Pen Pals in Teyel - and in Saint Paul, MN

A couple months ago, I thought it might be fun to do a pen pal project between kids at my school and kids at a school in America.  There is no home mail delivery here, and the closest post office (where packages or letters can be picked up) is nine miles away.  When I receive mail and tell my community about it, some of them don't grasp the concept that there is a system in place to send things from one part of the world to another - the only way to transport goods that they're familiar with is to give them to someone to carry with them as they travel.  When I told my family that I received a box from my mom for my birthday, they were hurt that she hadn't stopped by to say hello. I was sure that kids here would treasure letters from America.

Since kids learn French in school here, I emailed the directors of French immersion schools in Minnesota (I chose Minnesota for no other reason other than my hometown loyalty), but only heard back from one, the L'Etoile du Nord school in St. Paul.  A fourth grade teacher there said she'd love to do the program and sent me a list of her 31 students.

Senegalese schools are not nearly as efficient as American ones.  When teachers don't show up, there is no substitute system in place.  If there's farm work to do, that takes priority over studying.  Kids go home for lunch and might come back late, or not come back at all.  There is no electricity, and the sun sets at 6:30 these days.  Batteries and candles are too expensive for many families to afford regularly, so there's not much time for homework. Young girls usually start cooking the family dinners (on rotation with other girls in the house) when they're around 10.  Since there is absolutely no processed food here, all milling, chopping, peeling, and sifting has to be done manually, so cooking a meal takes several hours. Senegalese schools aren't free, so if a family has a poor harvest, they might not be able to afford for their children to attend that year.

For all these reasons and more, I was cautious about the ability of the students to write a good quality French letter.  I asked the directors of Teyel's primary and secondary schools, and they said they didn't think the kids would be able to independently write a letter until 5eme, roughly equivalent to 7th grade.  If kids fail high stakes end-of-the-year tests here, they have to retake the same grade again the next year.  For that reason, the 7th grade class ranged from 12 year olds to some that looked around 18.  There are official age limits for each grade, but birth records are easily and commonly falsified.

I met with the 5eme teachers (Mr. Barkham and Mr. Ning) and they were excited and enthusiastic to help.  This is the 5eme class:

Which is a little crowded, so the teachers immediately made a list of the 13 boys and 18 girls who had the best grades in the class and sent the rest home.



The kids in the now-much-less-crowded classroom wrote for over an hour, in careful and meticulous cursive, as I called them out one by one to take a picture (since I was pretty sure the American kids would like to see who they were writing to).  I can't speak French, but their letters look fabulous.

Pretty!

The letters are now in the mail and ready to journey to America, which can take anywhere from two weeks to two months.  I just wish I could read French...

Handwashing in Dinguera

I haven't started any big projects yet (and I am totally at peace with that) but I have been keeping busy with some smaller ones.  I try to do something related to community health work every day, even if it's only greeting a new potential counterpart.  

A couple weeks ago, I went to Dinguera, a village about 4 kilometers away on a bush path.  Dinguera has a couple hundred people and a primary school, so I went to the school to greet the teachers and introduce myself.  I found that the teachers at the primary school speak beautiful Pulaar and were friendly and enthusiastic about possible Peace Corps work collaborations.  As a first project with them, I planned a handwashing/Ebola prevention causerie with Khaled Balde and his adorable students.

 After I met with Khaled and told him in my terrible Pulaar what I hoped to accomplish (you can't see germs, but they can make you sick, washing your hands after using the bathroom and before eating can help you get sick less often), he stood in front of his classroom and gave the presentation of the century.  His went through the terrifying symptoms of Ebola with relish, like a kid telling a campfire story.  Everyone's attention was complete and unfaltering.  He literally had the kids standing and chanting "SABUNDE! SABUNDE!" (soap, soap)!  If this guy were in America he could have a future as a motivational speaker.  It was beautiful.

Khaled put glitter on a volunteer's hand, and told the poor girl she had pretend Ebola.  She shook another girl's hand, who in turn shook a boy's hand, and so on down the line, until even after several degrees of separation from the original "patient," everyone had some glitter on their fingers.

GERMS!

