My Trip to the Fouta

Despite the Mauritanian's insistence that women shouldn't sit in the front seat, I couldn't help but like him. Throughout our trip up north, he would break into sporadic song in Arabic. The more desolate the landscape became, the more insistent his singing. He was on his way home. As for me, I was far from home, leaving my little round hut and tranquil existence in the south to visit my friend Alicia and celebrate Thanksgiving.

The Fouta is the area stretching across the north of Senegal, made up of Pulaar du Nords, for the most part. It's known by some as the Sahel, by others as a wasteland. Each Peace Corps regional house hosts a different holiday, and it's the house in Ndioum that hosts Thanksgiving.

On the way to Ndioum, I picked up a few Peace Corps Volunteers. Shockingly enough, our car broke down a few hours outside of Ourossogui. I figured this was a good time to call my friend Chip, to whom I owed a phone call.

"How's the North?" he asked.

"How's the North?" I repeated. "Our car broke down. They're saying it'll take a few hours to fix. It's blazing hot. I'm trying to find some shade under a tiny thorn bush. And there's a dead sheep rotting a few feet from us. THAT'S how the North is."

Claire, looking for shade under a thorn bush.

But that's not all there is to the North. The Volunteers in Ndioum outdid themselves in the Thanksgiving spread. It was amazing. It was magical. I had diarrhea for days, that's how good it was. I tried not to eat too much, but as the Pulaars say, habits are like pubic hairs. You can shave them, but they'll just grow back. It's a habit for us Americans to eat a lot at Thanksgiving. And so I did.

Thanksgiving turkey, pre-slaughter.

After Ndioum, I tagged along with my friend Alicia to her village of Sedo Abas.

Alicia with her family.

They found love in
a hopeless place.

Sedo Abas is a Pulaar village of 2500, surrounded by a few Wolof villages, just 3 km off the one road that runs across the north of Senegal. Alicia's family has a farm with all kinds of animals - horses, cows, goats, sheep, chickens. Each day, a guynaco, or herder, comes and takes the animals out for grazing. Each afternoon, they come back, en masse. I learned the different words for shooing the animals, because when they come back they're thirsty and wander the compound. For chickens, you say "cous." For cows, "dik." For horses, goats, and sheep, it's even a different word.

"What happens if you mix them up and say the wrong shooing word?" I asked my friend.

"Well, they just won't understand," she replied.

Charrette is the most common
form of transport in the North . This
horse's name is Barack Obama.

Coming home from the fields.

Alicia's Senegalese name is Hawa Sall and her charming brother Mahamadou explained to me the history of the name. The Salls come from the Ba family, a very common Pulaar last name that we even have down south. One particular king, though, decided to break away from the Ba family, and left with his slaves and griots. They called him Sall, or "the refuser."

The natal village of Macky Sall, Senegal's president, lies just a mere 7 km from Hawa's home.

I mentioned all the cows up north. And you know what that means - milk! In all its splendid varieties. The Pulaars make kosam - or yogurt - that you can buy in sachets. There's fresh squeezed milk. There's a refreshing yogurty, sugary drink that they offer to guests. I was up to my ears in milk and I wanted more.

Milk - fresh squeezed.

A delightful package of kosam.

But alas it was time for me to head back south. I had had one too many thorns in my feet. And my throat was parched from the sand and heat.

We caught a car out of town. On the way to the Peace Corps apartment in Ourossogui, the driver of the car heard Alicia and me speaking English. He turned around and with wild, emphatic hands, he asked "What is George Bush?!"

I shook my head sadly. "Brother, I really don't know."

This tree is the garage of Sedo Abas.

Alicia's compound, with mosque behind.

The Fouta might be harsh and inhospitable. Let's not mince words - it's a wasteland. But there is a certain beauty to its desolation and stench of death, of which only the likes of T.S. Eliot can do it justice. There may not be cascading waterfalls and trees bursting with fruit, like we have down south. But a trip to the Fouta is worth it, if just to say "Bravo!" to the courageous Volunteers who do that everyday.

It's a hard life for the village chief.

The Culture of Tea

Each culture seems to have its shared substance that brings people together. In America, it might be beer or coffee. In Paraguay, terere. In Amsterdam, marijuana. In Senegal, that substance is ataaya, or tea. Ataaya is consumed any place that people gather, at all times of the day, and by everyone. If you'd like to try this at home (which I do recommend), follow these steps.

Tea paraphernalia

1. Gather your ingredients.
Small boutiques sell packs of tea and sugar, with just the right amount of sugar measured out for a session of tea. Every household is already equipped with the small tea pot, two shot-sized glasses, and a fourno with charcoal/wood to heat the tea. If you're really patron, you might also add mint, vanilla-flavored sugar, or mint candy.

2. Heat water with tea leaves.
The job of tea preparation in Senegal is unique in that it can fall to either men or women. Most other tasks are clearly defined along gender lines. Age, though, matters in that, if you are older, you generally don't make tea. You are served by younger folks. (Unless I'm the young one there. I do not make tea.)

3. As water boils, add sugar. And keep on adding.
Generally, three rounds of tea are served. Very rarely is it less (some complain that round 3 is just sugar water, an odd complaint considering how much sugar is consumed here). The first round is quite strong. Number two - my personal favorite - is a perfect balance of strong tea and sugary sweetness.

4. Make foam.
The tea is poured back and forth between the two glasses, creating foam. The foam effect not only ensures everything is mixed, it also cools down the tea.

