work parties are surprisingly upbeat occasions. Hard, painful, with sweat literally raining on the earth below you (watering: check!), but people are glad to be in each other's company. I'm usually just relieved for an excuse to zone out and apply focus. So I zoom along, not noticing blisters, and basking in all of the, "Wow, Hadiatou can actually farm!"'s. There's something also deeply humanly anciently satisfying about communal subsistence work, under the sun, feet bare in the worm-filled soil. But I must admit that after a while, I do recognize the blisters and the aches in my back and the shaking of sore legs... and I have no problem playing the toubab card and going to the river for the rest of the day.
At the river, women beat rocks with colorful cloths, turning the water to a river of grey bubble bath. Washing clothes in rivers is even better than wiggling your toes next to other in corn fields. Everything but underwear, if I'm with others. How strange to be embarrassed for actually wearing underwear!
And in another anciently-pleasing renaissance painting scene, the women bathe in the river. I'm always so shocked to see their butts that I have to laugh for not even noticing anymore whether or not their topless. What is it about communal female bathing that makes it seem like it's just as a male might imagine it? Laughing, splashing, scrubbing each other... I'll stop there. Anyway, I have yet to fully join in. It looks so fun and greek mythic! But there's the wretched weight of being the only toubab and object of everyone's curiosity. The woman who tells men what to do, the strangest creature in anyone's life.. I just don't want to have to face peepers or further curiosity. Oh, the pressures that prevent my fairy bath time!
So while the women scrub each other's backs, I impress them with my swimming, showing off like a child. Despite the abundance of rivers and children falling into wells, no one can swim here. So I find myself in undeserving authority, very much similar to how I give cooking/nutrition classes. I am not a swimmer. I was never on the swim team and my "freestyle" is a sloppy pantomime of what it looks like to me. Ridiculous. So now I'm teaching swimming classes.
Mamajan is my main student. He visibly basks in my attention. As well as kids seem to turn out with the heavy-hands-on only parenting here, I think some kids still just really need the positive reinforcement and gentle instruction they crave. He worships me. I was showing him a few things: breathing in the water, kicking while holding a rock, and how to use your arms as paddles. He in his Senegal-acclimated body was quickly freezing. His entire body seemed to be overtaken with goosebumps, and he shook violently. Also, learning how to swim sucks, right? You can't do anything, you choke on water, and you're overtaken by all these brief bouts of "Oh I might actually die right this second." So I kept offering him outs, "Great work! How 'bout we go in now?" He shook his head passionately until finally his mother shrieked for him to get his baby sister or she'd beat the pee out of him. Grinning at me and stumbling backwards over rocks, he said, "Hadiatou, I'll be right back and we'll breathe more, OK? We'll keep breathing!" Hahahaha, that was during the breathing-above-water, blowing-below lesson, when I kept instructing poignantly, "Breathe now!"
Ahhh, rainy, corny, rivery breathing season.