Then we went to the tippy-tap station outside the school, which I constructed under a picturesque Flamboyant. The kids first tried to wash off the glitter with water alone - no dice.  Then they tried it with soap, which was still only moderately effective, because glitter is devilish.

 

All clean!!!!!!!

A few dark days

You may have heard that Peace Corps is a roller coaster, full of ups and downs.  I have been lucky enough that my service has been mostly ups, but this past week has been like a canyon. I’ve struggled with whether a downer post was appropriate to post publically or not, but I decided to do so, in the interest of portraying my service accurately.  Please remember that I am only recounting my own thoughts about my own experiences in my own village, and I’m trying to do so in the most accurate, honest way possible.

If you look back to my Doggy Denabo post, there’s a picture of my sitemate, Kim, peeling onions.  Next to her, you’ll see a girl with a pink skirt and a nursing baby.  That girl was my neighbor, Salimatu, and she died last Friday.  My ASC (local health worker) said it was malaria, but everyone else in village just shrugged and said “balde makko gasi tan” – her days were just finished.  Allah took her, but they couldn’t hope to understand why.  Sali left behind parents, grandparents, her baby, and a village full of friends and family that have been mourning her deeply.  She did not get sick often and her passing surprised everyone.  The funeral proceedings at her compound lasted several days.  Visitors came from all over the country, sharing their hugs, tears, and memories of Sali.  Loud sobs from her compound kept me awake for nights.  As far as I’m aware, Sali’s family doesn’t have any pictures of her.  Her baby won’t have any memories of her mother.  She doesn’t even have a gravestone.

I’m sad that Sali died, of course, like the rest of the village, but I’m also experiencing fierce anger as a result of her passing.  Sali died of a disease that was eradicated over sixty years ago in America.  I want to feel righteously indignant – I want someone to blame.  I want this death to spurn action – I want to be able to say that someone should have done something, that someone should have prevented this tragedy from occurring…however, I can’t feel that way.  Medicine that could have cured her was available at the local health post.  She was a member of a women’s savings group that would have let her take out a loan if she’d needed to go to a private facility for treatment or medication.  There was a USAID-sponsored universal bed net distribution earlier this year, as well as an insecticide hut-spraying initiative.  Sali was sick for three days before she died, slowly getting sicker and sicker, refusing to get treatment because she thought she would recover.  She should have lived, but I don’t know what more could have been done to have made that happen.  I wish I had someone to blame other than the dead girl herself.  Sali died, and I don’t know why, and anything I could think of to do to save her had already been done. 

Sad yet?  More’s a comin’.

The family dog, Leon, who was about two years old, strong and healthy, died on Monday after a short, intense battle with a mystery illness.  He first refused to eat – not like him, as I’ve never known this dog to turn down any food, no matter how questionable.  Then Leon started wailing, crying in agony like I’ve never heard a dog cry.  He started convulsing, twitching, drooling, trying to run and falling onto his shoulders, drool dripping down his face, his eyes bloodshot.  In two days he moved from the pinnacle of health to the grave. 

I don’t know what killed Leon.  I talked to a volunteer that worked as a vet in America, and she said she said it could have been rabies, which seemed even more likely after my aunt said Leon got sick after he got bit by a crazy cat.  However, my brother says the dog got bit by a snake at the beginning of rainy season, but it was a snake with slow-acting venom, which I didn’t understand “because I’m not African”.  My other brother said it was dog malaria.  I don’t know what it was.  My master’s degree in biology, my knowledge of cell structures and disease transmission, has no application here.  I’m useless.  I could do nothing to help him.  As he got sicker and sicker, my family kept asking me to save him, to give him medicine, saying that if I didn’t, he would die.  My brother, the one who was closest to Leon, was getting more and more frantic as he pleaded with me to save his dog using my magic toubab pills from my med kit.

For the first few hours of Leon’s illness, when I thought it was nothing more than a bad cold, I let Ñankatan play with him.  I thought it was cute that my puppy wanted to cheer up his friend.  The dogs were comforting each other, licking each other’s faces and playfully nipping at each other’s ears.  Now I’m scared that my poor puppy might have a ticking rabies bomb over his head.  He’s not old enough to get vaccinated yet, and the shot could kill him if delivered too soon.  If it was rabies that killed Leon, no medicine exists, and lord knows no one in village could afford the vaccine.  Under the advice of my PCV veterinarian friend and the PC med department, I’m keeping Ñankatan under quarantine, in my room away from people for 10 days.  As of now, he’s still healthy, but I’m overanalyzing every move he makes, like a crazy hypochondriac.  He yawned – is he a normal sleepy puppy, or is this the first sign of listlessness that is the first sign of rabies?  It’s maddening. 