5. Serve tea.
Having only two glasses in a family of 20 is not indicative of poverty, it is the norm. Having only two glasses is important - it establishes hierarchy. The first two people to be offered tea are the highest on the totem pole (generally, older men). When I first arrived, I was always offered tea first. Now I'm first after the men. I suppose I should take this as a compliment.

I've seen volunteers get frustrated when villagers claim not to have money for medicine when they're sick, though the tea supply is always stocked. But this is very telling. Medicine is expensive, tea is not. Sometimes it's necessary to walk long distances to the nearest dispensaire. Tea is sold on every corner. Medicine is a big purchase for one individual. Tea is a small purchase for the collective. It's been estimated that only about half of the Western medicines handed out actually work. Tea is 100% effective in uniting people, necessary if you have guests, and generally good for the soul.

So barrin kelu nin barrin musoolu (brothers and sisters), pull up a stool and I'll put the kettle on.

Tabaski

"Verily among those who followed his Way was Ibrahima," reads the Koran. Ibrahima was called on to sacrifice his son. In the Koranic version, it is Ishmael that is taken to the mountaintop. And it is Ishmael that is spared when Allah puts a sheep in his place.

In the lead up to Tabaski - the biggest holiday in Muslim Senegal (called Saliba, or "big prayer," in Malinke) - one will see dozens of sheep gathered on the roadside for sale, the Senegalese version of a Christmas tree lot. Eating meat is a sign of prosperity here, and my family bought two for the occasion, no easy feat.



My cousin and dad with one of our sheep.

The night before Tabaski, the women get ready by covering the bottom of their feet and palm of their left hand with henna, which turns the skin reddish. The next morning I was invited by my grandmother to pray at the mosque. She loaned me a scarf to cover my head, and we shared her prayer mat in the back with the women. I couldn't understand what the imam was saying, but he sounded a bit like a Malinke Jerry Seinfeld and I created an imaginary dialogue for him. ("So what's the deal with all these sheep?")

My henna'd feet. We're several weeks later and the design is still there.

When I got back home, I went to inspect two small holes that my uncle had dug in the ground. "Go get your camera!" my family urged. Perplexed, I came back with my camera, to see the sheep being held over the holes, in slaughter position. While I heard the life blood gurgle out of them, I snapped a quick picture, then feigned battery issues while I ran back to my hut.



Blood, blood in the holes.

I must say, though, they were delicious. The meal was a big one, with several families exchanging bowls of food, so we ate three meals for lunch. The family of my father's second wife joined us, so there was a crowd in my grandmother's hut while we ate vermicelli, manioc, fried potatoes, and mutton. When we were full, we drank Fanta (another sign of wealth) and then the women started in on the prayers The prayers went on and on, giving thanks to Allah for all he's provided us, intoning us to sacrifice for him, interspersed with some "Amiinas" while we rubbed our foreheads. At a pause in the prayers, I looked up to see everyone waiting on me to continue.

"Allah mu i kilin kilin kunina," I said. (May you wake up one by one; inappropriate since it wasn't night time.) Everyone replied, "Amiina."

But I couldn't stop at one. Most women had said five or six prayers. "Allah mu i tilinta heera to," I continued. (May God grant you a peaceful day; inappropriate since it wasn't morning.) Everyone called, "Amiina."

I thought hard. "Allah mu albarako bola," I finished. (May God heal you; inappropriate since nobody was sick.) "Amiina!" they all laughed.

After lunch, everyone put on their finest outfits and walked around greeting each other. Dinner that night was a light one since lunch was so plentiful - rice soup and meat. "What happens next for Tabaski?" I asked. "Now you wash your hands really well with soap," my grandmothers told me. "Otherwise, if the mice smell meat on your fingers, they'll nibble them."

The Koran continues, "Thus indeed do We reward those who do right, for this was obviously a trial." Most people in my village may not be able to quote the story of Ibrahima and Ishmael as it relates to Tabaski, but it's a story they know well - a story of toil and sacrifice, a story of doing right by God and being rewarded; in this case by eating meat and drinking Fanta and spending time with loved ones.

Death in Senegal

Far and away the biggest event I've ever witnessed in my village was the commemoration of the end of someone's life. The funeral was for a villager I didn't know - Banga had been living in Paris for the last few years. It's generally not important to discuss how someone dies. When I asked, I was told he hadn't been well. My village pooled together money to have the body shipped back to Diakhaba.

That day, all the boutiks were closed and people came from many surrounding villages for the event, brilliantly dressed. I even had six couchsurfers visiting me at the time (www.couchsurfing.org), so the village was packed.

Shortly after lunch, all the men and old women went to the mosque to pray. Women still of reproductive age aren't allowed to enter the mosque, so we crowded under a tree outside, listening to the sounds of prayer, then lined the road as the coffin was brought outside, for which we ladies had to slip our flip flops partially off and turn our backs on the procession. The entire village then walked together to the family's compound. This is the only time in 4 months I've been amongst my villages without exchanging dozens of greetings. It was a solemn procession, some people crying, others chanting.

With the exception of the huge van that drove into the family compound to deposit the deceased's belongings, the rest of the ceremony was similar to other big events, like weddings. The men with important-looking kuufies sit in a circle with everyone else crowding around in any available shade. One by one these men speak softly to another person, who is the designated mouthpiece, and who repeats the same thing for us all to hear. This was a bit hard to follow, but I heard them mention many names of people in connection to the family, as well as the names of surrounding villages. Then people began filing out (men first), collecting dego as they left. Dego is a sweetened ground corn that's also given out at baptisms. People will grab handfuls and bring it back for family members who didn't attend the event (in this case, kids).

