The Break-In

A few nights ago, a thief broke into my hut. While I lay there sleeping, he scaled the back wall and dropped into my outdoor toilet area, cut a slit through the screen door to open the latch, and crept inside. He lifted up my mosquito net and grabbed my purse and camera from next to me, and then a bag of jewelry on his way out - all without me waking, somehow.

When I woke up, groggy because I hadn’t been able to fall asleep until around 3 or 4 AM, I reached for my purse and frowned when my hand touched nothing. Did I knock it on the floor? I sat up and scanned around me, confused when the bag was nowhere in sight. When I stood up to check the floor, I suddenly noticed the screen door standing wide open. My heart started pounding. Once I realized that the bag was genuinely gone - containing a big chunk of grant money I had just withdrawn for a project, my phone, camera, passport, checkbook, keys, bank cards, notebooks, and God knows what else - panic rose up, choking me.

I raced out of my room and told my host family, then ran around back, where it was confirmed: a big tire was propped up against the wall. That’s when the tears flooded out.

That day I was a mess, crying and furious and scared. Not just at the loss of all that money and all those things, but also because my little sanctuary in this tough country wasn’t a sanctuary any more. It wasn’t safe. Here was a person - or people - who had specifically sought me out and targeted me for a crime. Despite all that I had been doing to help the community, all they saw was my stupid white skin, like a giant bull’s eye.

My first coherent thought was: screw this. I’ve gone through enough, and I can’t take any more. I’m done with Senegal. I would pack my bags and take off. I had to get to the Peace Corps house to get help, because I didn’t even have a phone any more.

“I can’t stay here,” I told my host mom, throwing things into my backpack and still crying. “I’m leaving. Every day I have to deal with people mocking me, pointing at the ‘toubab’ and bothering me, and now this? Why should I try to live here and help people who can treat me like this?”

“Aïssatou, wait… these people, they know nothing,” Mariama (host mom) said, upset. “It’s dangerous here. You didn’t close and lock the back door? We told you to keep it closed, we told you to lock it…”

I love Mariama, but I didn’t want to listen to that. Nights could be sweltering in my hut. All I wanted was a little breeze. My back door opened into an enclosed area with stone walls higher than our heads. With all that, they expected me to close the metal door and bake myself each night in my little oven?

Seeing that slice through the screen door where the intruder cut through to open the latch made me feel sick. I still think about the fact that there was some guy creeping in my room as I was sleeping, reaching over to grab my bag from next to me. What would have happened if I had woken up? It terrifies me.

I hate being afraid. I’m proud of being that girl who goes off to Africa and travels solo to explore new places, cultures, and people. I like being independent and I like that I can do just fine on my own. Usually.

After the burglary, I spent the day alternately repeating my story (to family, police, Peace Corps, friends, etc.), crying, and filling out paperwork. It felt like a pile of stones was sitting on my chest.

But listening to my family asking if I wanted to come home, something inside me cringed. I am just starting to really accomplish things here… so many projects in the works. The Kolda agricultural Fair, my English clubs, youth camp, my work with talibé boys, my upcoming moringa causeries with women’s groups. I’m not a quitter.

So a few days have passed, and I’m still here. I’ve been running around visiting the bank and the police and chasing dead ends. I’ve told and retold the story, and each time the heaviness of it has eased up bit by bit.

Finally, a day came when I felt oddly energized and at peace. It was completely unexpected… but wonderful. I couldn’t explain why I felt that way, but happiness was making a reappearance. The sky seemed clearer, the air was crisper on my skin, and smiles kept surfacing.

It was strange feeling so happy after the incident, but I guess the break-in has made me appreciate everything I still have left, including good friends and my own life - thankfully the guy never touched me! And no one I love was hurt. What are things in comparison to that? Not to mention the guy managed not to steal the two electronics most important to me: my computer and iPod, which were both lying next to me on the bed. I can’t explain that, but I feel blessed. (Although not having my little camera still sucks. Such is life.)