I joined Peace Corps because I wanted to help people, but in this world where death is always on the doorstep, where survival cannot be taken for granted, I am powerless.  I look to others to provide answers and guidance.  I don’t know how to live here.  I don’t know what to do.  I find myself wishing that someone would swoop into the village with cures, someone that could make everything easier, that could prevent these tragedies from happening – then I remember that I am supposed to be that person.  That’s what I’m supposed to be here for.  I feel wholly inadequate.

And now, round three:

I was in my room playing with my quarantined puppy yesterday and I heard a cry.  It wasn’t a playful kid cry, but a grown woman’s anguished wail.  I have always struggled with minding my own business (character flaw) so I accidentally-on-purpose walked closer to the noise to investigate, as did dozens of neighbors.  The screams were coming from my neighbor Syrajo’s house, the one that’s in my Facebook profile picture with me.  Syrajo has always struck me as a good, decent, kind man, but at this moment, he was punching his daughter, Rekki, with closed fists and full muscle power.  Rekki’s sister, Hadia, was the one that was screaming.  The scene was hectic and deafening - I was tumbling blind in a sea of Pulaar, unable to find any bearings, feeling fight-or-flight adrenaline course through my veins.  To my left, my brother Oussaman was dragging Hadia away.  She was screaming, hitting him, trying to break away and return to her sister.  Rekki was to my right, stonily calm, silent, an unmovable boulder, accepting her dad’s blows without a sound, without a whimper, looking directly into his eyes with righteous contempt as he hit her.  Rekki’s mother and younger siblings were yelling and grabbing at Syrajo, trying to get him to stop hitting.  Right in front of me, a scrawny stray dog was scavenging from a bowl of overturned rice on the ground.  A preteen boy kept kicking the dog, who would cry in pain and start to run away, then return to the rice, his hunger greater than his fear.  Everyone was screaming and I had no idea where to look.  The crowd grew bigger and bigger, louder and louder, as neighbors explained to the newcomers what was going on.  I couldn’t understand any of it.  In America, I would have been a mediator.  I would have used my words to help.  But I was useless here.  I couldn’t fix anything.  For the third time in a week, I was a desolate pale island in a stormy sea. 

I went home and sat in my room by myself a little bit, trying to decompress.  Then I went outside and asked my sister Medo to explain what had happened.  “Oh,” she laughed as she explained in the clear, carefully enunciated Pulaar she reserves just for me.  “Mariama Ba – you know, across the street, Rekki’s friend?  She gave birth today, and Rekki wanted to give her some food.  But then there wasn’t enough food for Omar and Mohamed – Rekki’s little brothers.  So they started crying because they were hungry.  So Syrajo had to hit her.”  I was confused.  This is a culture that shares everything, especially food.  I’ve never gone to someone’s house without being given a glass of tea or a handful of peanuts.  I couldn’t understand how sharing rice could have been the impetus for such gratuitous violence.  Worse, I couldn't understand Medo's nonchalance about the whole thing.  She thought that the beating was justified by Rekki's actions - that it's OK for people to hit people.

I walked back to the street.  Rekki was sitting on a log, watching cars go by with stony intensity.  I hesitated and considered what to do.  I wanted to sit by her, but I also wanted to give her the alone time that’s so hard to come by here.  I wanted to tell her I was sorry and that fathers should never beat their daughters, that that wasn't right, but I didn’t want to brag about my privileged upbringing with my caring dad who’d never ever hurt me.  I sat next to her.  It was silent for many long moments.  
“Rekki…” I begain.  “I…I’m sorry, Rekki.  Hitting is not good.”
“Not good at all,” she responded.
“I think it is good to share food.”
“I agree.”

It was silent for a few more moments.

“Do you like Teyel, Rekki?”
“When I get money, I will leave.”
“Where?”
“Dakar.”
“How?  Where will you get money?  What will you do in Dakar?  Did you go to school?  Can you read?”

