Thankful Birthday

 The Senegalese don’t really celebrate birthdays. Case in point: I returned a few days after my youngest brother Saliou’s birthday and when I asked my mom what they’d done to celebrate it she replied, “Oh yeah. I forgot it was this week. Well, if we have money we’ll make a cake for him and Baba (my other brother with a birthday a few weeks prior) on Saturday.” That never happened.

Display Tactics

Back at Jazz Fest, because this story is so grand I split it into two…

Soapy Situation

Laundry Soap!

People who haven’t heard from me in a while ask how getting back to basics has been. When they think of Peace Crops they think about an experience without all the technologies and comforts available in the United States of Heaven. A place where mornings are spent sweeping my hut, washing laundry by hand, and tending my garden. Then I help cook meals over a fire whilst chatting in a cluck based language with the local women. I pull water in from the well, carry it on my head back to my hut, and use it to take a bucket bath. In the evenings I read Tolstoy by candle light.

Yeah, it’s not really like that.

Thiebou Yap

Continuing with the recipes that I eat quite frequently and enjoy, I present you with Thiebou Yap (pronounced “cheb boo yah-p”) this is a traditional lunch meal translated to mean rice with meat.

Investment Talk

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Money in the Market

What is an investment? Where I live, it means spending all your money as soon as you get it so as to avoid the possibility of giving to someone else. For if someone was to ask you for money, and you had it, you would need to give it to them by rule of Senegalese (and West African?) culture. Instead, you should buy something for yourself or the house as soon as you receive the funds. This way you’ve bought the cement, for example, needed to build that wall you’ve always wanted. Granted the cement is only the first step because you also need sand delivered and the labor to make the blocks… but it’s a building block (pun intended). You’re now one step closer to having your dream wall thanks to the investment.

Random Facts on Senegal

These are little tid-bits, specific to Senegal’s people or culture, which should be shared. However they are too short to be described in their own individual postings so I’ve compiled them here. Their briefness doesn’t somehow make them less interesting, though, so pay attention:

Food Basics

I frequently get a lot of questions about Senegalese food, so I decided to create a week long diary of what it is that I actually eat. While I was on vacation in the US, I attempted to refuse to eat rice or onions… because they are in everything I’ve eaten for nearly a year and a half. Aside from that tid-bit it’s time to lay out a detailed description of what I’m consuming (and why I’m always asking for protein in care packages).

There are a few basics that apply to every meal that I figure are “must know.” So this installment I’ll throw out all the generalities (and the next one will have a blow by blow of an entire week of food).

First off, half of ever meal is prepared in the hallway. The kitchen is used for storage of utensils, cookware and the gas tank. Things may be cooked there but they prep work is done in the hallway. Mom pulls up a chair then washes, peels, slices, or mashes food in the most common area of the house. The refrigerator even sits in the hall way. Honestly, there just isn’t enough room in the kitchen anyways… it’s roughly the size of guest bathrooms you’d see in America. Seriously.

When I say there is beef in a meal what I mean is someone got a hunk of who-knows-what-part of cow from the butcher. It was probably killed within the last 48 hours. I hope. They don’t seem to know how to handle fat, so my family cuts through the muscle portion to form small bite sized pieces thus leaving the fat to ribbon through each piece; yummy. In any given meal there are only maybe 15 to 20 pieces of meat and 9 or more of us at the bowl. This is why I ALWAYS ask for protein in care packages.

The “table” is a piece of vinyl that is placed on the floor, either in the hallway (for lunch) or the living room (for dinner). Then the meal is served in a circular platter about 24 inches in diameter with a 1 inch high rim. Everyone is handed a spoon at lunch and a fork at dinner. My youngest brother has a mini fork and spoon. This is not the case in every home. Quite often you will hear of people eating with their hand- without utensils. This is normal, but as my family is well off we only find ourselves in this situation when many more guests are around than we have utensils. The women sit on their legs, butt cheeks on ankles, while the men sit on their left leg the same way with the right foot on the ground and knee to their chests. Guests are given a “bank” which resembles the foot stool we used as kids to brush our teeth in the bathroom sink. It’s not really all that comfortable and just makes you eat with your chest resting on your knees during the meal. Or at least that’s how I feel.

As for etiquette, we have only a few rules. Everyone eats with their right hand, while the left hand holds a piece of bread (at night only). It is not the biggest insult if I forget and chew a piece of bread with my left hand, I’ve seen my family do it, but I generally try to set my fork down, tear a piece off in my right hand, and then eat it. When you are done eating, it is then acceptable to find a drink (or be handed one if you’re a guest). No one speaks, drinks, or moves slowly during a meal. You snooze; you lose- your precious few bits of meat- as any given period of consumption lasts a maximum of ten minutes.

Breakfast in my house is always the same: bread. It’s therefore not worth mentioning 7 individual times. We each get about 6 inches of white baguette. My mother will spread butter on the insides for my brothers. Occasionally we’ll have chocolate, or fruit preserves (if I’ve brought them) on the weekends. During Ramadan we try to eat sandwiches with egg or meat and cheese on them as it is already 7p and we are dying for protein. And there are plenty of volunteers who eat breakfast out… and acquire cooked bean sandwiches or chalkery (yogurt and millet) but those options are a pretty long walk for me and who can stand to wait that long for breakfast?

To drink for breakfast the kids are handed a cup of heated water mixed with sugar and powdered milk (because of its high fat and vitamin content… and good taste?). Adults drink water with Nestcafe (instant coffee) or Café Touba (strong chai spiced coffee). A third option is Quinquilliba, a mild local green leaf boiled in water for tea.

An note should be made about dessert. After lunch, if we have the stock, fruit is served. We’ll eat slices of watermelon, melon, corossol or papaya, or share pieces of orange, apple, banana… generally anything we can find in season. For special occasions, such as birthdays or holidays (both American and Senegalese) we’ll make a cake. Last year on my mom’s birthday my dad drove to Thies and bought her a cake from the bakery. It was really cute. And finally, when bored or throwing a party, my family pulls out the ice cream maker and tries a new recipe involving sweet yogurt or eggs and condensed milk. Generally with fruit flavors added but we attempted a great chocolate version once! Any dessert is successful if my 2.5 year old brother is wearing more of it than he’s eaten (actually that rule goes for most meals, too)!

One of the most important points to keep in mind is that we are currently in “vegetable season.” This goes to say that veggies are abundant and inexpensive (read: affordable in appropriate quantities). The meals represented next, especially at night, are infinitely more nutritious this time of year than, say, the end of the dry season just before the rain hits and plants can grow again. Perhaps I’ll log another meal diary in 6 months for comparison…

And lastly, the timing of meals isn’t what you’d expect either. Lunch is served anywhere from 1:30p to 3:30p. Schools in Mboro don’t even let out for lunch until 1p. If its Friday then lunch can be even later as the most important prier of the week (read: trip to the local mosque) takes place at 2:20p. Dinner is then pushed back to 9:30p at the earliest, but generally around 10:30 or 11p. This is because my brothers get hungry around dusk… so they snack. If we eat too soon after snack time they won’t finish dinner and this greatly annoys my host mother. In addition, 2 nights a week my dad won’t even get home from work until 10:30p so we’re waiting for him to join us before eating. Frequently some of my youngest brothers won’t make it until dinner is actually served before passing out of the night. 

Diva Cup

Stop. Before we go any further, I need to make the following announcement: this blog is about menstrual cycles. If you’re a guy perhaps it’d be better for you not to read this. I’m serious. This means you, Dad.

Ok, now that that’s out of the way… it has come to my attention that people I don’t actually know read my blog because of its informative properties. Therefore, I’ve chosen to share (in the most professional way I can hope for?) my knowledge on being a women in either the Peace Corps West Africa and dealing with my monthly gift.

The Peace Corps handbook tells a future volunteer to pack everything they could want for the next two years and specifically lists feminine hygiene products as a part of that pack. They say this because more often than not there is no place to buy what you’re looking for. Either it doesn’t exist, or you’d have to travel way too far to either find it, or easily return, on a monthly endeavor. If you’re a mildly OCD type like me, you’d be facing an excel “packing” spreadsheet attempting to calculate an average tampon usage per month multiplied by estimated duration in Africa, with buffers for any changes inevitably incurred by unforeseeable strain on the body (because let’s face it, adjusting to PC life is NOT easy). I didn’t like statistics class in college and therefore couldn’t find an acceptable calculation that didn’t involve an entire suitcase full of tampons.