Biking around Kolda the other day, for the first time, I felt absolutely nothing and no irritation when kids yelled “toubahaako” at me (a cheeky little insult / play on the word “toubab”). Usually it grates on me, but this time it all rolled off my back like raindrops on a raincoat. I blew them a kiss.

Before the Christmas holidays, everything had been great for me in Senegal. But after returning from an amazing vacation in Australia, I found myself feeling a bit down at the re-immersion into the grit and hardship of Peace Corps life. I was noticing all the dirt, the noise, the smells; I was missing my invisibility and independence; I was missing art and culture and food variety – and just variety in general. I was finding the Senegalese men abrasive. I tried to orient myself and keep optimistic, but my heart wasn’t aligning with my head.

Then the burglary happened. And now all of those negative thoughts have basically… dissipated. I’m not looking at the dirt, but focusing on the sunsets, the brilliant African fabrics, the trees, and the big smiles of my friends. I’m laughing at the funny aspects of life here (telling any Diallo I meet that he’s a bean-eater, goats balancing on the weirdest ledges imaginable, sheep getting in the way everywhere) and the random adventures (meeting a magic man, seeing a radio technician at work, watching workers use a rope and pulley to build an elaborate mosque tower by hand). Community members and Senegalese friends have been so supportive. A beautiful new baby just arrived in my host family. Life is never boring, I can say that.

As crazy as it may sound, I feel like the break-in was the storm that cleared out my murky skies, leaving me with only blue.

Host family's new baby boy.

Mini Christmas in a Muslim Country

Ever get a little tired of the same old Christmas shenanigans (shopping fever, Santa suits, onslaughts of “Christmas albums”, etc.)? Try spending the holidays in a Muslim country.

In Senegal, with over 90% of its population of 13 million practicing Islam, I definitely did not expect much attention to be paid to Christmas. After living in Senegal for nine months, joining my host family in their celebrations of traditional Islamic holidays (Ramadan, Korité, Tabaski – which mostly involved dressing up and eating way too much goat/sheep), I thought maybe we’d all wish each other a few “Joyeux Noëls” and that would be that.

However, I was pleasantly surprised to find a cheerful embracing of Christmas in Senegal – celebrated unofficially, of course. But a stroll around the capital city of Dakar during the holidays turned up tinsel decorations, Christmas trees, and street hawkers selling inflatable Santas… even while calls to prayer echoed from the mosques.

Market-Lover's Paradise

Wandering the streets of Dakar in mid-December, I stumbled onto one of the city’s holiday surprises: the “Marché de Noël” (Christmas Market), hidden behind the walls of the Institut Français. As I entered, shaking off the persistent vendor who had glued himself to my side (finally!), I wasn’t sure what to expect. Shopping in Senegal usually requires a strong dose of patience, since you have to bargain for almost everything.

As it turned out, the Marché de Noël proved to be a tranquil haven from the usual bustle of Dakar. Inside the walls, the gardens rippled with greenery and soft music. Light dappled its way through the trees to the pebbled paths, where dozens of artisans and vendors had set up shop. Local artists mixed with expats to offer fair trade prices, promoting creative products you might never encounter just by roaming Dakar’s usual boutiques and markets.

Everywhere I turned, I saw up blazes of color. Rows of beaded jewelry lay next to hand-woven scarves, painted earrings, CDs of African music, sculptures carved from wood or made from recycled materials, shoes and stuffed elephants sewn from brightly patterned Senegalese fabrics, organic foods promoting local products, and more.

To start, I wandered through the tables of beaded, metal, and painted wooden jewelry. Some were simple silver pendants in tribal patterns; others were thick ropes of colorful beads. There were displays of woven cotton scarves, racks of breezy dresses and stylish clothing made from brightly patterned African fabrics, and other tables of purses, wallets, and knickknacks.