She slumped her shoulders and looked down.  My toubab guilt bubbled up again.  Of course she couldn't leave.  I was an idiot for bringing it up.  Success was handed to me as a consequence of the circumstances I was born into.  I’m collecting a government sponsored living allowance just for being here.  I’m disgustingly rich.  It is not fair, but realizing that doesn't change the way it is, and I can't do anything to make it fair.  If I would have been born in Senegal instead of America, what would my life look like now?  Just because death and violence shouldn’t happen, doesn’t mean they don’t happen.  My presence in village doesn’t stop pain and suffering.  It didn’t save Leon or Salimatu.  It didn't do anything. 

I left Rekki, went back to my hut, and cried for the first time in months.  

Doggy Denabo

A few weeks ago, before I got Ñankatan, I was hanging out in another volunteer’s village talking with a Pulaar friend about my plans of getting a puppy.  I told her that in America, dogs are loved like children.  I said that people buy special food just for their dogs.  I said that dogs sleep in houses, sometimes on the same bed as their owners.  I said that if people hit dogs, they can go to jail.  The person I was talking to was flabbergasted and asked if my dog would be treated like a human.  I said yes – it would be my baby, and I would throw it a Denabo (naming ceremony) and everything.  I meant it as a joke, but the second the words were out of my mouth, I knew that I was actually going to do it.  

Originally, I wanted the denabo to be a small, reserved affair, for my family and a few close friends only, since I wasn’t sure how culturally appropriate it’d be to flaunt my disposable income on a party for a dog.  I tentatively brought up the idea to my family and my closest friends in village, and everyone loved the idea.  Word spread, and soon it seemed like everyone knew about the party.  My last shred of apprehension was erased when the village ceerno (religious leader) asked if I wanted him to ceremonially shave the dog’s head. 

I decided to make it a party to remember.  I figured worst case scenario, no one would come and my family would just eat better food than we usually do, and enjoy the leftovers for several days.  Best case scenario, lots of people would come and we would all have a great time.  

For about a week preceding the Denabo, I had the same conversation with hundreds of people in the village.  “Kadiatou!  I heard you are doing a denabo for your dog!” “Yes!  It is Thursday!  You are coming?” “Yes!  I will eat until I’m very full.”  “Yes!  You will dance also!”  “Yes!  I am happy!”  “I am happy!” 

When all was said and done, I blew about 40,000 CFA on food, tea, and batteries to keep my radio blasting Akon all day.  I have no regrets.  There were dozens of people in and out of my compound all day, and everyone was happy to see Ñankatan.  I didn’t take as many pictures as I should have (I never do!) but here are some.  I also took a ton of video of people dancing, but my computer doesn't have any video editing software, so you'll have to wait for that.

Asu and Kadiatou with a cauldron of rice

Kim peelin' onions

Rice, oil, beans, and veggies!  This was probably the most delicious thing I've eaten in Senegal.

My delightful sitemate Kim gifted the baby a lovely sachet of powdered milk.

After Nankatan wiggled out of his collar and had it reattached several times, he ran off to hide it in some tall grass.  Smart dog.

Alpha has a heart of gold.

    

Mariama wore a new dress to the party

 Screen shots of the dancers, until I find a way to get video up:

Tabaski and a new puppy!

This is going to be a pretty short post because I have this waiting for me at home.

World, meet Nankatan.  Nankatan, meet world.

He's very small and doesn't have much of a personality yet, but makes up for it by being breathtakingly adorable.  He likes sleeping, eating, and urinating.  Sometimes he does two of the three at the same time, but hasn't achieved the trifecta yet.  He dislikes being alone, which isn't a problem during the day, but nights are a stuggle.  This momma is ready for her baby to start sleeping through the night.

Falling asleep while eating

In other news, last Sunday was Tabaski, the biggest holiday of the Muslim year.  It celebrates the willingness of Abraham to sacrifice his son to god.  God liked that blind devotion, so he substituted a ram for the kid at the last minute.  Now, it's celebrated throughout the muslim world by ceremonially killing a ram, then eating it.  

Remember learning about  American Indians using every part of the buffalo?  They've got nothing on the Pulaars.  This is literally all that was left over.  Everything else was eaten.  So many intestines in my dinner bowl!