A mountain of delicious dego.

The actual burial remains a mystery to me, since not everyone attends this part. In fact, I'm not even sure where my village's cemetery is. It doesn't seem to be a place that is often visited, as in the States.

As for Banga, Allah mu aljanno daa la a yen. (May God welcome him in Paradise.)

Meet Patrick Hair

Listed among the ranks of Kedougou's finest volunteers is Patrick Hair, an expert in many areas, including the birds of Senegal. I was lucky enough to be granted a rare interview with this highly distinguished individual.

The interviewer drawing a bird on the interviewee's chest.

Chrissie Faupel: How is it that the birds of Senegal have captured so much of your interest?
Patrick Hair: Let's be honest. The rest of Senegal really isn't that exciting.
CF: When did you first get into birding?
PH: When I was a boy and I got sick, my mom would apply a rectal thermometer. At the same time, she would sing that duck song, you know, the one that goes "the one with a feather on its back, he led the others with a quack quack quack." The rest is history.
CF: If you were to be any kind of bird, what kind of bird would you be?
PH: I've identified pertinear [sic] 160 birds in Kedougou. I've had a lot of fun watching birds. Hammerkops! They kind of waddle. They splish splash in the wetlands. Greenback herons are also wetlands birds. There's nothing like a good marsh.
CF: I'm going to give you an adjective and I want you to give me a bird that goes with that adjective.
PH: Okay.
CF: Cunning.
PH: Red-throated Bee Eater.
CF: Sexy.
PH: Sunbird.
CF: Nostalgic.
PH: House Sparrow.
CF: Evil.
PH: African Scops Owl.
CF: Milquetoast.
PH: Common Bulbul.
CF: Gay.
PH: Abyssinian Roller.
CF: So how does one become an expert birder like Patrick Hair?
PH: It takes a lot of free time. And a lack of intimate relationship. You have to say no to many ladies. When they see the binoculars, you might be drawn to compromise the integrity of the birding experience.
CF: If you were asked to rap about birding, how might that sound?
PH: M*** F***!/If you think you're going to flash that gal,/I've got some Nikons hangin' round my neck./The ladies love it when the binos a'danglin.
[N.B. Binos: street slang for binoculars]
CF: At this point, I'd like to open up this Q&A session to our audience. First question submitted - If you could only watch one bird for the rest of your life, what bird would it be?
PH: The Parasitic Jaegar in Alaska. What this bird's all about, if I may elaborate, it chases other birds, makes them regurgitate their food by scaring them, then eats that food themselves.
CF: One audience member wants to know - When not birding, it's been alleged that you moonlight as a pleaser of women. Please speak on this claim.
PH: Women have a thing for birders. You don't know how many times I've been asked to take young ladies birding. I've never actually done it. The ladies see me wearing my bino bra - you know, it takes the pressure off the neck - and they know I'm no amateur. Women like a man who's observant, who will say "Hey, you got a new haircut," or "No, those pants don't make your butt look fat."
CF: Is it safe to shoot one of those red or yellow birds with a sling shot, cook it over a bed of coals, and then eat it?
PH: You're probably talking about the yellow Village Weavers. Villagers eat them a lot. Their chicks, too, are a good snack. There's plenty of them, so bissimilah. They also have this cool chromatic...colorization...their eggs...I'll have to think of the word when I'm sober. The red ones are Northern Bishops. They're hard to spot in the dry season because they're brown. If you're a brown bird, you might want to accessorize.
CF: Who's your ideal birding partner?
PH: One who plays a mean banjo, of the female variety [it's unclear whether the interviewee is qualifying the player or the instrument] who also sings songs to me. I'm tired of singing songs to women.
CF: And if we'd like to sing songs to you, how might we get in touch with you?
PH: Write me at bignakedguyinatreewithbinoculars@aol.com. But if you want to find me, I'll be in the bush. I  may be watching you. I have binoculars.

At this point, the interviewee falls asleep on the ground, clutching a bottle of Fanta.

Manyo-Yeah! (A Bridesmaid in Senegal)

I was summoned to my friend Tagui's wedding by the beat of drums issuing from her mom's house next door to me. I hoped I wasn't late. I had, after all, been invited to be a "hotesse," or bridesmaid, but had no idea what this entailed. When I arrived at the house, I found a large group of women standing in a circle clapping and dancing. In the middle of the circle were the drummers. It took me a minute to realize Tagui was also in the middle of the circle, lying on the ground under a sheet, while a musoo khoto (respected older woman) braided her hair.

When the drumming stopped and the griot (sort of like a bard) began singing the praises of the bride's family, the crowd wiped tears as they remembered those that had passed. When the hair was finished, I was summoned to the "washing place." I followed a handful of women - in the midst of which was Tagui - covered fully with a white sheet. The mysterious washing place turned out to be the middle of a field, where Tagui stripped down to nothing but a pagne wrap while the older women scrubbed her with soap and water.

 Newly clean, she was re-covered with the white sheet and we toured the village - Tagui and her entourage. Every time we passed an adult male, my friend would shake his hand and ask for money. Most people gave 100cfa, the equivalent of about 20 cents. Our tour ended at the mosque - an exciting prospect for me since I had never been inside the gates before. We left our shoes at the gate and circled the building three times while singing.

Back at Tagui's house, I got caught up talking with a group of women, when suddenly a great wailing arose from the hut where Tagui had disappeared into. Inside women were screaming and crying, shedding real tears at the prospect of Tagui leaving her mom's house to join her husband's family. The kids in the room, however, betrayed that perhaps this was all for show. They were giggling and wailing with much glee and exaggeration.