So I opted for the alternative, Diva Cup, for the sole advantage of saving packing space. The diva cup is a closed-ended funnel shaped piece of molded plastic designed to rest inside a vagina and collect waste matter. Periodically the cup is extracted, emptied and reinserted. At the end of a menstrual cycle the cup is cleaned, sterilized, and stored until next month. This one product can be used for the entire duration of my Peace Corps service and takes up less room in my suitcase than a bottle of Tums.

I found one of the only stores in my state to sell the device on its shelves and dragged a trusted friend with me. The economic crisis being in full swing, and everyone looking to save a few bucks, I talked my friend into buying one too. I didn’t have an opportunity to try the method out before heading to Africa but she did and, quite frankly, her results were inconclusive and a bit daunting.

Naturally this meant that along with all the other things I had on my mind, I got slammed with starting my period my very first night in Africa. Hurray! So I got out my cup, read the directions another seven times and spent a good half hour making sure I’d positioned it right. And I did all of this without dropping it down the new squat toilet I was adjusting to; bonus points! Thank god the Peace Corps took mercy on us in that first week by providing a running tap next to the hole in the ground as well as some toilet paper. I probably would’ve cried if they hadn’t been there.

The application of this product is something I’ve never had experience with… going inside. With the tampon’s easy applicator and removal string, who had the need? But honestly, the whole experience was similar to giving up toilet paper. The first time you do it a panic attack nearly cripples you with nightmares of germs and disease and you spend no less than ten minutes washing your hands. The next time you bring it down to a mere 5 minutes. Eventually, you relax. You haven’t gotten sick and, after all, that’s what soap was invented for.

As the months continue to rack up, I’ve become more and more appreciative of my Diva Cup. The benefits are more than the initial savings in suitcase room. Because it’s made of plastic, it can be worn for longer than 8 hours if necessary without fear of toxic shock syndrome. Additionally, there is no fear of leak (after you’ve gotten the hang of insertion, that is) and therefore no fear of embarrassing stains or inability to wash them out when I do my laundry by hand. If that weren’t enough, there are frequently times when water isn’t always available to wash either the cup or hands so this option allows me to wait until I’ve returned to the privacy of my own home, or at the very least a trusted locale. 

Now let’s talk about trash. There are no landfills, no recycling centers, and no compost facilities to make things better. What we do have is a lot of delusions about how the trash isn’t affecting our environment. The outside perimeter of the city is covered in it. Either you carry it there yourself, or if you’re lucky (like me) someone goes around the neighborhood collecting it for you… and then dumps it out there. My family creates about one small desk size waste basket of non-biodegradable trash per week. That’s pretty impressive considering there are 8 of them. I make about one basket all by myself, and I’m constantly looking for a way to stop making more (damn drink mix packets!). Anyway, there’s a lot of waste product involved with the whole tampon issue and I’m seriously thankful that I’m not contributing all that to the town’s trash field. Kids and animals alike both play there, and the thought of them discovering (and playing with) my waste makes me cringe with embarrassment.

What do the Senegalese women do, you ask? Well, my understanding is that they employ the tactic of cotton fabrics stuffed in underwear which is then washed and reused. The whole process is well hidden as I’ve never seen anything resembling this hung out on the laundry line to dry. Feminine hygiene products are available for sale at western stores, but they are very expensive, and as I’ve mentioned before generally don’t appeal to the publicity that accompanies the trash removal aspect of society.

So now that I’ve convinced you to purchase your own Diva Cup (whether you’re joining PC or looking for a cost/ environmental savings at home) I’d like to touch on my one and only mishap with the cup. As I’ve mentioned before, at the end of the week, I clean and sterilize the cup before storing it away until the next month. In Mboro this means I borrow my family’s gas tank to boil it in water for about five minutes then soak it in a bleach water solution for another five minutes. Attempting to avoid the cup’s discovery by one of six of my brothers, I wait until the house is empty. As I’m always attempting to accomplish more than one task at a time this means I once found myself sufficiently distracted to the point of forgetting about the cup while it boiled on the gas. I remembered it again shortly after the water had completely boiled away and the plastic started to melt and smoke up the kitchen. Oops.

In utter panic I contacted my sister and explained that she needed to purchase me a new cup and mail it out within the next 24 hours so that by some miracle it would arrive before the next month. It got here 7 days later in one of those small flat yellow envelopes; alhumdililahi (frequently used Arabic saying for ‘thanks be to god’). Since that incident, I’ve altered my sanitization procedure so that I now remove the boiling water from the gas before put the cup in, followed by bleach. And I’ve also got a renewed sense of comfort knowing that my sister’s on call for African emergencies.

 

Henna

According to my African mother, older women cover their feet in henna designs for 3 reasons. The first is that it is believed to hold medicinal properties. As in, the elderly who suffer from arthritis find a certain relief in the henna that soaks into the skin. The second is that the henna helps undo the damage done to the heels from years of trudging through the sand in flip flops. You wouldn’t believe the calluses I have after a year and a half… so imagine what a life time looks like: cracked heals, surfaces of stone, and a permanent flip flop tan line (that last one I only imagine in my case). The third reason henna is so popular is more basic: It looks pretty.

I know when I say henna most of you imagine the really pretty rose or brown colored designs found on Indian women. Like everything else here, the practice of henna is completely different. First up, we use black henna. It comes from a base of who knows what and is actually packaged as black hair die from China. It is sold in the pharmacy (how CVS of them, right?) I couldn’t tell you want they use in India but it’s obviously different. In addition, the designs are much more basic, more African. There are no little dots forming flowery designs. Senegalese women use athletic tape to form their patterns and cover the whole area in the henna mixture… leaving the taped area is the break in the color. The parts of the body decorated are typically the bottoms of the feet, and the inside of the palm and the fingers (but usually only the left hand- because it’s already dirty).

I’ve attempted henna twice. The first time was over a year ago when I spent the day at a women’s house and told her I was interested. She enlisted her daughter to commence in my first experience. They attempted a red version (I’m nearly certain we can call it a botched Indian knock off) that involved taping my hands off, putting a creepy green paste over nearly every surface, and covering my hands in plastic to protect them. I was to spend the better part of half a day attempting to not use my hands. It was tedious. And I gave up early, 4 hours later. After voiding my hands of all objects, a barely yellow tint was visible. It left a few days later.

The second attempt occurred just recently and coincided with the visit of my sister. Granted I’d been asking my mom for a year to do henna with me, but apparently a visitor warranted the activity. This is probably because of the 3rd utilization of henna, it’s pretty. Semi-permanent tattoo sightings are much more prevalent in Mboro in and around holidays, because these beautiful works of art make things more festive. Another reason could be that a week is taken off for every holiday, thus leaving the peoples with plenty of extra time to kill. Or maybe they take a week off for all the preparation. It’s a ‘chicken or the egg’ conundrum, if you ask me.

Anyway, I digress. The week of Tabaski, my mom mentioned doing henna together. Our plan was to do it Friday (the holiday having been on Wednesday). My sister was to arrive Saturday morning. My suspicions lay with my Senegalese mom always trying to get me to dress better (read: more Senegalese) and her not wanting me to fall short of proving to my actual family that I have indeed spent too much time integrating into my current lifestyle. We started by calling a women who performs the art as a side business in another neighborhood. My mom got a quote and I agreed. Later, my mom talked to some friends, and decided we could do the whole thing ourselves with the help of a neighbor in our area of town. Hmm; this should have been a sign. So should’ve the fact that I’ve been asking my mom to do this with me for a year now… only to learn that she’d “never done it before.” Odd as I’d seen her with it…

So, like any other task, we sent one of the children out in search of the necessary ingredients. For two days, the boy came back empty handed. By Friday night, I suggested we attempt to do it with my sister upon arrival the next day. It wasn’t until just before my sister, her boyfriend, and I were scheduled to leave Mboro did the items miraculously appear. And then, as in most instances with my host mom, I got bullied into doing something I was not actually willing to do at that point in time. Drinks with a friend were postponed and my sister and I were seated in the foyer of our house. The neighbor girl arrived and the Chinese hair dye was mixed.

