First, I must admit that I am much lazier about blogging than I thought I would be. Partly due to the limited access of internet, but also I have find myself so consumed with my two new families- the Senegalese and the Peace Corps. But I owe it both to myself and to all of you back home to share some of what has been happening on the other side of the Atlantic. I have now been ‘in country’ for almost a month. There are many things that I feel I must share- like the recent successful democratic change of power here in Senegal (story to come). But today was a remarkable and typical day- rolled into one and it deserves to be shared.
Today is the first of April, April fool’s day known to many, Palm Sunday to more. (well in America) I find that I forget many of the ‘holidays’ that used to matter. St. Patrick’s Day was observed 3 days after it happened, perhaps that’s due to the mandatory limited accessibility to the ‘beverages’ that are commonly consumed or that Africa has begun to infiltrate me to the point I’ve forgotten my second favorite holiday.
Per usual, I woke up at 5am to the daily call to prayer, which can be described somewhere on the spectrum of a societies awe-inspiring dedication to their religion and a dying cat, the fact that its being blasted on the world’s worst PA systems is an added benefit. When I first got to Senegal, I had a lot of trouble sleeping through it. Now, I wake up and within 30 minutes have fallen asleep again. Around seven, I crawled out from under my mosquito net, grabbed my pail of water and headed from the cement hole. Stopping at the water tap on the way back to my room, I greeted my grandmother “I sama, I sinotta baacke” “good morning, did you sleep well?” She answered honestly, which is rare for the culture, as everything is answered in the positive, even if it’s not true. For example, one could be on deaths door, but when asked if they are getting better, they will answer yes, I am getting better. She said that she had not slept, that my ‘sister’ Fatimata had given birth to her baby early in the morning. They took me into her room to see her, she was lying on the bed and immediately handed me the baby girl. The father was sitting on a mat on the floor, brewing Attayaa, the international ‘green’ tea with about a 2:1 ratio of sugar; 2 being sugar. They will have a naming ceremony in 7 days, so the baby has no name yet, but she’s beautiful and perfect. It was obvious to me that she had the baby at home, and either she has a high pain tolerance or I can sleep through anything because I didn’t hear a peep and she is in the room next to mine, and the walls are thin here. They said she had had her baby around 4am, by 8am she was in the courtyard washing laundry- by hand. I haven’t had that much exposure to women and labor, but I doubt that mom’s in America would be doing laundry 4 hours after a home deliver.
I traveled to my second compound, where I eat and socialize. There I had breakfast, half a loaf of French bread with lettuce, eggs, onions, and MAYO. This is not typical; most trainees have just bread with maybe butter or African Nutela. I worked to have my breakfast changed from oil/butter to eggs, not an easy thing when you can’t say any of those things in Mandinka (the language I am learning). I told my family I was going to the beach and would be eating lunch there. I met up with several fellow trainees and we walked a few ‘blocks’ over to meet up with some other trainees. From there we walked to the beach. The walk can be described as SAND, M’bour is a town in the middle of a beach, TOUBAB BONJOUR (HI WESTERNER). I don’t do the walk justice, to emphasis; every single person under 14 is yelling TOUBAB BONJOUR at us. We are of course making a huge spectacle of ourselves; I mean how often does one see 10 westerns together.
The beach is beautiful and presents us all with a much needed/long overdue mental health day. We are typical Americans, lying on blankets, listening to music, enjoying the surf, sand, and sun. We swim and enjoy the fact at our whole bodies are wet all at the same time (unlike bucket bathes). A few of us leave early to find a restaurant for lunch. The place we had in mind is closed on Sundays. So we walked about a mile back to the beach to a different restaurant. We stopped at most places along the way trying to find someplace open. But there were slim choices. One place had rotting meat, and we left quite quickly.
It was worth the wait, walk, and onset of ‘mungry’ mad&hungry. I had roast chicken with onion sauce on it, with double fried French fries. Plus MAYO & Ketchup. It was nowhere near the standard sized American plate, but I ate the whole thing and am still not hungry closed to midnight. I guess that’s what happens when one hasn’t had much in the way to protein in a week and a half. Lunch was more ‘beautiful’ than the beach. I had a relationship with my chicken. For dessert, we all shared a chocolate crepe. Simply, it was heaven.
Walking back a young boy threw a rock at me, he failed but I turned around and pointed at him and asked him if he was serious, in English of course, he ran away but knew I was in the right to beat him. Beating is a common and accepted practice in this society. Men beat women, women beat kids, kids beat kids, and it repeats in a cyclical fashion. If at least one member of the family isn’t shedding tears, find the nearest person and give’em a good smack.
I came home to discover that one of my younger sisters, Awa had been missing since breakfast time. She finally showed up around 9pm and would not say where she had been. She was beaten by her father and grandmother; in a more sever way than anything I have heard of being used in the US. She was sent to bed without food.
I am glad Awa showed up. As an American, my first thought of a 13 year old girl going missing is abduction. They seemed to be more mad than worried, knowing that she had just run off somewhere than been taken. I talked with Seri, Anna, and Willie (a few of my sisters) at dinner about beating children, Seri has a 2 year old (Ammadoo) and Anna has a 2 month old (Papa). Both of them said that they use communication instead of physical force. It’s nice to hear that society is changing a little, but I doubt that their husbands will follow their wishes. The next day I witnessed that my doubts were correct.
Dinner was my favorite, lettuce with grilled fish, onion sauce, and French fries. We eat from one large metal bowl, while sitting on a mat on the floor. Depending on the meal, I get a spoon to use or use my right hand to eat. Before coming here, I had thought the use of the right hand for all but one activity was a leftover from tribal times. It’s not.
Passing out after a day like this is really easy even in the midst of screaming wives, crying children, the soothing noise of mono being made, and the constant crackle of Quranic verses being broadcast.