A villager set up a meat cart so villagers that couldn't afford a whole ram could still buy a few kilos.  You know you've been an unintentional vegan for too long when this sight makes your mouth water...

Part of the holiday's tradition is that a portion of each family's sheep is supposed to be given away.  Since almost everyone had a sheep, there was a really comical hour where villagers were sending bowls of meat to neighbors, while meanwhile recieving bowls of meat from other neighbors.  I think everyone ended up with roughly the same quantity of meat they started with...regifting at its finest.

Grilling and eating corn

Fierce Gaga-ish heels, sported by the mother of my bastard Tokara

Cute kids

You're never too young for your first weave.

I gave my three favorite tweens makeovers, which made all other tweens in the village shoot me death glares.

Bright fabrics, bold prints, sparkles, beads, and ruffles ahoy.

That's it for now!  I'm gonna go home and play with my dog.  

Weighin' and feedin' babies in Teyel

Every month, Abdoulaye, my ASC (community health worker) and a few relais (volunteers from the community) weigh babies at the health hut in my village.  During my first four months in Teyel, I missed these weighings.  Either Abdoulaye didn’t tell me, or he tried to, but the language barrier was still too high, or I was out of town.  As I was eating a bean sandwich the morning of the 20^th, Abdoulaye sat next to me and asked if I was coming to the health hut because today they were going to weigh babies.  “Tuma fuddi?!” I asked excitedly.  When does it start?  “Boyanni,” he answered.  Not long.  This was not specific enough for my still-not-integrated internal clock.  “Neuf heure? Onze heure?  Apres bottari?” (9:00?  11:00?  After lunch?).  Abdoulaye laughed.  “Boyanni,” he answered.  Not long.  It rarely gets more specific than that here.

I excitedly went home and changed into my best Senegalese dress (the one with the oscillating fan and lion print) while reviewing useful vocabulary and verb conjugations in my head.  I proudly explained to my family where I was going – they seemed as happy about my newfound productivity as I felt - and went to the health hut. 

No one was there.

I sat and waited for about twenty minutes, thankful that I never go anywhere without a book.

No one came.

I heard someone call my name.  “Kadiatou!  Ar!” (Kadiatou!  Come!)  It was Aliou, one of the relais.  I walked up to him. 
“A weetori hande!” You are late waking up today!
“Alaa.  Mi fini bimbi law. Mino fadi peesugol boobooji.” No.  I woke up early.  I am waiting for the baby weighing.

 “Arga.” Come here.

We walked together to Abdoulaye’s house, where the scale had been set up.  Abdoulaye explained that at the health hut, there was no shade, so they would weigh at his house instead.  I asked if the women in the community knew the weighing would be there instead of the health hut.  He looked confused, then said yes, they knew.  I asked if all the women knew the event would be happening today – after all, I had just found out about 10 minutes before.  He looked confused again, and repeated that yes, the women knew.  Sure enough, the babies started to come, most carried by their older siblings, since the mothers were still busy cooking breakfast, doing laundry, pounding millet, sweeping the compound, and the dozens of other chores they do every day.  I suppose village word of mouth is as good a way to organize an event as any.

We put the babies in the hanging scale

They loved it, clearly

We consulted a dog-eared growth chart to see if the babies were “green” “yellow” or “red,” depending on degree of malnutrition.  When I first got to Teyel four months ago, I had looked through data at the health post and noticed that Teyel had very low rates of malnutrition, and decided that it wasn’t something worth focusing my time on here.  However, I had failed to take seasonal fluctuations into account.  There was indeed very little hunger in Teyel during the period I was looking at, dry season, but right now is hungry season.  Last years’ crops are finished and this years’ aren’t ready yet.  No one has enough to eat.  This is unfortunate for everybody, but no one’s hurt worse than the babies.  Of the dozens of babies we weighed that day and throughout the weekend, eleven were found to be “yellow” – moderately malnourished – though thankfully none were “red.”