At this point it’s time to revisit something my mom said: that she’d never done this before. Apparently this meant that she’d never a) used the black Chinese hair dye version and b) been in charge of actually forming the designs on skin. I’d told her from the beginning that she was in charge of the African design that needed to appear on my significantly paler skin. And since this artwork was scheduled to last for weeks at a time, putting all that in someone else’s hands is kind of a big deal for me; a trust issue if you will. I did give her one single restriction: in no way shape or size did I want a heart to appear on my body. I’ve always felt this was tacky, and I just can’t live with tacky for weeks on end.

So we got started. The neighbor showed my mom how to use a small stick or match to dab the henna onto the skin. From there a design already mapped out on paper was used. I mentioned a number of times that my drawing could be much simpler than 20 or plus shapes that lay out… but no one was listening. I guess they still weren’t listening when I said I wanted the design on the top of my foot, because the actual one started about 3 inches up my leg and worked its way across the top of my foot. After an initial line was drawn, my mom left me in the hands of the neighbor girl to be finished and started working on my sister. Squiggly lines, diamonds, dots, flowers, and swirls began to take form in black. I distracted myself from its ridiculousness by translating conversation between my mom and sister.

I should have been paying attention because when I finally turned back a heart was smiling smugly back at me from the center of the design. Unbelievable. This “artist” of a neighbor had gone too far. It’s finished, I tell her. My mom bullies me once more into putting a tattoo bracelet on my left arm. Fine, but NO hearts! I end up with two (what were aimed at) straight lines around my wrist with dots in the middle. In the end my sister ended up with basically the same things both on her foot and her wrist. We were instructed not touch them until the mixture dried. The neighbor girl bumped my wrist while attempting to design it… so from the get-go it was messed up. I made it worse by grazing a wall. And I guess wrists are difficult for everyone because sister did the same thing with hers.

We eventually left for our drinks at the local watering hole so that making jokes about the whole debacle would go down easier. I started to refer to it as the time “a 3 year old drew on me with a marker,” because that’s what I believe it looked like. I spent the next week using my sister’s make up removing face wipes to diminish my works of art as quickly as possible. I also had to shave my arm hairs (which were dyed black- it is hair dye of course). It didn’t take long. In the end, I’ve learned the following lessons (although it’s not been the first time): my host mom is great at bullying and I’m great at getting bullied, if you want something done right (or without hearts) do it yourself, and finally that nothing- absolutely nothing- is going to get done when I first imagine or plan it to.

Tabaski

The biggest holiday of the Senegalese year has come again. It’s two lunar months after Korite (or about two calendar months plus ten days) and is known here as Tabaski. I’m sure it has a more Arabic name in other Muslim countries, and is celebrate a day or two earlier than we do, though I don’t know anything about it. This day is a fusion of my two of my favorite American holidays Christmas and Thanksgiving, and I’m certain that last year I was too caught up in the “everything is so different” aspect to see the resemblances. Happily, not much escaped me this year. I’m going to make a bold statement; this Tabaski was the best Senegalese holiday I’ve passed in all my time here.

The seemingly most important aspect of the day is sheep. Two days before the event I found myself in Dakar, which had a viable shot at being renamed Field of Sheep. Every single spare corner of land that wasn’t resident to a building or a trash pile was covered in sheep and their vendors (and even some of the piles, unfortunately). That’s a lot of sheep; which is to be expected given that every household takes it upon themselves to kill a sheep for their family. How many houses is that? A better question is where do all the sheep come from? I can’t answer either. I can tell you that the single most important purchase of the holiday is the ram, which can cost anywhere from $100 to $400 per. Now’s the time I remind you that the poverty line is drawn at making less than $1 a day… you do the math.

Also reminiscent of Thanksgiving is the enormous amounts of cooking to be accomplished. The night before my family and I sat down to peel a large sack of potatoes, (luckily I’d had a peeler shipped in which made me quite effective) and another of onions. The morning of I was put in charge of the French fries. I lucked out again as my mom (lover of all cooking appliances, utensils, and short cuts) had a fry cutting shooter gizmo which made the job a million times easier. After that I pitched in with the onions. For hours we sat cutting onions in our hands with a paring knife. These women don’t use cutting boards or large knifes to do their work, but they can accomplish the same volume with their hands as a I could with a cutting board for any given period of time. I on the other hand, having zero practice with this method, fumbled often. I’m proud to say, however, that I’m cut free!

Our Catholic neighbors were kind enough to lend us their daughters. Any girl in her teens was sent to our house and given a knife. In the later hours of the morning, when the onions were finally done, I started in turning the potatoes into French fries. Once again my mom pulled out the appliances and her deep fryer… which is good because as clumsy as I feel around the kitchen these days, I don’t know if I could’ve handled the open gas flame and the flying oil at the same time. So for hours I sat refilling the basket, closing the lit, double checking the color, emptying the basket, fighting off the hungry kids, and repeating. When the older Catholic women arrived, they helped my mom prepare onion sauce and our meat.

Let’s go back. What have the 7 men of my house been doing all day, you ask? Well by 9 am they are dressed in their brand new fancy boubous (which looks like an elderly gentlemen’s silk pajama suit) and at about 9:30a they have a special prier service at the mosque. After returning, they change back out of their nice cloths and get down to business. In less than 2 hours my team of brothers and uncles had killed, gutted, and cleaned not 1, but 2 sheep for our family’s festivities. Impressive speed, no? A neighbor had joined us for five minutes with his very sharp knife for the actual killing, and later another random man came by to collect the skins. I didn’t join them for the actual killing, but I did chuckle a bit when my 2 year old brother came running in the house saying “Mommy, the sheep is bleeding.”

Lunch (aka the most important meal of any Senegalese day- let alone this one) consisted of huge piles of meat, such as liver, ribs, or tenderloin, in a bed of onion sauce surrounded by fries, ate with our fingers and hunks of baguette. I have developed quite the affection for the mustard here, which looks deceptively like boring kind found at home but tastes like wasabi mayo that’s been died the same yellow color. Its heaven and I’m considering buying my family mass quantities of it so as to ensure we never run out. About the third or fourth time I asked my mom for another dollop she warned me not to over eat the mustard and make myself sick. Something I did last year, although it’s been contributed to the vinegar used in onion sauce recipes in other households.

After lunch I showered and put on my best Senegalese outfit. Unfortunately my nice shoes are holed up in Dakar and my flip flops nearly killed my mom with embarrassment. None the less, I grabbed my Catholic neighbor, a female friend of my generation (something I have very few of here), and headed to the booze boutique for a beer. After she wasn’t able to finish the whole bottle, and we donated it to the next client to walk in the door, we walked around our neighborhood greeting her friends. I struck up a conversation about how there are in fact only 50 states in the US (as opposed to the 52 that are taught) and 7 continents (5 of which are recognized here).

By dark I was beginning to feel the ache in my body from hours of peeling and frying, so I headed back home. My mom asked me to help here make a fruit salad for dessert... so there I sat cutting melon, banana, pineapple, and more. Meanwhile, I watched my dad and mom continue to clean the piles of sheep meat littering the house in buckets. They reduced the hunk sizes and packaged them into serving size bags to be stored in the large freeze we borrow across the street. By the time the salad was done, it was after 10pm and I was exhausted. My mom, now having such a great working knowledge of my oddities, handed me my usual serving size of salad and allowed me to skip dinner all together (which I’m told wasn’t served until 1:30am). I fell into bed completely exhausted.

For those of you mildly concerned about recent incidents with my uncle, turns out that the second purpose of Tabaski is forgiveness. There are a series of fun Wolof phrases designed for asking all of your acquaintances for pardon for past disagreements and offenses, as well as anything you might have done unknowingly and or unintentionally. I forced myself to take a deep breath and pull off a typical Wolof scenario which ended in the forgiveness of my uncle and the restoration of our (tolerable) relationship.

Soup For Thought

The buffet of incidents leading me to swear to always be an amazingly grateful house guest is never ending. Most recently, while my whole family is recovering from a cold given to us by a certain family member, my mom and the maid started a pot of soup for dinner. We rarely eat it because of the heat, but with the changing weather, cooler nights, and never ending cold and flu season, we had good reason to whip up a batch.