In one corner of the family compound were sitting many of the old men of the village, wearing important-looking kuufies. Tagui was sat in front of them, covered still, clutching a gourd spoon - the im portance of which we will revisit later - while listening to the old men's words. I did not listen, however, as I was busy with the women and the henna.

We now arrive at the Great Transition - the moment when Tagui was accompanied by a handful of women to Ibrahima's house. She sat beside him on bed in their bedroom while each of us curtsied to Ibou and we recited each other's last names. We left Tagui there on the bed next to her husband, looking terrified.

I visited my friend later that night. While friends and family danced to the loud music issuing from speakers outside, Tagui was confined to her room. She was not allowed to leave while people paraded in to give their blessings. In direct proportion to the number of adult women that were present, the more tears my friend shed. She told me she had a cold, but I saw her brush away real tears.

*******

The final day of the wedding always falls on a Friday. Friday is to the Muslim what Sunday is to the Christian. A marriage is not official until it is announced by the imam at the mosque; whether the couple is present or not is a moot point.

So now it is Friday, the final day of the wedding. (Weddings here are three days. I missed the first day due to the 4th of July.) People had already begun gathering at Ibrahima's house when I arrived. After some time, the music was quieted and the same old men issued more advice to Tagui, again sitting in front of them covered and holding the same gourd spoon. Then kola nuts were passed around and we shared them while congratulating the happy couple.

At some point, I was summoned to a back room and given my bridesmaid outfit. It's interesting to note the garrish bridesmaid phenomenon is worldwide.

We sat in the back room for hours while people gathered outside. I'm not sure why we waited so long, unless to give the bridesmaids more time to laugh at me while I practiced my dancing. (Despite their laughter, they did, in the end, declare that I was no longer a toubab, but in fact a "fatee fingo" or black skin.)

The mood in general on this final day was much more joyous and I was glad to see my friend laughing and joking again.

We at long last paraded out to the crowd to take photos.

As women must stay within their husband's compound for five days following a wedding, I would visit Tagui several times over the next few days. I noticed that same gourd spoon hanging from her ceiling.

"Munna? Why?" I asked.

A young girl piped up. "If Ibrahima beats Tagui, then she has to take the spoon down. As long as he doesn't beat her, the spoon stays up."

Tagui now seems to be enjoying her status as a married woman, even though most women here will tell you that the life of an African woman is very difficult. I was glad to note that the last time I was at Tagui's house, the spoon was still stuck in the ceiling.

Paper or Plastic?

Jaxanke reunion! Chip and Janet came to my village and stayed the night, on our way to our Peace Corps language seminar in Saraya. Chip is my nearest neighbor in Samecouta, a great village with a beautiful mosque and a phallic tower, situated right on a river. Janet came all the way from Tambacounda (another region that Kedougou broke away from recently to form its own region).

I took them to the health post for dinner. The family at the health post wins for best meal in the village. (There was one day that I ate all three meals at the health post. I just couldn't face the dry couscous without sauce that my family was assuredly serving that day.) So, as a treat to my friends, I invited us over for dinner at the health post.

Afterwards, in my hut, sprawled on the floor, we stayed up late into the night talking. Soon, the sound of the yellow horned gonfleck* began, a bird that I only hear at night and makes a sound oddly similar to a grocery store check out line. Everytime we heard its cry, my friends and I would name an item that we wished we were buying at a grocery store in the States.

Beep.

"Cinnamon toast crunch."

Beep.

"Cheetos."

Beep.

"Pizza rolls."

Beep.

"Bacon."

Beep.

"Broccoli." (This was not me. Janet offered up the idea of broccoli. She's from Berkeley, go figure.)

If words were actions, we would have cleaned out every aisle of that Kroger's.

This is the Peace Corps experience. An hour of listing items we'd like to eat from home, in tune to a nocturnal bird.

*I don't know if this is actually the name of the bird. I'm no expert. Be looking out for a blog in which Peace Corps Volunteer and local birding expert, Patrick Hair, is interviewed.

More Images from Senegal

Hut Sweet Hut

Fatumata with Sengalese Tresses

Cutest kid in my compound, hands down. Notice the gris-gris around his neck.

Termite Mound

My mom pounding corn for the morning mono (breakfast)

I was about to finish my next greatest masterpiece when Fode showed up without any pants.

My Slaves

"You and the afternoon."
"I acknowledge you. Are you with peace?"
"There is peace there. What's your last name?"
"Camara. And yours?"
"Camara! I'm a Damba. You are my slave!"
"If I'm your slave, you have to buy me something to eat."

As a white American from the South, I'm not completely at ease in referring to a West African as my slave. But, believe it or not, by doing this, I'm following a generations-old system put in place to keep social harmony. The system of cousinage, or joking cousins, sets up a joking relationship between people of certain last names. For example, I call Camaras my slaves. They, in turn, tell me my mouth is always full of bread.

My family name also has a relationship with the Dansokhos. You may recall the story of my last name - Danfakha - or buffalo killer - in which the men one day killed (fakha) all the buffalo (dan). You may notice a similar word in the name Dansokho - buffalo stabber, or poker. We make fun of the Dansokhos for being weak, or not getting the job done - they merely poked the buffalo, whereas we Danfakhas actually killed them.

So while calling people here my slave is not something Alex Haley would approve of, it is interesting being part of a tradition that has kept peace between families for years.

