Family Matters

Since I’ll be living with my new family for quite some time, I think it’s about time to introduce them. Her they are, in vaguely chronological order….

Baaba: ~70, the resident grandpa of our compound. Until my third week in village I never saw him leave the rice-sac chair located under the awning of his hut. Then, one day when I was sick in bed he made it all the way across the compound to see how I was doing. He moves around more these days – comically leading a large bull around by the horns or hanging downtown at the market – but usually he’s keeping sentry from his hut.

Neene Toolye: ~60, grandma #1. I’m not sure if she’s Baaba’s actual wife or a wife he inherited from his brother, but Neene Toolye mostly does typical grandma things – watching the children, cleaning around the house, taking advantage of the “no shirt, no shoes, no problem” dinnertime policy.

Neene Hawa: ~60, grandma #2. I think Neene Hawa was Baaba’s “real” wife, but this is also unclear. She is a tiny women with traditional Pulaar tattooing around her mouth but is always chipper. She travels a fair amount (doing what I’m not sure) and hasn’t been around too much since I moved in.

Oumar: ~35, host “dad.” Oumar is my official host here in Sare Sara and is an up and comer in the village. Since he’s not really old enough to be my father I often refer to him as my host uncle. He’s also no really Baaba’s son, but his nephew (although these distinctions aren’t really important). I’m not sure which Neene is his real neene.

Khady: ~20, Oumar’s wife. Really sweet and helpful when I need something, but not too outgoing with me. Khady represents a demographic I’m having a bit of trouble getting to know – the women around my age but married with multiple children.

Toolye and Binta: 3 and 3 months. Oumar and Khady’s daughters. Toolye is adorable and bears an uncanny resemblance to Stitch, the Disney character alien. Binta is a very well behaved baby who has just learned to sit up by herself.

Mamadou: ~33, Oumar’s brother/cousin and I think Baaba’s actual son. Mamadou is great and incredibly helpful with my language learning - he’s very patient, speaks slowly and isn’t about pantomiming or drawing in the dirt until I understand. He also has a fabulous selection of Rhianna on his cell phone. I call him my uncle.

Coumba: ~16, Mamadou’s wife and my tokara (namesake). Very nice but a little cold sometimes – I hope once my language gets better we’ll be able to connect more. Also falls into the “younger than me but with significantly more responsibility” demographic. The age difference between her and her husband skeeves me out a little, but they seem alright. I wouldn’t be surprised if a baby joined the family before I leave.

Pate (28), Aliou (25) and Adema (18): Oumar’s brothers/cousins – I was told who is who but can’t remember. I refer to these three as my brothers since they’re closer to my age. They’ve all been really helpful with my language and are great to talk to. They are entirely un-creepy and I feel very safe knowing I have three big brothers watching out for me.

Ablye: ~9. I have no idea whose child he is but everyone seems to look out for him. He’s a typical little boy and spends most of his time running around town but rarely causes trouble.

Guynacko: The family dog and possibly the fattest dog in Senegal. Guynacko means "cowboy" in Pulaar, and he is officially meant to keep an eye on the livestock but really just sleeps all day. Guynacko and I were quite good friends, but since the introduction of Tigi Tigi he's been feeling neglected.

Physics 101: Universal Laws of Senegal

In America I grew up in a world governed by certain universal laws: gravity, thermodynamics, relativity. Due to a ripple in the space-time continuum however, Sare Sara doesn’t follow these same laws of the universe. Had Newton been sitting under a Senegalese mango tree instead of his famed apple tree, my college physics class may have been significantly different. Here’s what I’ve discovered about Senegalese Physics…

Thermodynamics: A watched pot will still not boil, but here in Sare Sara a hot pot will also not burn. As a rule, Pulaar women can touch unbelievably hot objects without injury - teapot that leaves me with blistered welts is of no concern for my female house-mates.

Time: What time do you have by your watch? 10:56? That means it’s still 10. What time is the meeting going to start? 3? I’ll see you there at 4:30. Einstein may have theorized that space and time are relative, but we prove that every day in the village. This flexible notion of time can both work for me – it’s nearly impossible to be “late” – and against me, ask anyone what time an event is going to occur and the answer is either a quizzical stare or a random digit between 2 and Midi.