Generally, food is prepared in the house by the maid, my mom, or collaboration between the two. This last one goes mostly for the night time meal. My mom will ask the maid to pre-clean and cut veggies leaving them in the fridge for her to later use for dinner long after she’s gone home for the day. On soup night, this was the case. The maid prepped the veggies and meat, and left them in two separate bowls in the fridge. The boys were told to start the broth with bullion and the bowl in the fridge. Hours later a bowl of soup is brought in to my room by a brother, followed by another with a hunk of bread, and my mom.

“We forgot the meat,” she says. The maid had cut it, but somehow that bowl never made it into the soup. Internally I’m jumping for joy. The meat here isn’t frequently appetizing to me, and the fatty soups worthy bits are no exception. Shamefully, I act like a little kid and hide the bits I don’t eat by flushing them down the toilet or putting my bowl at the bottom of the stack in the kitchen so it can’t be traced back to me. So, yeah, I’m ecstatic there was a mistake in communication on this one. There’s a bowl full of broth and veggies with my name on it, and I dig in.

Insert my famed uncle. It’s a miracle he’s able to get up off our couch and walk his bowl to the kitchen as he usually just hands if off to one of the kids. But the reasoning is soon clear. He uses the opportunity to walk through the house making jokes with everyone about the meatless soup. “Soda, how is your water?” What are you talking about? “Anna is stupid and forgot the meat. We are just eating water for dinner. It’s horrible.” It’s not horrible. It tastes great. “You are stupid, too.”

At this point I am boiling over in rage. It’s enough to make me reconsider watching so many vampire related TV shows because there is just no stopping the fury from exploding from my mouth in a combination of 3 languages. The only person who is stupid is you. Anna is an amazing cook and you never appreciate it. You never say thank you. You take and take but you never once give back.

He laughs. My fire starts to flame blue. “It’s unbelievable that I have to remind you to say thank you. You don’t live here. This isn’t your house and therefore everything given to you is a gift. How could you be so unbelievably rude as to insult a free meal? You need to apologize to Anna right away for what you’ve said.” And about now you need to visualize me physically bullying my uncle into the living where my mom is sitting- as the last person to eat left all alone by the people she’s served who have already finished. My uncle covers the small bits of shame poking through his thick skull with a sheepish laughter and says he’s sorry. For what? Because there’s no meat in the soup. “The soup still tastes good,” my mom says. Yes, I believe that to be true, but he doesn’t. I’m sorry.

I go back to my room in order to lower my blood pressure. My uncle goes to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water to drink. He’s been embarrassed by my shaming him so he’s still making jokes and laughing. I would normally leave it be, but he just happened to grab my water bottle to drink from. Oh hell no. Put that back, I say, it’s not yours. He’s thinking I’m referencing that all things in the house aren’t his, and his ego has taken enough bruising for the night, so he ignores me. I follow him into the kitchen, blood pumping a million miles an hour again, and take the bottle from his hands. See? It’s got my name on it. It’s my bottle. “You’ve never put your bottle in the fridge.” It’s been there for over a year, so don’t bother with that lie.

He can’t take it anymore. Calling someone a liar, or out directly on a lie, is a major insult around here. He deals with his anger by laughing. This is the Wolof way; making mean spirited jokes. I put my water bottle back and he makes a move to grab another one. I’m way beyond flying off the handle (is it bad to admit that?) and I start screaming that he can no longer just take what he wants to while he’s disrespecting the house that I live it. Get out. Now. You’re done here. Go. Now. I pick up his shoes and throw them out the door. I’m actually hitting him. My family is an uncomfortable state of awe watching my utter unraveling in its process. My dad who is the most non-Wolof (read non-gossipy and non-confrontational) people I’ve ever met, has come out of his room to see what the fuss is about. He is so uncomfortable he giggles. Everyone else has stopped laughing uncomfortably and is staring at the floor. My brother comes up and tries to hug me. I shake him off. He pulls me back. Another brother hands my uncle a water bottle and a cup. “It’s done,” he says.

Yes. It is done. They might let you get away with it, but we’re done. Do not speak to me again until you find the meaning of respect. It takes me almost an hour to calm down and stop shaking. This is partly because I can hear my family recapping the incident in whispers and jokes. And as I reflect on my own actions or reactions, a few thoughts come to mind. I read an article about a new book by Tim Gunn, a man of the fashion industry, in which he talks about taking the high road. The value of shutting up and letting people be responsible for figuring out their own mistakes. Boy, am I the anti-thesis of that right now. Must do better in future.

But also I think about where all this sudden anger has come from. Friends have commented that people back home have noticed a change in their aggressiveness, and though I haven’t gotten the same comments I can’t help but believe it’s only because no one has noticed yet. I’m going through the same experiences as my fellow volunteers, so it’s incredibly likely that I’m also becoming more assertive with my anger. I’m more Wolof actually, because the culture here is to make a big deal out of something as quickly as possible. The quickest tongue and loudest mouth wins an argument, because peace, the always desired outcome is sought out quickly. Make a big enough scene and everyone else backs down. Not making a scene at all, trying to use respectful indoor voices and rational will get you nowhere. No one will do what you ask or take you seriously in any way shape or form. That’s what I’ve been learning for the last year anyway. And I’ll be damned if I didn’t I learn it well. Or if I’ll be speaking to my uncle again any time soon.

Sick of Sickness

On the night of the incident in question, my uncle came over a few hours before dinner to do his usual job of annoying everyone whilst waiting for dinner. I usually sit in my room for this, working or watching a movie. At some point I got up to stretch my legs only to find him lying on the couch watching TV alone. No one else seemed to be around the house, which is common for the cool evening hours, but did make his presence a bit weird. As soon as he saw me, he pulled a look on his face like he was in pain. He started moaning. I ignored him. He moaned some more. I left. A little while later I went into the room for something. He moans again; really attention hungry “look at me” kind of stuff. I do nothing. “I’m sick, Soda.” Yeah. “I’m really sick.” I ignore him. “You should help me.” You should go home and go to bed. You shouldn’t be walking across town to visit people who aren’t here. Go to bed. “But I’m sick. I can’t walk home like this.” I left again.

I’ve found I’ve become the type of person who no longer has the patience for indirect pleas for attention. Indirect is a huge part of Wolof culture, so I’m looking at a long battle of tolerance down the road. But that in itself shouldn’t be too hard. It’s the desperate attention seeking measures that get under my skin. Maybe more so because I know this culture to be one where if you’re sick people leave you alone. Initially, being a new comer, when I got sick I wasn’t left alone; I was forced to eat. But as time went on, and my family got used to my unchanging aura of weird, I started to learn that sickness makes them uncomfortable to confront. I’m talking about mild sickness. It’s the type of thing were simple medications are generally too expensive so they’re forgone. No pain meds for a headache and no Sudafed for a cold sort of stuff. People are expected to suck it up. When I’m sick my family knows that I need to make my own tea and skip a few meals in favor of soup. If my door is closed I’m sleeping and they should knock lightly for meals and I’ll get up if I'm awake or have energy. They leave me alone to recover like they would anyone else in the family. Everyone except my uncle that is?

Something I discovered by trial and error is that when I'm sick everything needs to come to a halt in order to get better. My first few months here I was continuously sick. Whether a stomach issue, or a cold, or a skin problem I’d take the appropriate meds and continue on with my life. But I just wasn’t ever 100%. We come from a culture of having only a handful of sick days for the whole year so they surely shouldn’t be wasted lest some emergency happen where taking those days is unavoidable. But that's not life in Senegal. Somehow there are too many factors and recovery takes that much longer. And if you don't get better, you could actually get so much worse. The only way to deal with illness- and most Senegalese agree with me- is to stop everything in favor of doing absolutely nothing until healed. No matter how many days it takes, I have to remember that I’m no good to these people if I can’t keep myself healthy. And no matter how much I ponder over finishing just a thing or two on the to-do list to keep myself from slipping behind in work… everything must be put on hold. Unless you're my uncle??

So given these bits of knowledge and culture, could you see why I’m so frustrated with a person that walks across town even though he shouldn’t to demand attention from people who don’t actually give it out? Why? Why would someone do that?