Now please excuse me while I stuff my mouth with bread.

Parodies of Human Beings

Dakar, 1979. Mour Ndiaye, Director of Department of Public Health and Hygiene has done his country a great service. He has rid the capital city of talibe, beggars, and boroom battu (calabash bearers - those who collect alms in a calabash). Said Ndiaye, "They are a running sore which should be kept hidden." He went on to lambast the shameful nature in which they beg for food, as opposed to wearing their poverty gracefully and silently. "Just because we're beggars, people think we're dogs! We're beginning to get fed up with the way we're treated!" commented an anonymous beggar. He's not alone in this sentiment. The boroom battu have gone into hiding after a crackdown by the Senegalese government (one beggar purportedly died from injuries after a police beat him, following new government regulations). The result? "We are as necessary to them as the air they breathe," responded another anonymous beggar. Havoc and maelstrom prevail in the capital when the rest of the population is not able to give alms to the needy and thus receive blessings from Allah. One grand marabout of the capital asks "You waged war against the beggars? Who won?" To find out, read Aminata Sow Fall's The Beggar's Strike.

Images from Senegal

Dance party upon my arrival

My host father building my backyard

Welcome to my village!

Pensees

The following is a collection of thoughts and experiences I had in my first few days at my new site:

- I can't do this.

- A boy in my compound just peed on my work partner's leg.

- Once upon a time, presenting kola nuts to the village chief was only the stuff of Achebe's books.

- I think I can do this.

- My host father just talked to me for thirty minutes and all I understood is "Your hut is fat."

- I had a dance off with a blind woman. She won.

- Oh my god, can I do this?

- My mefloquine dream last night involved Godzilla and a cheetah smoking cigarettes.

- The old woman's back for another dance off. This time without a shirt. There's no way I can compete.

- I can do this. I can totally do this.

Not to Brag, But...

Kedougou is beautiful. It's the only place in Senegal that has any sort of elevation (I say "sort" - the word for "hill" in Jaxanke is the same word as "mountain," just to give you an idea). There's also trees, gardens, a river, and waterfalls. We've been told that we're not allowed to brag to volunteers in other regions. I have spent a few days at the Peace Corps regional house in the region's capital (also called Kedougou) before being installed in my village.

After unloading from a 12 hour car ride from Thies, I hopped on my bike with a few current volunteers to go swimming in the Gambia River. Words can't describe how beautiful this feels in 117 degree weather (and we're just at the beginning of hot season!). As night began to fall, some kids started yelling for us to get out. It was the hour when hippos usually appear. Hippos! The most dangerous animal known to man, followed closely by donkeys - apparently their kicks are deadly, though I feel that their braying could also inspire a heart attack.

The next days were spent in the market buying my hut-hold items - a bamboo bed, a butt kettle (the Senegalese form of toilet paper), but the thing I'm most excited about is my extra sleeping mat (hint, hint).

My host family in Mbour is among the founding family of Kedougou, so yesterday was dedicated to greeting the whole family, including the family of my namesake (Nyakhalin) who was my mom's best friend, now deceased. Because she is my namesake, I assume the same relationships with her family members. For example, when I was introduced to her son, he was introduced as "my son." Odd meeting "my" 17 year old son.

Tomorrow is my install day. I will move to Diakhaba where I am supposed to stay put for five weeks. A glorious five weeks! where I can unpack and try to feel at home, as much as possible.

 Fo naato, inshallah!
(Talk to you later, God willing.)

Now the Adventure Begins...

On Friday, May 11, at approximately 10am, I will swear in as a United States Peace Corps Volunteer. I will swear to defend the U.S. Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic. This is something I've waited seven years to achieve. (Or is this all just a mefloquine dream?)

I somehow passed my last Jaxanke language exam. It sounded something like this:

Teacher: Why did you join the Peace Corps?

Me: (sweating because it was 104 degrees, not to mention my Jaxanke level is only so-so, as you'll soon see) I liked to come to Peace Corps because a heart I have!

T: I see. How is your life different here than in America?

M: Life is different! (This seemed important to say.) In America, my name is Chrissie Faupel. In Senegal, my name is Nyakhalin Mar. In America, a bike I have. In Senegal, a bike I don't have yet. (I sit back, pleased with this answer.)

T: Ah yes, those differences are astounding. Now, what did you do last week?

M: Last week... (I think for a minute. In the whirlwind that is training, it's hard to remember what I ate for lunch, let alone what I did last week, which is an impressive feat considering I eat the same thing every day.) Okay. Last week, I went to Dakar for to see my man. We were married since six years.

T: Oh, wow. Congratulations. May Allah bless you with much happiness.

M: Amen.

And this continued on for another uncomfortable 20 minutes. A skit was also involved in which I had to pretend to be returning a gift that I had bought for my mom because my sister bought the same gift. The "shopkeeper" was relentless and I ended the skit with a grandiose speech: "My mother is not happy. Never will you see me again here for to buy things!"

Yet somehow I achieved Intermediate High, which is one level higher than is needed to pass training. Which means that by the 17th of May I will be installed in Diakhaba and begin the difficult, beautiful process that is Peace Corps.

My dear friends and family, I love you and miss you terribly. Thank you for all your encouragement, I rely on you!

DivaCup Causery

One of the last nights of stage, I gave an impromptu causery to a group of fellow female trainees on how to use a DivaCup (in Jaxanke). This causery touched on many important points of Peace Corps' mission - women's health, environmental education, and Senegal Gender and Development (there was one unfortunate male trainee sitting in the room).

Have I finally arrived?