I asked Abdoulaye what he would do next with the malnourished kids.  He said that if the kids were “red,” they were referred to the district health post immediately, but if they’re yellow, they’re just monitored over the coming months.  He said that sometimes, WorldVision or USAID sponsors a mass feeding program, but that none were going on currently.  I considered this carefully.  I am extremely opposed to handouts, since I think they foster dependence and feelings of inadequacy in those they are supposed to be “helping.”  On the other hand…these were babies we were talking about.  And they were hungry.  Their little brains were not getting the nutrition they needed to develop properly.  They cannot wait and develop cognitive skills later, when food supplies are better – they are victims of their own biology.  How could I stand by and do nothing? 

I thought about it overnight, and the next day I approached Abdoulaye and Aliou with my plan.  Over the course of the next week or so, I would go to the houses of each “yellow” baby. I would do a small lesson on child nutrition with anyone in the compound at the time – parents, older siblings, grandparents, aunts and uncles.  I would give a small sample of ceremine (a nutritious porridge) to the mother, then show her how to prepare it and watch her as she fed it to her child (to ensure it didn’t end up in the mouth of a bullying older sibling instead.)  I would give the mother the option of purchasing more ceremine from me at a slightly subsidized rate (150 CFA/bag instead of 200 CFA), but she would only get the one free sample.  Best case scenario:  The mother uses her newfound nutrition knowledge to feed her child more balanced meals and the child reaches a healthy weight.  Worst case scenario: the mother’s delighted that she scammed a free meal out of that weird toubab girl, but does not change feeding habits in any way and the child stays malnourished.  Even in the worst case scenario, the baby got one nutritious meal that they otherwise would not have had access to.

Aliou and Abdoulaye were on board with the idea, and Aliou offered to come with me for language help as I conducted the nutrition lessons.  Luckily, Peace Corps promotes an absurdly easy nutrition lesson called “the complet model,” so I was pretty sure I’d be able to get my point across with my still-terrible Pulaar.  

Complet model: Draw a woman in a 3-piece outfit in the sand.  The headscarf is foods that help her skin and hair stay beautiful - fruits and vegetables.  The shirt is foods that give her muscles to pound grain- meat, beans, fish.  The skirt is foods that give her energy to walk - corn, rice, millet.  Just as you need a skirt, shirt, AND headscarf before leaving the house, you also need all three components in a healthy meal.

We’ve gone to four houses so far, and the response has been positive.  All the babies ate their porridge, and one woman bought a bag.  

Baby Adama Hawa (the only kid I've met here with two first names) lovin' some ceremine.

Even if the women don’t buy the ceremine, they are still (hopefully) learning something from the nutrition talk.  After the discussion, I had one woman tell me, alarmed, that her baby had eaten only rice and okra sauce for dinner – “Wutee alaa!” No shirt!  I told her if the baby ate other “shirt” foods from the complet model during the day, it could still have good balanced nutrition.

That's all for this week!  Talk to you all later.

Life as a Manchild

Before I joined Peace Corps, I was told that being a white woman in Africa was like being a mix of a man and a woman.  So far, that hasn’t been the case.  Instead, I’ve been treated as a mix of a man and a small child.  A Manchild, if you will. 

In Senegal, one is not considered an adult until they get married.  Kids rarely attend school in my village, and even fewer pursue higher education, so the American cultural fixture of leaving the nest at 18 to go to college does not happen here.  Kids stay in their parents’ compounds, doing the same daily routines they’ve had for years, until they get married, usually around age 16-18.  After that, the new bride usually moves in with her husband’s family and becomes a teen mom soon after. 

Since I am not married yet, I am still a child in the eyes of my community, and as such, I am babied.  I have to inform the family of where I’m going and when I’ll be back whenever I leave the compound.  I have very little autonomy over what and when I eat.  I fought for weeks trying to convince my mom that I was capable of doing my own laundry before I gave up and started letting her do it. Men have approached my father to ask him to give me to them as a wife – even if I’m sitting there, I am not asked because it is not my decision.   I was looking forward to having a family here, because I thought it would help me integrate into Senegalese culture, and I suppose it is nice having people around that care about my safety.  That said, I had forgotten how much it sucked being a teenager with no real decision-making power, and it’s difficult being thrust back into that now that I’m a crotchety old lady.