The answer is chicken. My uncle is under the impression that because he is a member of the family anything he desires in our house should be his. Awesome. Though this is not the first time I find myself frustrated with this arrogant cultural norm, I am overly agitated with the aforementioned “death bed” of an illness (remember all that moaning?) that accompanies him. This man is known to show up at our house demanding to know what’s for dinner. He’ll stay if it’s good, or complain and leave if he deems it unworthy. Now, I know my mom is one of the best cooks I’ve found in the country, but he’s just a little too ridiculous about it. A 30 something single bachelor that still lives with his mom (admittedly all normal for the area) who wanders the neighborhoods each night in search of the best dish… come on! At least bring a table gift from time to time. Act like a grateful house guest, right?

Well on this particular day, I find out, upon the return of the rest of my family members, that my Dad’s sister from a few towns over is coming to pay a visit. This will be my first time to meet her in the year I’ve been here as family only visits every few years- if they don’t actually live in Mboro that is. In honor of long distance visits my family busts out the bird; they made an excellent meal of chicken, fries, and salad. And although it shouldn’t surprise me that my uncle is selfish enough to potentially spread illness to every last member of my family, it does still anger me greatly.

But as I’m used to this, I brushed it off and took an extra vitamin C tablet. And then we sat down to eat. We are a family of not having to obsessively wash our hands before meals because when we do eat, we use a fork or spoon. On the occasion that there are too many people to pass out spoons for all, then we break out a fancy portable hand washing station but we mostly don’t need that. One of my brothers is in charge of passing out spoons. Only on this day, my uncle took on the role, or stack if you will, and just as he went to hand me the first one he sneezed all over them all. And this right here is what drove me to rage.

How can a sneeze be such a horrid offense, you say? Until you’ve been sick as many times as I have, and in a place where it’s hard to tell if you have a fever because you’re always that hot, I think you just won’t get it. Some days it doesn’t seem to matter how many vitamins I take, how many times I wash my hands, or how many small snot nosed kids I avoid… there is just no escaping the next cold or flu.

So here I am with an attention seeking uncle, who just happens to be sick and spreading it to everyone without remorse, who is also pulling his usual “I’m here for the best meal in town” sans worthy contribution. And I suppose this incident wouldn’t have been different from any other time that I meet my breaking point with a surrendering sigh, except for all the non-redeeming qualities coming together at one moment in time. Suffice it to say, I let him have it in an overly Wolof way. What can I say; I’m sick of being sick. I’m also a little sick of self centered people.

Similarities

I talk a lot about how different things are here in Senegal, or Africa, when compared with the US. Everything from the physical aspects of climate and food, to the psychological ideals like perception of beauty and work ethic, feels like a 180 degree turn from all that I’ve known before. And yet, the longer I sit in this sand box the more I slowly pick out the things just happen to be similar. It’s not 100%, but a small fraction of something is similar to life back home. And that can be kind of comforting.

1. Chivalry isn’t dead, but it’s not obvious either. It may be true that a woman must give up her seat for a man, but that doesn’t mean that guy is above helping her with her multiple bags of luggage.

2. When it comes down to it, family comes first.

3. Sick days are important, and should be taken so that one can return to work healthy. The African adjustment is that there is no cap on the number of sick days taken, no proof necessary, and no repercussions for work missed. Hmm.

4. Kids still take naps. Actually, we all do… it’s called Siesta. But hey at least the kids are quiet and sleeping for a few hours of the day, even if this means they are then allowed to stay up all night.

5. I’ve seen a stop sign, and people who stop for it. It’s even in English, but is still a rare occasion.

6. Laundry is hung out on the line to dry in the sun. This may be out of necessity more than energy conservation, but that doesn’t diminish the similarity, right?

7. There is nothing like a cold beer after work. There is nothing like our happy hours back home either... and though they don’t exist here, a huge thank you goes out for the fact that at least the beer does.

8. Dieting is expensive. Buying all the veggies and fruit my family should be eating instead of rice and pasta is a significantly larger dent in our monthly food spending. However, I’m certain that the Senegalese eat carbs to fill their stomachs where Americans eat them for taste.

9. There isn’t a single show from back home that hasn’t appeared on my Senegalese television (with French voice-overs). CSI, Grey’s Anatomy, 24, or How I Met Your Mother… they may be a season or two behind, but that makes it easier on my translating. I guess this isn’t a similarity- more an exact copy- but perhaps the comparison is the type of entertainment sought out by the viewer.

10. Major sporting events are televised and large amounts of people gather together to view them. Sure, they’re watching soccer and not football or wrestling instead of baseball… but its none-the-less a highly publicized event splashed over TV, radio, billboards, and other media outlets.

11. Homework is put off until it’s due, rather than getting it done just after it’s been assigned. Ahhh procrastination, no one can escape you…

12. People watch the music channel on TV to see music videos. We have a French spin on MTV that mixes American top 40 videos with Senegalese and French ones. Let’s just prey they don’t start a version of Senegalese Real World. I can picture the drama that would be Real World: Matam- 7 strangers, that don’t speak the same language, living isolated but together in the dessert. Oh, mayhem possibilities.

13. Good help is hard to find. Whether it’s my mom firing another maid every 2 weeks, my counterpart that completely abandoned me 3 months after I arrived, or the endless stream of people that can’t be counted on to show up when they say they will… good help is hard to find in Senegal. And just like home, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. I’ve got the number of a great leather worker, a reliable driver, and the very dedicated, hard working secretary general at the mayor’s office.

14. People hate not being able to understand others that speak in a foreign language. How many times have you seen/ heard someone say “We’re in America, speak English.” I am on the receiving end of that here.

15. My favorite veggies (potato, tomato, onion, carrot, etc) are here. Sometimes they are prepared in a similar manner to life back home (like mashed potatoes) but mostly they aren’t. Who would have thought to mix tomatoes with peanut butter?

16. People dress to impress to go pray. Here it’s Friday, there it’s Sunday, but whatever.

17. There is an obvious manner of dress change between a young woman and an older one. While short shorts may be all the rage with the young crowd in this month’s heat, a respectable older women will be sporting her traditional dresses.

18. It’s embarrassing to smell bad. No matter how poor, a person does not want to be caught in stinky cloths or without a fresh scent (whether it is thanks to inexpensive soap or a fancy imported perfume).

19. Antivirus software is severely needed. Probably more so here because no one has it, because they can’t pay for it, because even if they could no one has a credit card to pay online… it’s a messed up world.

20. There are plenty of unemployed able bodies here- that although they could, for whatever excuse choose not to work. The difference is that their families support them, not the government. A different kind of welfare.

Family and Home

And we’re back into the school year, which means English class has started up once more. This time around, I’m going to make sure they don’t spend the entire summer break yelling “Good afternoon Soda” at all hours of the day. I’ve promised them all a pen pal program, and after they got done writing their first letter to their new friend back home, it occurred to me that there are a few things it might be worth my time to explain. The people back home deserve a few fun facts about family and home to help explain some of the oddities they’ll see in their letters. And I figure it couldn’t hurt to share them with everyone:

1. The school that we’re working with is Ecole Notre Dame (School of Our Lady) and is a private Catholic school, meaning the kids pay additional tuition fees to attend and they have religion classes. Most of the kids there are Catholic, but there are a few Muslim ones too. The school is not discriminatory. Often there will be children of a Catholic mother, but a Muslim father. In this way the kids are Muslim but accepted in Catholic circles.

2. The pen pal class of kids is in CM2, which means class minus 2, or one step away from high school. Senegal uses the French school system which has 13 years where Americans have only 12. So, CM 2 is the equivalent of either 5th or 6th grade. Next year these kids will leave elementary school and start at the high school where they count down in number starting at 6, then 5, then 4, etc. The last year of high school is called Terminal.

3. My African name is Soda Ndaw. Every Peace Corps Volunteer gets a new local name; a first name that’s decided by the family and the last name is the same as the family. This is important for integration into the community, and because generally the people have a hard time pronouncing American names. After a year here, my family has just started calling me by my real name.

4. Married women don’t change their last names, and neither party wears a wedding ring (exception would be some Catholics). This makes it hard to obviously tell if someone is married… so they ask everyone all the time.

5. It’s legal in Senegal for a man to have up to 4 wives. So, if a child says they are the first child of their Mom, they may not be first child of their Dad if their Mom isn’t 1st wife.