Aging: While time passes in the same manner in the rest of the world, here it acts differently for each person. This leads to the phenomenon of “age un-determinism.” It is universally impossible to determine how old someone is by looking at them. I could have sworn some women were in their late 20s, only to be told they’re 15. Others I would have said are not a day older than 40 will say they’re 65.

Sound: Senegalese air has a unique, and hitherto unstudied, property of sound amplification. Any noise made, no matter what distance away, can clearly be heard everywhere else. This property applies equally to late-night dance music, crying children and the soft “tsk tsk” clicking used to hail a taxi.

Acceleration: Luckily for Newton, he wasn’t sitting under the aforementioned mango tree. Had Isaac been hit on the noggin with a ripe Kolda mango he would have found himself in the emergency room with a skull fracture instead of the history books. Mango season is an exciting and delicious time here in Kolda, but it is also a dangerous one. Mangoes falling from 50 feet up can actually exceed their terminal velocity and violate previously proven laws of gravitational acceleration.

The Obvious: Matter can exist in a variety of states – gases, liquids, solids, plasma. Senegalese life could not continue without the constant acknowledgment of one –the state of the obvious. The first law of Senegalese physics reads “an event cannot occur, no matter how insignificant, unless it is commented upon and thus formally acknowledged.” Unless someone comments on the fact that you woke up, ate breakfast, left the house, returned to the house, took a shower, did work or went to sleep then these actions have not actually happened. If a tree falls in the forest and no one comments on it, it most certainly did not make a sound (and may not have fallen at all). All things obvious must be stated. Repeatedly.

No Good, Very Bad Days

I would be lying if I said that these past few months have been 100% rainbows and ice cream. There have in fact been a few days where I think “what the fuck am I doing here?” The joy of PST is that in these moments of doubt, like-minded friends are never more than a sandy road away and facilitators are available to translate the cultural snafus and frustrations. It has become apparent that the real challenge of village living is not the bucket bathing, carbohydrate-only diet or occasional bouts of dysentery but the lack of said emotional support on the really bad days. Cell phones are a godsend, but 900 character texts can only be so comforting. Generally speaking, this hasn’t been an issue but when I hit the three week period in village I also hit my first emotional speed bump. I was felled by the trifecta of sickness, sleeplessness and hormones – an emotional perfect storm.

In America, I turn these anti-social days into highly productive catching-up-on-TV days while sequestering myself in a nest of pillows and duvets. Due to triple digit temperatures and international restrictions on Hulu this is not possible in Sare Sara. On the first day of my emotional shipwreck, I tried to save the day by meandering to town to buy beans for my family. This simple task turned into a 3 hour social call, with no fewer than 5 groups of people insisting that I stop by to chat and drink tea. While a large part of my time these days is spent sitting around awkwardly and drinking tea, it’s by no means my favorite activity.

With a developing head cold and puppy-induced sleep deprivation, my foggy brain struggled to understand Pulaar. Senegalese people usually respond in one of two ways when language proficiency fails me: 1) speak slowly and patiently explain themselves using a variety of phrases until I catch on in either Pulaar or French OR 2) Laugh, speak faster, mumble and say “A waawa Pulaar” which directly translates to “you can’t pulaar” and means, you suck at our language. Well, thanks. I usually have one of two responses to the latter: 1) laugh, say I’m trying and keep at it 2) switch to English and say something less than polite, then passive aggressively agree and walk away while trying not to cry. Yes, having punk 18 year olds who didn’t pass the 3^rd grade or 75 year old grandmas make fun of your language skills is a perfectly valid reason to want to cry. On the no good very bad day this happened continuously as more and more tea-gangs lured me off the road with friendly greetings and proceeded to baffle me with unintelligible conversation. By the time I made it home for lunch – with no beans to boot – I was about to crack. During lunch I pulled the “oh my eyes are watering because I just bit into a hot pepper and now I need to go to my room to get water” move and sequestered myself for the remainder of the afternoon.

The emotional perfect storm occured for me when all three elements lined up to tip the crazy scale. Two out of the three I can generally overcome, but throw in the lack of sleep or PMS and you’re in for a crazy – and often teary – day. Like all storms, I know it will pass, but when you’re up in the tornado like Dorothy it doesn’t seem like the house will ever land. Unfortunately my reclusive first reaction is exactly the opposite of helpful in these times, and I tend to perpetuate the downward spiral.