Mariama Ba, Mariama Ba, Mariama Ba *

This post-colonial author - a Senegalese and a feminist - writes of the complexities of polygamous marriage, as well as the complexities of criticizing a practice so steeped in culture and religion (Islam says a man can take up to 4 wives, as long as he can provide for every wife). Ba's thoughts on the subject are clear. In So Long a Letter, she writes of a man who takes his daughter's best friend as a second wife, remaining married to his first wife, though in essence abandoning her. This epistolary novel follows the protagonist's thoughts in a letter she writes to her best friend, Aissatou, also a divorcee.

Ba offers a feminist response to Cheikh Hamidou Kane (Ambiguous Adventure). For her, Western colonial education may signal the death of tradition, but it heralds equal educational opportunities for women, where none had previously existed. And the response by their male counterparts?

"Being the first pioneers of the promotion of African women, there were very few of us. Men would call us scatter-brained. Others labelled us devils."

The interesting thing about this book is that it is considered a classic of African literature. It is required reading in middle school, where young Senegalese students hold debates on polygamy. Women, as well as men, have been quick to extol the merits of this book when they see me reading it.

While my thoughts were on the subject of gender, I decided to sit down with a few Senegalese friends and hear their ideas. For the man's perspective, we'll be hearing from Falaye Danfakha, a math and science teacher from southern Senegal, torn between tradition and the flash of modern science (and also my language teacher). For the women, we'll hear the thoughts of Adji Thiaw, also a Peace Corps staff member and a wonderful human being, a strong, beautiful, intelligent Senegalese woman.

                                                                              * * *

Chrissie Faupel: What characteristics should a good Senegalese woman possess?


Falaye Danfakha: She should be religious, humble, and positive. Also, because men are the head of the household with a lot of responsibilities, women should be understanding and supportive of their husbands. But most of all, religious.

Adji Thiaw: Others would say she should stay at home, not complain, raise her kids. I think a good woman should know what and how far she can do something - know her own limits. She should not stick to traditional ways. She should be sharing and cooperative with her family at large. Women here are judged by how happy their husbands are. For example, many consider me to be a bad wife because I work far from home most of the time.

CF: What characteristics should a good Senegalese man possess?


FD: Most of all, he should be responsible, since he's the head of the family. He should be religious, polite, and also have many of the same characteristics as women. But most of all, responsible, since he is a leader.

AT: He should know how to give respect and be understanding. Most of all, he should know how to give recognition to his wife. See, here, women only get the recognition they deserve at their funeral ceremonies. But by then it's too late. Men should also learn how to help out around the house.

CF: What are your thoughts on Mariama Ba's Une Si Longue Lettre?


FD: On the one hand, Mariama Ba had a really tough life. She uses her bad experience with men to explain how men are. I can't blame her for that since that was her experience. But on the other hand, she only shows the bad side of men. Men also can be wronged by women. The solution is for both men and women to assume their responsibilities.

AT: This book describes the fate of any woman in Senegal. I found my own experience in what she was writing about. This is true for a great majority of women; they have no support from their husbands. But you can't complain, it's women's fate.

CF: Mariama Ba is very critical of polygamy. What are your thoughts on this practice?


FD: Here, for us, religion is really strong, so it's hard to comment on that. It's a man's choice to take up to four wives. Most women don't want to live that way, but that comes from a misunderstanding in the way they were raised. Parents need to sensitize their daughters to this practice. This is why parents worry about sending their children to French schools, because they will develop bad ideas about polygamy. If they go to a religious school, they will be more free and comfortable with the idea.

AT: I would be that critical of polygamy, too. I grew up in this kind of family; my mom was my dad's first wife. He had four wives. There was not enough room for all of us, not enough money to buy school supplies, and sometimes not enough food for everyone. But sometimes I think my husband would be happier if he took another wife since I'm always away from Dakar for work. Though it's really unfair. There are health issues to think about. If my husband marries someone with a sexually transmitted infection, I could get sick, too. It's unjust.

CF: Often Western women talk of the problems that African women face - female genital mutilation and polygamy, for example. In your opinion, what are the most pressing issues that Senegalese women face?


FD: Female genital mutilation is an issue, but the government is trying to fight that. If you are caught doing this practice, you will go to jail. I think the biggest issue is that women work a lot. They have a lot of housework to do, especially in the villages, and they are given less consideration than men. My mom had a lot of work and I credit her for where I am now - she was the one who looked out for my education, my nutrition.

AT: There is no room for women in the decision-making process. The government has attempted, but it's really not happening. However educated women are, they are still seen as only wives and mothers. Often I am the only woman in my workplace and this is unjust. Access to continuing education is also a big problem women face, especially because of early marriage and pregnancy. A man might be afraid to take an educated wife because she is less submissive.

                                                                             * * *

Mariama Ba, however, leaves us with an eye toward the future. "The word 'happiness' does indeed have meaning, doesn't it? I shall go out in search of it."










*to call on somebody three times is an invocation that indicates the seriousness of a situation

Bissimilah

"Naa. Domo," my host mom calls me. "Come. Eat." I take my place on the floor around the common bowl. "Bissimilah," we all mumble, welcoming each other to the food, before digging in with our hands.

Lunch today is no different than any other day. "Lun woo lun, yego nin malo," the volunteers joke. "Everyday, fish and rice." The Wolof word for rice is "ceeb" (pron. cheb) and these meals are called ceeb bowls - a bed of rice onto which is piled cabbage, potato, carrot, bitter tomato, and fish. (Our homestay is on the beach, so we eat a lot of fish. I will not be eating fish at my permanent site, as Kedougou is far from the ocean.)