6. Unfortunately, Senegal is not exempt from disease and early death. AIDs, malaria, dengue fever and diabetes are the biggest health related problems around. It is not uncommon to go to a funeral once a week. It’s also not all that uncommon to hear of a child whose parents are no longer living.

7. Often whole families live together. For example, a grandmother will have all or most of her children in one home. Those adult children that are married live with their families in the same home as well. So nearly 30 people could live in one home including aunts, uncles, and cousins. Multiple wives of a man, and all the children, will also live in the same house. Each wife usually ends up with her own bedroom, or in some cases house.

8. Bedroom doors are never closed. Whether you’re changing cloths, taking an afternoon nap, or studying for school… it’s never appropriate to close the door. It’s been said that privacy is something that only exists in a person’s thoughts, and kids learn this from an early age.

9. It’s really important in both Senegalese culture and the French language to distinguish between older or younger siblings, in fact the word sibling doesn’t even have a translation equivalent because it’s that important to a male or female relative.

10. Families commonly have double beds so that multiple people can share a bed at once. Small kids always sleep with older ones or their parents. Mosquito nets usually come in double bed size, and using one to cover multiple family members is easier and less expensive.

11. There are 2 kinds of homes: a house as we know it (where every room is under one roof) and a compound. A compound means there are many buildings or huts in a close proximity that are considered one home and are gated in by a fence. The toilet and shower of a compound usually end up being a separate building in this case. Western toilets are not common, which is why no one but a Peace Corps Volunteer makes the distinction.

12. Most families in my town have a fan or two and at least one television. It may be old and small, but that doesn’t stop everyone from gathering around to watch the latest soap opera sensation every night at dusk. A very well off family has a computer, fruit trees, or multiple phones. The richest families in town have an air conditioner in their living room, but this is very rare.

13. Electricity and water are not constant. Both of them generally go out once a day, for long periods of time, or more. A home is considered lucky to be in a neighborhood where the shortages are predictable, such as when they are always out during the daylight hours but come back consistently every evening. The problem is a lack of decent plumbing as well as inability on the behalf of the Senegalese government to provide electricity to all of it constituents continuously.

14. Pets just don’t exist in Senegal. The family may have chickens, goats or sheep but they are bred for sale or to eat during holidays- and are kept outside the home. Dogs and cats exist, but they are left in the wild like we would a fox or squirrel except with more diseases.

15. Having a maid is actually pretty common in middle class families and above. Someone to cook, someone to clean, someone to do the laundry by hand… often times a different helper for each task. Large families with lots of females in the home avoid this because it’s a woman’s job to do house chores. Men would never partake in these tasks; so it is with pride that I describe my house full only with boys as the exception to this rule. My oldest brothers take turns cooking, cleaning, and do their own laundry on Sundays.

History of Mboro

The following is a brief history of my amazing town of Mboro. The historical information was compiled by the mayor’s office of my town for a website that has been under construction the entire time I’ve been here (does it really take that long?). I then translated it and used the byproduct for the Wiki-Travel website I’ve launched for English speaking tourists looking to explore my corner of Senegal. Naturally, I’ve added additional details here that the average tourist probably doesn’t or shouldn’t care about for the sake of giving those of you reading this a better feel for the town. Nonetheless, I recommend checking out said website upon completion of this story.

Though discovered by the then colonial Governor of Senegal, Pinet Laprade, in 1862, the community of Mboro was not formalized until 1936 when travelers, carrying goods from the then capital of Saint Louis to the port in Dakar, found need for a stopping point along the coast.

After land surveys were conducted by the French, a base for fruit and vegetable production was instituted in Mboro and many Senegalese were enticed to move to the coast from Mékhé, Tivaouane, and other surrounding towns. Anyone who made the move received a trunk, a mosquito net, a piece of land, and tools to plant seeds and begin their new lives. Since then, Mboro has been regarded as the premier source of fruits and vegetables, among cities along the northern coast. This coastal region known to as either the Grande Côte (Big Coast) or the Garden Belt because of the large produce output for domestic and export consumption.

In the late 1950’s, a new dynamic was added to the economy with the extraction and sale of minerals found in the rich soils. The first miners were Europeans, either Belgian or French, and they exported phosphate. The Senegalese government formally organized the mining industry nation-wide in 1985, with the creation of Industries Chimiques du Senegal (ICS), including the factories and fields of Mboro/ Darou Khoudass.

By this time sulfur and other fun items from the periodic table were added to the product list. However, the governmental management style was not conducive to the large scale success in store for the factory and the operations were bought by a group of Indian entrepreneurs, a number of drag lines restored and new products developed for export. Thanks to the technology wave of the 20th century the fields of Mboro became a virtual gold mine upon the realization that they were riddled with silicon.

The first neighborhoods of Mboro were formed by 1954. Included is the very unique gated neighborhood of Mbaye Mbaye, which today stands as a tribute to Western culture and the first factory managers that built it to include tennis courts, swimming pool, mini grocery store, and country club style dining hall. Eleven formal neighborhoods exist though the interiors of which are a little disorganized- as many houses are not numbered or share the same number as another home. Streets don’t have names, and directions are given either in terms of store landmarks or by sending a small child to accompany you.

The small town was once mixed into a pool with other surrounding villages to create a “rural community” governed by one man, El Hadji Ngalgou Ndiaye, from 1976 until 2002. This position was an appointment by people higher up the chain rather than a democratic election by the people. And from what I’m told, not all that much came out if it, save a figure head if anyone was ever asked of its existence. But in later years of his appointment, the town of Mboro was recognized as having a need for an independent mayor to govern our people specifically. Djiby Yade became the first official mayor in 2002. The stories vary but it is said that he did little to nothing beneficial for the town, though he did enjoy a comfortable lifestyle due to his elevated status.

A heated election took place following M. Yade’s term and a victorious Charlot Sene took office in the spring of 2009 as Mboro’s 2nd mayor in office. M. Sene is currently balancing a job at the mineral factory and with his appointment and platform containing a number of attractive improvement ideas. Among them are the drainage system for the lowest point in town, bathrooms in the market, new classrooms in each of the major schools, an organized waste management program, annexation into Mboro and creation of utility infrastructures for the beach front neighborhoods, and restructuring of the aforementioned disorganized neighborhoods.

Today a unique blend of Wolof, Pulaar and Sereer ethnicities call this oasis home. Catholics and Muslims live side by side in harmony sharing in each other’s holiday experiences; for a meal shared with a Catholic neighbor on Tabaski is returned in kind to the Muslims on Christmas. The statuesque small-scale cathedral on a side road of town is open to any and all seeking its services in either French or Wolof, and its various choir troops are amazing to listen to- be it during weekly practice or throughout mass. Meanwhile 3 large mosques decorate the other corners of town and are equally inviting with their calls to prier.

Revered for being flush with sea breezes and produce, Mboro is anything but your ordinary tourist destination. Tucked quietly by the coast, and a 30 minute ride from the national route, this is a must see sight for those in seek of a truly African experience. For more info visit http://wikitravel.org/en/Mboro.

Non-Verbal Language

The following are my observations of non-verbal noises or gestures that have semi-discernable meanings. These meanings are in no way set in stone, nor were they explained to me. I have had to figure them out on my own over the course of my time here. They are however pretty standard, at least for my family, if not all of Mboro and possibly Senegal.

1. One cluck. Cluck may not be the best word for this, as the resulting noise sounds more like the one made to get a horse to start moving: that sort of big toothed smile cluck using the air pocket in the side of a cheek. Except they seem to have mastered a closed mouth version of this, and admittedly it does take some practice. Its meaning is agreement, acknowledgment of a task doled out, or a general “I hear you.” There is an optional one time vertical head jerk to add emphasis, if you choose.

2. Rapid fire double cluck. Similar to the above but doubled in very quick succession, this noise means not only do I agree, but you are exactly right. You have hit the nail on the head, as they say, and there may or may not be a need for me to speak afterwards to confirm what you’ve said.

3. Slow double cluck with head shake. Similar clucking noise but done in a Southern drawl and sort of way perfectly in time with a side-to-side head shake that says “no.” And this is precisely what it means. It’s for the boldest of the Senegalese population with the gumption to say “no” in a culture where you just don’t do so.