Luckily, my host dad forced me out of the house for day 3 of the wedding bonanza. Oh, fabulous, I thought. But to be honest, that was probably the best thing I could have done. As much as I didn’t want to sit around drinking tea and eating a third lunch, I actually had a good conversation in which I may or may not have agreed to marry someone. By the time I got home around 5, I felt much less like Dorothy and more like myself.

Wedding Bells

The bride wore sequins, her hair pulled into a high bun of fake locks with a glittering crown of Greek-goddess inspired gold and silver leaves. The groom wore a striped polo shirt. Following local custom, neither the couple nor their guests smiled for pictures. Although the fires were lit at mid-afternoon and by early evening onion skins littered the courtyard it was well past 9 before the meal was served and – to one guest’s dismay – so poorly announced that only basic rice and fish were left to be had. The lack of electricity within 10 miles didn’t stop the party, which roared through the night with the help of a generator, a single light bulb and a showroom-worthy display of amplifiers. With the smell of gas fumes lingering in the air, the main event began at 10:30 as a “wedding party” of sorts was called to the middle of a large semi-circle of guests. To the casual on-looker it appeared like a dance-off was about to begin until the happy – yet unsmiling – couple entered the middle of this smaller circle of friends to do a hora-esq routine. Pictures followed dancing, with the couple still standing in the semi-circle crowd and guests coming up in small groups to hand deliver wedding gifts and have their photo snapped. Despite the temptation to stay up all night dancing, this was the last I saw of the evening.

A second day of festivities included more picture taking with the bride, cooking in mass quantities and a village-wide moratorium on all non-tea related activities. Apparently this is also the day when something ceremonial happens with the bride moving to the groom’s house. A n additional ceremony consists of the sound system being moved from the bride’s house to the groom’s house so that the party can continue for a second full night.

Still not had enough socializing? Not a problem! On day 3, there is even more eating of oil-soaked rice, tea drinking and general lazing around at the groom’s house. And yes, the sound system is still there and pumping out greatest hits until the wee hours of the morning. Luckily, the groom lives just a few houses down so even when you don’t have the strength to socialize there’s no need to miss out on the fat beats blaring from the 12 foot subwoofer.

Meet Tigi!

I have finally fulfilled my years long dream (college roommates, you can attest to this) of getting my very own puppy. When I first applied for this Peace Corps gig I was very much on the fence about whether or not I wanted to give up my friends, family and first world comforts for two years. I am almost embarrassed to say that my feelings changed dramatically after my PC recruiter told me he’d had two dogs during his service in Panama and had even brought one back with him to DC. If I could get a dog, then how hard could this really be? Well, I’ve gotten the dog and the jury is still out how hard these adventures – single (dog) mother hood and village living – are going to be.

I thought it would take some time to find the right pup, but as it turned out the maxim of “ask and you shall receive” turned out to be 100% true this time. On my first day in village I told everyone I met that I a) did not have a husband b) did not want a husband c) wanted a dog. By the end of the morning a nice guy had already found me a litter of puppies and I’d made myself known throughout town as the crazy dog girl. Now it’s five weeks later, and while I’m sure I jumped the gun on the weaning process I couldn’t wait a day longer – Senegalese puppies are not treated with the same care as their pampered American cousins. So here she is:

Full Name: Tigi Tigi Diamanka aka “Tigi”

Nicknames: T, Tigadegy (peanut butter in Pulaar), Tito, Munchkin

Breed: Purebred Senegalese Village Mutt

Birthday: 1^st week of May, 2011

Favorite Food: Canned spam and chicken liver

Likes: napping, chewing on toes, powdered milk, rice in powdered milk, peeing on the bed, peeing on the floor, peeing on laps, pooping right in front of the door, whining, American dog treats sent from Grandma (more please!), fighting chickens, fighting herself in the mirror

Dislikes: being alone, big trucks, Senegalese children, sleeping through the night, mosquito nets, wearing a collar, walking on a leash, baths

Let's Hear It For The Boys

In honor of the upcoming Hallmark holiday of Father’s Day, I thought I’d post some observations I’ve made about Senegalese Dads. Yes, there will be an obligatory post concerning gender roles and the inherent unfairness of both cooking and doing the dishes, but that’s for another time.

One of the most striking things I remember from being in South Africa was the lack of men. Both in the city and rural homes I lived in, there were very few men around and even fewer who showed any interest in the children. Due to the migrant labor system prevalent in much of Southern Africa, nearly all of the husbands/brothers/uncles we heard of were off working in mines or the big cities. While migrant labor certainly exists here in Senegal, it is not nearly as ubiquitous and has not drained rural areas of men as in other regions of Africa. So that’s observation #1: men are everywhere.