Meals are a fairly quiet affair. This is one aspect of West African life that the French did not colonize. There's no long meals unfolding over several courses, no discussions that are as endless as the bottles of wine. And yet, it's during these quick, silent meals that I often feel the most cared for.

When my mom is eating with us, she carefully picks over the fish, pulling out the tiny bones and depositing edible portions in front of me. When my mom's not there, another family member assumes responsibility. They know I love carrots, so bits of carrot always end up in front of me in the bowl. I'm not the only kid looked out for. My uncle makes sure the younger two get plenty of vegetables. And he always scoops out some extra burnt rice for them that little kids (and Peace Corps Volunteers) here love to eat so much. This basic show of affection always seems to me poignant.

Once I've eaten my fill, I set my spoon down. My family protests. "Nyakhalin, you didn't eat anything."

"Mfaata. A diyata kende. Al barka." (I'm full. It was really good. Thank you.)

"Al barkala," they reply. (Thanks be to God.)

And then I walk away. When you're done eating, you don't sit around the bowl and chat. You don't wait for dessert and coffee. You're supposed to get up and leave, even if others are still eating. But you go away feeling as though this most basic and necessary part of life is a shared thing. And that someone is looking out for you.

Al barkala.

Reflections on Ambiguity

"Go find out, among them, how one can conquer without being in the right." With these words, Samba Diallo, the main character of Cheikh Hamidou Kane's Ambiguous Adventure, leaves a life of the spirit in Senegal to pursue a life of the mind in Paris. The questions that Kane poses are important - How should one interact with a foreign power imposed on one's culture? Can one learn from the new culture without sacrificing the old?

My 11 year old brother Lamine is in the habit of showing me his school notebook from time to time. The teacher will write copious notes on the blackboard, which the students will copy word for word. This kind of rote learning came to West Africa grace a French colonization. One particular night I was reading Lamine's notes on the Berlin Conference, in which it was decided which European powers got what piece of Africa.

"Do you think this was a good thing?" I asked Lamine simply in French.

He thought for a minute, then clicked his tongue. "That's not in my notes."

"I know, but what do you think?"

After another long pause, "Sure. The Europeans brought civilization."

As I write this, I'm sipping an iced coffee in a cafe in Thies. Yes, the Europeans brought civilization - a very foreign one - to be superimposed over what was already here. What of Sundiata and the great Malian empire? Mansa Mussa and his golden trek to Mecca? Or even more recent heroes like Cheikh Amadou Bamba or Lat Dior. In the same town where I am enjoying my coffee, Lat Dior resisted the French rail system linking Dakar to St. Louis because he knew this would strengthen their hold on the country.

But let me bring this back to Lamine. One night, sitting under the stars with family (one of the rare moments we weren't watching tv) I posed a riddle -

"The rich need me,
The poor have me,
If you eat me, you'll die."

My host family thought and thought and finally, from under a blanket on a cot, Lamine popped out his head and answered, "Nothing."

At the end of Ambiguous Adventure, Samba Diallo returns to Senegal at his father's request. He comes home to find himself caught between two cultures - he is no longer the pious boy of his youth who would recite the Koran and pray five times a day, nor did he care for the Western culture which he found devoid of any soul. Kane resolves these questions by killing off Samba. But it is a finality filled with peace. The angel of death comforts him, "You are entering the place where there is no ambiguity." For Samba, as with many others, there is a surety in reciting the words of the Prophet, a surety in the ritual of prayer, a surety in religion. "Be attentive, for here, now, you are arriving."

Interview with a Former Talibe

The talibe are young boys in Senegal who are sent to study the Koran with a marabout. As a part of the process, they are sent out to the streets to beg for their daily sustenance. Many foreigners find themselves endlessly annoyed by these young boys asking for money or food. I sat down with a former talibe and current Peace Corps language teacher, Sahir, to learn about what his experience was like.

- How old were you when you became a talibe?
I was four years old when my parents decided to send me to study with a marabout. The marabout was my dad's cousin. When my dad presented me to him, he said to the marabout "I want his bones!" meaning that whatever happens, make sure I learn the Koran. I stayed with the marabout until I was 7, when my family decided to send me to French school. At the French school, I quickly became one of the best students because, as a talibe, we're taught to memorize the Koran. So later, in the French school, when the teacher would write the lesson on the blackboard, I would have it memorized as soon as he wrote it!

- What were some good and bad experiences you had as a talibe?
One of the best things about my experience is that I'm now able to adapt very easily to any situation. Also, I can speak to people very easily. The worst day I can remember is when the marabout beat my cousin for not memorizing his verses correctly. He beat him - right next to me - until he was bloody. I went home and told my dad about it, but my dad said it was just normal.

- What was a typical day like?
We would get up at 5 to pray. From 6-7:30 we would study the Koran by lamplight. Those marabouts that didn't have electricity would teach the Koran around a big fire in the forest. At 7:30 we would go out on the streets to beg for our breakfast. Sometimes people would give us sugar or uncooked rice and unfortunately the marabout didn't always pay attention to what we had eaten. Although I almost always was able to find food to eat. Some marabouts make their talibe bring them money. If the talibe were able to get extra money, they'd hide it maybe with a shopkeeper and get it later. But my marabout never asked for money. Anyway, we'd go back to my marabout's house to study the Koran some more until lunch around 3:30. The marabout's family would often cook for us, so we'd go out and find firewood for the cooking. There was a hierarchy among the talibe - the oldest boys would help us cross the road and make sure we divvied the food up evenly.