4. Wetted lips smirk. This is accomplished by altering a closed lip quick smile to allow air to pass between your lips. The result is something resembling that noise when the dentist sucks the remaining rinse water from your mouth with that awkward tube. Its meaning is that the maker of the noise is lacking agreement with what you have said. A person gets around their inability to say “no” with the wetted lips smirk noise. Even then, I feel its meaning isn’t “no” or “I don’t agree”…but something more passive like “I lack agreement.” For a stronger response refer to the slow double cluck with head shake option.

5. Hissing. Is there a snake chasing after you? No, that’s just someone hissing in an attempt to get your attention. It has no meaning other than “I want to talk to you but don’t have a) your name and b) enough manners to formulate words.”

6. Oh, oh. This doesn’t count as a word in my mind, no matter how many times you repeat it in rapid succession nor how loud you become. The meaning is exactly the same as the hissing- and it’s hard for me to decide which is more annoying.

7. Quick hiss. This is very short 2 second version of above described attention-getting hiss. Very similar to an American psst, and is used to hail cabs.

8. Outstretched arm/ finger wave. Accomplished by stretching the arm out to a 90 degree angle from the body and pointing only your index finger towards the ground. Then make a flicking motion in the wrist to jerk you hand up and down, thus moving the index finger in a way that looks as though you’re pointing to the ground. Also used to hail cabs, but more useful for signaling one from farther distances on main roads where they would need time to slow down for you.

9. Hand flick. This is accomplished by holding a hand up, palm facing out, and quickly turning it around palm facing into the body- in a fluid swirl/ flip like motion. It is used in the place of someone saying “what the hell are you thinking?” Quite often the gesture is repeated in rapid succession to convey increased levels of anger. The more it’s done the more ‘in the wrong’ the receiver.

10. Low double hand flick. This is when both hands are incorporated into a flicking motion that starts palm down, hands close to the body, and ends with palms up and arms stretched out… though not too far. Anyway, it’s a much more casual hand flick with an accompanying message of simply “what?” It’s used to convey mere confusion on behalf of the flicker, instead of a belief of wrong doing, and to then ask for clarification. It is sometimes repeated for the sort of “what” that accompanies disbelief.

11. Finger tickle. The giver uses his index or middle finger to tickle the palm of the receiver during a hand shake. As handshakes are quite frequent around town, between best friends and complete strangers alike, one must always be on the lookout for sneak attacks. Perhaps it is more commonly referred to as ‘sexy finger’ because of its hidden nature and implied intent: I want to have sex with you.

12. Hand shake/ forehead touch. This accomplished by bowing your head slightly and touching the backside of a friend’s hand to your forehead whilst holding said hand in a handshake manner. They are obligated to return this gesture, and then you both repeat it 2 to 4 more times. The significance is that you are very close friends coming from the same brotherhood (like a religious fraternity) of Islam. It is typically only done between men of one brotherhood… but I forget which one.

There was a brief time period between telling everyone in my life I was going to Africa and my actual departure. In this time, the most common joke heard was impending task of learning the language of clucks. I’m ok with admitting that I judged all of these jokesters as condescending ignorant Americans. Clucks seemed just a bit too tribal to me, and we’re talking about a developing country- not a tribal one. Surely any language I’d learn would be a compilation of noises born with vocal cords and not rapid tongue movements. However, as the above proves, I wasn’t entirely correct. It may not be a whole language worth, but I’m willing to admit my own mistake in assuming any culture to be completely devoid of non-verbal messages. After all, what would my own American life be like without the ability to flick a middle finger at every driver that cuts me off? Substitute the hissing with a solid construction worker whistle and it’s like I never even left!

A Case of the Rains

Every few hours I take a pause in what I’m doing to realize that it’s raining yet again. I ponder how the weather happenings of rain affect my life these days when compared to once upon an American time.

When it rains, I am happy. I think the sky is amazingly beautiful. In Michigan, I love sitting on the couch in the living room watching the rain drops drizzle down the window. If I had somewhere to be, it was an excuse to break out fashionable trench coats, rain boots, and patterned umbrellas. I’d sport these items as I dashed through the rain to the office building or lunch dates. I’d laugh and shake off the residual drops when I got there. “It’s really coming down out there.” If it rained on the weekends, I’d have to turn up the volume of whatever trashy movie I watched in order to hear over the sounds of the storm. I’d do laundry so the smell from the dryer would float through the house like potpourri. The radiating heat from just removed dryer cloths warms my hands against the cold. It was an excuse to make soup and drink it from an enlarged coffee mug, or to make hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows, or my all-time favorite… hot apple cider.

But alas, things are (par normal) dramatically different here in Africa. The sky is still beautiful… maybe more so thanks to the 9 months of clear blue cloudless span my eyes have been brainwashed with before the rainy season hit. A welcome change to see dark- almost tormented looking- motion filed billows. The crack of thunder still excites me, but after that the rest of the sentiment is lost.

When it rains, everything comes to a halt starting with the electricity in other areas of town. There is no work to be done; no meeting that isn’t automatically cancelled (potentially rescheduled for later?). The people are traditionally scared of the water because with it brings a buffet of illness doled out like as if you’ve ignored the “enter at your own risk” sign. One caught out and about when the rain starts is expected to wait (bored out of one’s mind) until the weather changes before making an exit. I’ve started carrying a scarf around for light rains because I’d prefer to trudge it through these back to the house. But for the heavier stuff, I carry book of Sudoku puzzles in my purse so I’ll at least be entertained during my detainment.

If it rains too hard the metal slats used for my bedroom’s roofing will leak in various places, thus causing me to do a funny little shuffle around my room to avoid the collection buckets. If it’s really blowing hard I’ll have to close my windows to save my bed from a good soaking with stray flying water bullets. The rest of the house is also littered with collection buckets and if there’s too much thunder and lightning for comfort, the power gets shut off to our “always on” neighborhood so as to avoid accidental electrocutions. I would now argue this to be better than the brown out that has recently fried our house computer leaving us all without internet.

Laundry is obviously out of the question as things will never dry if I can’t even keep my own room from raining on top of me. This point is mute though as there’s so much humidity during the rainy season that nothing really has a chance to dry between storms. And I’ve never seen a dryer in this country. Therefore, I’ll wear the same articles of clothing a few days in a row before throwing it into the ever growing pile of laundry, thus marking this one and only time I’ve been glad I brought so many damn cloths here.

This past week I was in Thies for a few days. While out and about a thunderstorm opened up upon us, and we took refuge at one of our favorite water holes sipping on cold beers. A few hours past and the torrential pouring turned into a mere sprinkle before we decided to venture back. Out in the street we discovered just how serious the drainage problem was in the city. We found ourselves wading through the thigh high floods to get to an area of town where the water was low enough to find a taxi with the bravado to take us on. With all the horrid things we saw floating past during our brief swim; it was all I could do to not actually run to the shower upon return to home base.

That being my lowest rainy point, I do have to admit that there are positives to a good showering. Excessive heat does seem to be avoided, if only temporarily. My eyes and skin receive a welcome rest from the glaring sun. And my brain gets an hour or so off from its bilingual lifestyle while I get a chance to catch up on my reserve stock of trashy movies. Yes, I still have to the turn the volume way up to be able to hear it. I also take the opportunity to make some of the tea I’ve purchased in western world fruit flavors. There may not be any fashionable accessories, mini marshmallows, or progress in work activities, but it’s not entirely unpleasant either.

Korite

The end of Ramada, and all its weight-loss inducing fasting, is marked by a day of feasting called Korite. Every gets a new formal outfit, but they’re worn at different times of the day depending on gender. Men get up early, put on their new cloths, and go to the mosque for a final “breaking the fast” prier. It’s not the 530a stuff we’re used to, but somewhere between 8 and 10a and one might go so far as to say it’s a special service.

Women are back at the compound still in pajamas or normal cloths preparing a special breakfast of lahk or chalkery- which is millet with spiced yogurt porridge over it. The yogurt substance is either hot or cold with bits of fruit depending on which your family prefers. After the men return they generally change out of their new outfits and everyone is served their own individual bowl of breakfast. This is a big deal because we generally eat all meals out of one communal bowl.