The second surprising thing for me has been how involved these guys seem to be with the children. I know, it’s sort of horrible for me to be surprised by this but I was. I thought that Senegalese mothers would be exclusively responsible for tending to small children, but I’ve seen a number of doting dads (and uncles and friends of dads) recently. For example, there was a guy in my PST village who I would see every few days – either he’d stop by our house or be hanging around with my friend’s host dad – and he always had his 2-year old daughter with him. I literally never saw him without her.

Here in Saare Sara, the dads seem to be just as involved. My host dad Oumar has 2 daughters. One is Toolye, the 3 year old, and the other is Binta, the newborn. It’s readily apparent how much not only Oumar loves his daughters, but how much his 4 brothers love them too. The uncles – Mamadou, Adama, Pate and Aliou – are all equally cute and affectionate with Toolye and the baby as their own father. Even random friends who drop in to say hello are affectionate toward the little kids – something I’ve never seen with mid-20s American men.

I should note, most of the cuteness I’ve seen has been restricted to daddy-daughter interactions. Maybe this is because most of the little kids I’ve seen have been little girls, or maybe it’s because girls are shown more outward affection. My host dad during PST definitely had a sweet spot for the little girl in our house, and while he wasn’t mean to the little boy, their interactions were noticeably different. As a proud member of the daddy-daughter club, I’d like to think there’s something special about the relationship between little girls and their dads in all cultures…but maybe I’m just projecting.

Anyway, here’s a shout out to all the cute Senegalese dads I’ve seen in the past few months and one for my own dad – happy father’s day! I love you!

Bike Trip: Round 1

Last week I had the chance to get out of village for a few days to attend a Gender and Development (GAD) activity and visit my good friend Sharon in her (very remote) village. Here’s how it went down:

Tuesday: My friend Alana biked out from her village to have lunch and pass the hottest hours of the day in Sare Sara. After filling up on white rice and mangos, we biked the ~35km East to Dabo where Dave, a 2^nd year Environmental Education volunteer, lives. My friend Sharon was already there when we arrived, so it was a nice little reunion. After a delicious meal of meat (!!) and potatoes (!) we watched as the first of the heavy rain storms moved toward Dabo. The light show that preceded the rains was truly magnificent – it looked like a naval battle in the sky with bursts of light behind dense storm clouds. We momentarily speculated that war had broken out between the two Guineas. The rain that followed was less magical, as Dave’s roof quickly began to leak and a rogue lightning bolt may or may not have hit it – there was a loud pop, a red spark in the middle of the room, and no power for the rest of the night. Exciting!

Wednesday: As part of a girls scholarship program through SeneGAD – the PC gender and development program – Dave organized for Awa (leader of all things cross cultural) to come a give a talk to some girls from his school. The girls ranged in age from 13-18 and were finalists for a PC sponsored scholarship for middle school girls. Awa does a number of these talks around the country, where she promotes education, delaying marriage and pregnancy, and general girl’s empowerment. She’s really wonderful, and the girls seemed to enjoy it.

After another delicious meal, Sharon and I hit the road to bike to her village – Fass Kahone. After about an hour and a half of riding on a hard packed dirt road – where Sharon left me in her dust – and 15 more minutes on a bush path we arrived. Fass Kahone in a charming village of about 150 people. I am thrilled I don’t live there. Fass Kahone is in the middle of nowhere.

Thursday: A typical village day of greeting, eating mangos, wandering the fields and helping Sharon with her garden. Sharon’s family is great and the village is incredibly excited to have her. Peace Corps couldn’t have picked a better volunteer to put in tiny Fass Kahone – Cynical Katie would not be doing as well as Positive Sharon is without cell phone reception or an easy bike ride to the regional capital. I thought I was living the hard life in Sare Sara, but now I feel spoiled with my paved road, four boutiques and white rice (Sharon eats mostly millet – a cheaper and in my opinion less palatable carbohydrate).

Friday: Early morning bike ride back to Sare Sara. This included almost an hour and a half on 20km of bush path to get from Fass Kahone to the main road. With two nights of rain it was a fun ride of dodging puddles and sand traps but will soon be impassable. Another 15 km on the main road got me back home in time to plant my garden.

Total distance biked: ~90km