- What was your marabout like?
He was really nice, very open-minded because he was well-traveled. When he would travel, though, it was bad because then we were in the care of the older boys. But when the marabout went to Mecca (he went a few times), he would always come back with lots of gifts for us.

- What did you learn from your marabout?
There are different levels that talibe go through. First you become alphabetized (learn to read), then you read the Koran. After we read it, we memorize the Koran. I can still recite the whole Koran in Arabic. Well, sometimes I forget a line or two. The next level is to translate the Koran into your local language (in Sahir's case, Pulaar). I never got to this level, though, because that's when I started French school. Once you master the Koran, the next level is to study shariah (Islamic law), then finally you get to the level of making gris-gris (leather pouches that have a Koranic sura sewn inside and worn for protection).

- What advice do you have for foreigners who find the talibe to be a nuisance?
Be careful - saying the talibe are bad is like saying Islam is bad! People need to remember that if the situation is bad, kids are the victim. There are two solutions I know of for the "talibe issue." The first solution is to have private Islamic schools where the parents pay for the child's food and supplies. But this requires the parents to have money! The second solution is 1 family, 1 talibe where each family in the community assumes responsibility for one talibe. My children are not talibe, but there's a little boy that comes by my house everyday for meals that we support.

- What would you like for people to know about your experience as a talibe?
Everyday I say thanks to my parents for making me do it. Learning the Koran is not easy - being a talibe is hard! Begging for food is tough, but it taught me humility and I really appreciate that time in my life. Having been a talibe is a real source of pride for me!

Site Visit

Diakhaba ngo lu si konton!
The people of Diakhaba greet you!

Diakhaba (pron. "Ja-ha-ba") is where I'll be spending the next two
years. It's a village of 2000 right on the main road exactly between
Kedougou and Saraya (you should be able to find these two towns on the
map - Saraya is the last outpost before you get to Mali). On one side
of Diakhaba live the Jaxanke people, and on the other side live the
Malinke. I'm actually living on the Malinke side (the poor side of
town). The difference between Malinke and Jaxanke is like American vs.
British English. I will be living with the chief whose name is Sinna
Danfakha. This makes me a Danfakha. You may remember from my first
email that Danfakha means "buffalo killer." (This is my language
teacher's last name.) The men killed all the buffalo and gave them to
the women to cook, but the women ate it all. So the men in the family
are called Danfakha - buffalo killer - and the women are called Damba
- buffalo eater. So my new name is Fatumata Damba (much easier than
Niakhalin!).


My compound spans the generations - the chief and his wives, many
kids, a brother and his family, and a blind grandmother who sits in
the corner and yells proverbs. One of the wives is my toxoma, or
namesake. I was named after her and she has a special responsibility
to ensure my well-being. My family began constructing me a new hut in
the compound but Peace Corps came by and said it was too close to the
outer fence, so they are giving me a hut that's already built. It's
yellow and round with a straw roof. I have my own backyard and
latrine.

The health post where I'll be working is a 10 minute walk down the
street. The head guy there - Diata, whose name means king - is one of
my counterparts, or people I'll be working closely with. He has a
triangular beard, two adorable little kids and one wife (in his words,
two wives equals two problems). He is also among an elite and very
small group of people in my village that speaks French. The closest
volunteers to me are 30km away in the town of Saraya. This is a big
town (i.e. they just built a new hospital, there is a radio station,
and a really great bean sandwich lady) and is easily bike-able from
where I live.

I spent the duration of my volunteer visit ("demystification")
visiting as many families in Diakhaba as possible. It can't be
stressed enough how important greetings are. Let me give you an
example:

Peace is with you?
Peace only!
What's your last name?
Damba.
Damba! Damba!
And yours?
Diakhaby.
Diakhaby! Diakhaby!
How are you?
I'm here only. How's your family?
They are there only.
What's sweet?
Nothing but God. Did you sleep well?
Yes I slept well. You and the day?
Peace only. How are the people where you are from?
Peace only. The people where I'm from greet you.
Peace.
Everybody greets you.
Peace. My family greets you.
Peace.
Okay. Diakhaby. Diakhaby.
Damba. Damba.

And this is the short version!

There were two moments when I wanted to cry during my volunteer visit.
The first was when the Peace Corps Land Cruiser dropped me off at my
village and pulled away with all my friends in it and I thought to
myself "Don't leave me!" as I turned to see all the children lined up
to meet their new toubab.

The second time I wanted to cry was a few days later when it was time
for me to bike to Saraya (not to return until mid-May, when I move
there permanently). My new family strapped my belongings to my bike
and everybody walked me down to the main road, clapping and waving the
whole way.

All in all, it was a great visit. Not everybody's visit went so well.
On of the Peace Corps Trainees woke up in his hut from a nap to see a
python crawling around in the roof. He yelled for his host brother who
came in with a machete and chopped its head off. Python blood sprayed
everywhere - the walls, family photos, everywhere!

One other bit of excitement happened during a potty break on the long
10 hour ride back to Thies. There's a national park in Kedougou. We
stopped at the guard hut and were immediately surrounded by dozens of
monkeys and a warthog! I had given our very patient driver (imagine 10
hours of toubabs singing show tunes in your backseat) Idrissa a bag of
kola nuts as a gift and one of the monkeys came into the car and stole
the whole bag! But don't worry, Idrissa chased the monkey down and got
his kola nuts back. In this same park are also baboons, lions, and
hippos!