After breakfast, I had to pester my brothers to keep their new cloths on for just a few minutes more, while begging my mom to put her’s on (if only temporarily as she hadn’t showered). After making a big enough commotion about it, they all did as I asked and I was able to successfully capture a picture of my family in their best dresses just inside the front gate to our house. I too had a new Senegalese outfit made, of very light fabric and semi western style… but alas there are no pictures of me with the family as everyone ran away from the camera to change as quickly as possible. But I swear I was there!

Next is the preparation for lunch, also known as the most important meal of the typical African day. This factor is compounded on holidays. My family bought many many chickens (and had the foresight to kill, clean, and precook them the night before) to go with Moroccan couscous and onion sauce. My mom handled the preparation of couscous while I was in charge of cutting up all the onions. One very large bowl’s worth. As it became time to eat, children appeared in our living room. Friends of my brothers, I assume but I didn’t recognize them from everyday normal activities. In addition, about a half a dozen extra servicing platters were brought out. Couscous, a chicken, and onion sauce was placed into each one, followed by a cover and a small napkin or towel. Then one of my brother was called forth to take the serving to a designated Catholic neighbor or close family friend.

Then we sat down to eat: the older kids and guest kids at one bowl, my parents, youngest siblings, and myself at another. I ate so much I had to ask for extra onion sauce at one point. It was damn good, and I’m fairly certain that if someone had handed me a beer after that I would have quit Peace Corps under the guise that things couldn’t possibly get better. But alas, no beer and I remain.

After cleaning up, it was my Mom’s turn to get dressed up. Sporting her new garb, she and her friends walked around town together asking forgiveness from family members, friends, and neighbors. Forgiveness for sins committed in the past year is asked with a series of phrases exchanged upon entry into one’s home; phrases only used on this particular holiday. My Dad had been doing much of the same all morning, but continued his rounds in the afternoon with accompanying friends as well.

In the evening we ate left over chicken spread over onion sauce, French fries, and lettuce. Afterwards we had sweet yogurt with fruit pieces chilled almost until frozen. I like to joke with my family that my youngest brother has a knack for wearing his favorite dishes on his face in a sort of toddler testament to the chef, but in truth it’s just his inability to successfully utilize a spoon- no matter how small.

Dissecting Agressive

The other day I was at the garage with some friends and the “head guy” pinched my friend’s chin like one would for an adorable baby or toddler. Except my friend is an adult, and he was clearly being condescending in the way he did it. Add to that he used his left hand to do it, which is horribly offensive around here. The situation escalated from there. We all got involved. I drew my fist back like I was going to throw a punch while saying “If you touch my friend one more time…” and he flinched. But when the other men started laughing, head honcho got uber upset and drew his fist back too. I took a few steps forward. He took some back. But then realized it, and took one forward. I’ve become Wolof as of late and no, I didn’t flinch.

This got me thinking about the typical aggressive Wolof characteristic. The Wolof people are aggressive all the time. When two people are talking, and you don’t speak the language, it’s hard NOT to assume they’re fighting about something in the “life or death” category of subjects. When I first got here, the most impressionable experience I had in this concept was the 30 minutes of crying and screaming I sat through at the Mayor’s office only to discover the woman doing these things was ticketed for not paying the tax on her space in the market. Huh.
They are not aggressive by nature, but by culture. They act that way to fit in, like the guy in the garage who wasn’t supposed to back down. Is this a survival tactic; a means of conquering land or acquiring food? I speculate that this goes all the way back to a time of “he who carries the biggest stick”… So is everyone carrying a stick these days?

Another form of stick measuring is in the way one drives. There are no traffic signs or formal rules of the road. What is discernable is that the most aggressive driver has the right of way. If two people pull up to an intersection, the one who guns it first and fastest wins, often narrowly missing the other vehicle’s bumper. If a driver wishes to change lanes he does so without notice to fellow drivers and whenever he so chooses. If you’re the other driver occupying that space you have two options: 1) You slam on your breaks and let the car in or 2) You speed up, honk the horn, and make hand gestures to make the competition aware of your presence in the coveted space. If you choose the later, you’ve just engaged in a game of chicken with the other driver… and best of luck with that.

But the longer I’m here the more I think that for most of them it’s a mere front. I’ve discovered this in a few Senegalese people I’ve observed or gotten to know. When they are tasked with continuing their line of aggression they don’t prevail. They relax and smile; they back down (macho head garage guy excluded). They are the type NOT go on blinding believing them self to be utterly correct in the face of obvious evidence to the contrary. This- this idea of being not always right, not shoving opinions down throats, of having an open mind- is a seemingly rare trait in my current life.

But, they do exist! These are the people I naturally gravitate towards working with. The ones that don’t bother me about whether or not I’m fasting and try to turn my response into a religious debate. The ones that don’t bug me to wear Senegalese cloths all the time only to harass me more when I actually do it. The people that take the time to ask me why I do the things I do, about my culture, and how I would change Senegal. People that treat me like an adult with valid opinions; these are my friends and colleagues. Is that really too much to ask for? It’s not like I didn’t have this problem in the States, which gets me thinking: does everyone have a little Wolof in them?

Outtalking Prince

I once had a conversation with a family member, who liked a song by Prince. Now I don’t personally like said song, but my thoughts on musical preference are neither here nor there as long as it makes you happy. Anyway, this person and I were sitting in the living room one day watching French/African MTV when a music video came on with the song in question. My family member was seriously rocking out to it… until he stopped and asked if Prince was gay. Yes, I suppose he is. This was enough cause to immediately stop dancing, sit down, and start doing something completely different whilst ignoring the television.

What’s wrong? He’s gay. Yeah, and? His life is awful. Really? He is a very bad person. How’s that? It’s wrong to be gay.

At this point I’ll stop and let you imagine the 20 minutes conversation contesting that point; or rather my family member in particular saying so. I’m no gay rights activist or anything, but I do believe that your preferences are between you and whomever you’re accountable to… and therefore other people should have no claim on telling you what you can or can’t do about that (assuming you’re not harmfully affecting others because of these preferences).

Anyway, gay is not the point. Eventually we got onto 2 other interesting concepts:
1. The world is going to keep changing. It’s adapt or no- but you have to choose a side.
2. You don’t have to like someone to appreciate their work.

Now this first point came about at the tail end of the God conversation. I simply said, “Once upon a time we thought slavery was a good idea, now we don’t. I think it’s time again we reconsidered whether a traditional pastime of ousting whole sectors of the population is a great idea.” My family member, typical Wolof self-righteous male that he is, had a whole slew of meaningless words to say in contrary to that. No real substance I promise you, and therefore wouldn’t shut up about it. This is a common tactic around the world of “if you can’t win the argument by being correct, just out talk the other person.” Thanks, debate club.

Moving on, I made my next point. I don’t have to like my plumber’s preference to not wear a belt with his pants… but this doesn’t stop me from appreciating his ability to fix my flooding toilet. I don’t like the sept-place driver’s choice of continuous screeching prier music, but I appreciate his ability to get me safely from A to B. I don’t like that the guy in the mayor’s office talks about my butt every time I see him, but he’s doing a great job of reorganizing the city of Mboro by assigning numbers and neighborhoods to every house. Come to think of it, this list might continue for a while… but I suspect you catch my drift.

My family member didn’t, however, and he made another tiresome attempt to discredit this idea. He could not accept that although he may not appreciate Prince’s extracurricular activities, that shouldn’t be a reason to ignore a song that obviously appeased his ears. Somehow, apparently, this one fact has tainted Prince’s entire existence. A shame, really as I feel passionately about good music and a world without it. In rebuttal I told my family member that I didn’t’ like the way he didn’t live in our house but yet appeared every day demanding the best drink and food be served to him. This in light of the fact that he contributed nothing to the household as he refuses to interrupt his busy schedule of roaming from house to house with silly notions of income generating work. I said that this tainted his entire existence in my eyes, and I therefore could not enjoy him. Then I left the room.

I’m sorry to say that I was quite tired at this juncture in our conversation. Admittedly, I my blood was also boiling. I think of this as the point where I realize I was never engaged a rational conversation. I was being told. Maybe I was even out talked. Insert clichés about not teaching old dogs new tricks or whatever… but I accept that some people just don’t listen to other points of view. They only talk. I however, don’t enjoy spending time with those people… regardless of how they feel about Prince.