The other half of the Manchild mix is the perception of me as a man.  This is admittedly really nice sometimes.  When I enter a compound, I’m equally comfortable gossiping with the women or talking farming with the men.  I don’t think I’d be able to switch gender roles as easily if I weren’t white.  I’m a foreigner, and that overrides gender.

The downside of the “man” part of Manchild is that this is a paternalistic society, and as a rich man I am seen as a patron.  Most interactions contain at least a few demands to buy something.  Yesterday, I bought tea and sugar for people to drink as my host sister was braiding my hair.  No one said thank you, and in fact I was told that I was stingy for not buying mint for the tea as well.  Last night, my host aunt told me there was no money for sauce for the dinner millet, so I had to go to the store and buy powdered milk and sugar to put in it.  Powdered milk and sugar are expensive (500 CFA or so), and usually the millet sauce is nothing more than hot water and an MSG cube or two (25 CFA).  They either thought I had so much money I wouldn’t care, or that I was too stupid to know what the sauce was made of, so this would be a nice way to exploit a special treat out of me.  After all, I’m a toddler, so I can’t cook. How would I know the difference?

My host brother borrowed my bike a few days ago, and he casually mentioned that it had sprung a flat during his trip.  I didn’t think too much of it at the time, but today when I tried to pump it, I noticed that no matter how hard I pumped the tire wasn’t inflating.  Turns out that my brother had ridden so far on a completely flat tire that the metal rim had destroyed both the tube and the tire. He didn’t apologize or offer to pay for it, but he did say that my bike was very bad and I should buy a new one.  Presumably my host brother rationalized, like so many others here do, that I had more money than anyone else in town, so I should be the one that pays for everything, regardless of fault.  When I was still fuming about that, I brought the bike to the mechanic in my town (AKA the guy who owns a few wrenches and can usually figure bike stuff out if he’s not too busy sitting). He had guests over, so I had to deal with several men slowly and exasperatedly explaining to me how to use my bike pump, since clearly I had been too stupid to notice that the tire was flat.  After they realized that the tire wouldn’t inflate and I really did need the mechanic’s help to fix it, they immediately started giving me exorbitant price estimations for parts and labor.  I’m as dumb as an infant, and I’m rich, so it’s OK to squeeze all the money they can out of me.

The dichotomy between being a baby, so stupid and helpless that I can’t even go out at twilight (lest evil spirits get me), and being a wealthy benefactor at the same time is frustrating beyond measure. Everyone wants my stuff and my money, but no one cares who I am or what I have to say.  This is annoying on a personal level, but it has troubling implications for my future projects here as well.  I’ve already noticed that when I try to do any behavior change communication (such as explaining why hand washing is a good idea and letting kids play with pesticide sprayers is a bad idea) my messages usually fall on deaf ears.  Why should anyone listen to the advice of a little kid?  I think many people would prefer it if I just dumped money on the town and left, as countless other development workers have done.

Of course, the reason I’m treated like a child is because I still talk like one.  It has been less than six months since the first time I heard the word “Fulakunda.”  I can explain and understand many things, but I’m not fluent.  This is a small village with limited experience with non-native speakers, and most people have trouble understanding my thick foreign accent.  Since so few people are educated, there is little patience for the difficulty of learning another language. Since four year olds can talk better than me, clearly four year olds must be smarter than me - they “get it” and I don’t.  As an additional barrier, some people associate the educational level of an individual with the amount of French they know.  I have had to explain to dozens of people that although I do not speak French, I really did attend school.  One man’s jaw dropped when I told him that I had gone to enough school to have gotten my BAC (roughly equivalent to a high school diploma, but rarely achieved in Senegal) but that my schooling was all conducted in English.  I tried to tell him I went to college and grad school, too, but I don’t think he understood.  His mind was too blown.

I’m going to leave it here.  I hope this didn’t sound whiney.  I really do like most people in my village, and I’m very happy I’m here.  I love the Peace Corps, and if I knew everything I know now during the application process, I would still do it.  There are more pros than cons, and I’m optimistic that I’m making a positive difference by being here.  Every day, I understand more about my community than I did the day before, and I think the rough patch I’m going through right now will work itself out in time.  That said, parts of the culture are giving me a lot of trouble, and I haven’t found any ways to deal with my frustrations yet other than angry journaling.  Do you have any suggestions? 

~Kadiatou