Each time I stopped to ask, the vendors were happy to tell me their story: a Senegalese women’s group finding new markets for their crafts, small but growing family businesses, expat artists who discovered inspiration in Senegal and decided to stay.

One young Senegalese woman named Aïssatou Sene had started her own fashion line, Bélya, making shoes and blazers from local fabrics. “I’m saving up to open my own shop soon,” she told me happily.

At another table, the group Empire des Enfants sold leather and beaded keychains made by former street kids – boys trying to learn a trade and create a new life for themselves.

Nearby, a French expat displayed purses and earrings she’d made out of cut-up and painted vinyl records. Another French artist, known as Fallou, collected fallen calebasse fruit and carved the gourds into bowls, candle holders, and ink-dyed earrings. “You can find it in the streets of Dakar!” he said, grinning.

Seductive Liqueurs

As I continued wandering, a table of bottles caught my eye. Topped in flourishes of fabric, the bottles glowed with golden liquid in the sun. Bending over to examine the labels, I was intrigued to discover that La Marquise was a “boisson alcoolisée” – a liqueur mixing rum from Cape Verde with South African white wine, spices from Madagascar, and Senegalese fruit. Flavors included mango, ginger, orange, tamarind, mad (a sour West African fruit), pineapple, passion fruit, and lemon. Pieces of fruit lined the bottoms of the bottles.

Noting my interest, the lady seated regally behind her creations offered me a sample, and I accepted a small test cup of passion fruit Marquise. Gearing up for the alcoholic jolt, I was shocked when the liqueur slid smoothly down (no cringe moment!) in a tangle of fruit and spices. The taste of rum was faint but just present enough to add a slight kick. Not bad for 7,000 CFA (less than $15) per bottle.

“I love the fabric at the top of the bottles,” I told the vendors.

“They’re like the head pieces that the Pulaar women wear, aren’t they?” one responded, smiling. I hadn’t thought of that, but the swirl of fabric did recall the local tikas worn by many women in my town of Kolda, in south Senegal.

According to the vendors, the Marquise liqueur recipe was passed down from their grandmothers and great-grandmothers since pre-colonial times. “La Marquise remains just as exhilarating and naughty today, especially in ginger,” noted the informational flier in flowery French. (Yes, I had to suppress giggles while reading this. Note: a gift of fresh ginger is considered quite seductive Senegal.)

The producers of Marquise don’t have a shop of their own yet – but in typical Senegalese fashion, you can give the vendor a call and she’ll make arrangements for you, no problemo. (Les Ateliers Nylanou, +221 338222718).

For the Food Lovers

The logical next step after the liqueur tasting was to visit the cheerful Michèle Jouga of Les Nougatines de Mame Michèle (+221 338231777). She sold peanut brittle, nougat, and organic jams in flavors of bissap (hibiscus)-menthe, orange-papaya, lemon, and baobab fruit (known as “pain du singe” – monkey bread). Samples provided.

Across the path, young Khady Ba showed off the products her family business: Milmaïs Bakery (+221 766808528), an enterprise using local products to make organic breads low in sugar, fat, and salt.

“My father Assane Ba founded the company,” Khady Ba told me proudly. “We don’t have a shop yet, which is why we offer free deliveries, but we hope to expand soon.”

The breads, sold in soft oval-shaped loaves, came in blends of maize, peanut, millet, fonio, sorghum, and even moringa (a highly nutritious plant many health workers – including myself! – are trying to promote throughout Senegal). I bought a moringa loaf, loving the sourdough-like taste. Wish I could bring that down south to Kolda...

Unlike most markets in Senegal, Marché Noël sold items at fixed prices - but some vendors offered slight discounts if I was chatty enough. In any case, the benefits brought to the local community were obvious, and I was happy to spend a little extra. Senegal’s Christmas may not be as flashy as the Western version, but think what they’re promoting: peaceful coexistence between religions, plus (through this market) support for local artists and entrepreneurs. In my book, that’s even better!