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 Once I realized that the bag was genuinely gone - containing a big chunk of grant money I had just withdrawn for a project, my phone, camera, passport, checkbook, keys, bank cards, notebooks, and God knows what else - panic rose up, choking me.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!

Senegal’s Child Beggars

I believe in facing your fears.  As it turns out, my biggest challenge and personal fear in Senegal comes in a very small package: talibé, the children begging in the streets of Senegal's towns and cities.

Thrusting their skinny hands in your face through the windows of cars, surrounding you in a mob of shrill voices shouting “toubab” and demanding money, or just tiredly muttering Quranic verses as they hold out their yellow bowls, these (often barefoot) children in tattered clothes flood the streets of nearly every major city in Senegal.

As soon as they notice me and my white skin, which they equate with money, the kids rush over and glue themselves to my side like barnacles.  Ever since my first week in Senegal, they have by turns made me sad (who could do this to little kids?), driven me crazy with irritation (stop following me, just leave me alone), sparked me to anger (they need to get out of my face), made me nervous (am I going to look stupid if I don’t have a good Pulaar response?), and – a rising tide under it all – stirred deep feelings of guilt.

Why guilt?  Because my first exposures to them, during my first few months in Senegal, elicited an instinctively adverse reaction.  I didn’t know how to handle these kids, so they became my nightmare.  If I saw a pack of them, I tried to avoid the group.  They were caked in dust and dirt, staring at me out of infected eyes, heads sometimes covered in sores.  Overwhelming, because I didn’t know what I could possibly do.  There are so many. 

So I unconsciously started doing what many Senegalese do: tossing them a few smiles (or coins) and going about my day, forgetting.  Eventually, talibé become a predictable daily occurrence, almost like potholes in a road well traveled: you know they’re going to be there, you know you have to avoid them or navigate the bump, so you get it over with quickly and move on. 

Many people here don’t give talibé a second thought, except to dismiss them as obligations (for the giving of alms) or irritations.  One documentary film has labeled them “the least favored children of Senegal.”

There are an estimated half a million talibé in Senegal. Approximately 50,000 of those children are sent out begging or "subjected to conditions akin to slavery," according to Human Rights Watch.

Students Who Beg

The strange reality is: these kids are actually students.  In Senegal, children as young as five years old can be sent off by their families to become talibé, living and studying for as many as 11 years under a Quranic teacher (marabout) at his school (daara), often in conditions of extreme poverty. 

Talibé spend their days memorizing the Quran and begging for alms in the streets.  In many cases, they receive no meals from the marabout, so they must go out begging up to three times a day if they want to eat.

Talibé studying the Quran

A talibé entering his room

The ascetic nature of this type of education has traditionally been considered a way of teaching humility, as well as a rite of passage for boys into adulthood.  However, the system has become twisted in so many ways that it’s almost impossible to imagine how to begin untangling it.  Kids suffer and often their families never know. 

Unfortunately, poor families often see daaras as an escape – a way to lift the burden of financial support by sending their child away for a good cause.  (Parents have told me, “If we can’t pay for his public school fees anyway, why not send him to get a free education? Anyway, it’s good to learn the Quran.”)  Many talibé end up living in cities far from their original villages or towns, and sometimes families lose touch with their child for years.  A number of talibé in Senegal actually come from neighboring countries such as Mali, Guinea or Guinea-Bissau.

Human Rights Violations

Over the past few years in Senegal, reports have emerged of some marabouts exploiting talibé to grow rich off their earnings, while the boys lived in slavery-like conditions.  Many are forced to beg and punished if they fail to bring in their daily quota of food or money to their Marabout.  Several have reported being chained or beaten as punishment. 

In 2010, Human Rights Watch reported on the physical and sexual abuse some talibé experience, and seven Marabouts were arrested that year.  Anti-Slavery International wrote another report in 2011 highlighting the hardships these boys face and urging the Senegalese government to protect these children’s rights. 

Legislation banning “forced child begging” was actually passed in 2005.  But the tradition of Quranic education runs deep in Senegal, and the influence of marabouts and Islamic leaders stretches far.  In the end, they found a loophole for the talibé system: “soliciting alms” is not “begging,” they said. And so it continues.

(Please note that not all marabouts perpetuate harmful practices; many do care about their students and treat them well, but are simply stuck in poverty.)

Check out this video by Human Rights Watch for more info on the daara system:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=2&v=qIigeLgtves.

Talibé In My Town

For me, after moving to my permanent site (Kolda, a regional capital in south Senegal), the talibé issue suddenly became personal and immediate.  My service here in Senegal has been all about helping wherever I can, finding those small cracks I can fill, facing my fears and trying to overcome my flaws.  I realized that I might be uncomfortable with talibé (and the whole daara system itself), but that was no reason to push the issue aside.  There are enough people doing that.

So I chose to confront my discomfort. 

Since I was placed in a small city and not in a village, I interact with talibé every single day.  They seem to appear around every street corner!  After my first month living in Kolda, I started forcing myself to stop and talk to the talibé, even with my limited Pulaar.  Giving out money is a tricky issue, since you’re also perpetuating the system in a way (this article - "Keep the Change" - argues against giving).  But once in a while, just to make a kid happy, I’ll give some extra food or a piece of candy.  They have so few bright spots in their days.  And they really do walk around barefoot, on dirty streets sprinkled with animal manure and broken glass (to name a few things).

Eventually, I started visiting daaras in Kolda with a Senegalese counterpart, introducing myself to the marabouts (which is still pretty intimidating) and researching how many talibé studied or lived there, the health conditions, their sleeping situations, etc.  So far, I have visited 18 daaras – and there are many left to visit.  Even the official local Inspector in charge of daaras and Arabic schools didn’t know how many existed in Kolda, and he’d never heard of several that I’d visited. 

The conditions I’ve witnessed are pretty dismal: bare rooms where boys sleep on the concrete floor, maybe on a mat if they’re lucky.  Usually there are not enough mosquito nets for all the children, making them highly susceptible to malaria.  The boys wear the same clothes every day.  With a few exceptions, most daaras here in Kolda teach the boys only the Quran and nothing else – so they never learn how to read and write, and never learn French (unlike their peers in public schools).  This severely limits their opportunities for the future. 

Marabout showing me where the talibés sleep

Talibé asleep in the room he shares with many other boys

Marabout laughing with his kids

Older talibés in their room

Group of talibés showing me their room

My Projects

Since no recent Peace Corps volunteer in Kolda that I know of has yet worked with talibé, I’ve decided to tackle what was originally a fear of mine and make talibé my primary focus for projects over the next two years.  After all, who cares if it makes me uncomfortable?  Here is a need, and I can address it, at least in some small ways.  So I’m going to try.

Recently I was elected to the board of SeneGAD, our Gender and Development group in PC Senegal, as Talibé Coordinator – so there’s my start.  In addition to my personal projects, I will also be acting as a resource for other PCVs interested in working with talibé. 

Here are some of the projects I plan to do in Kolda:

• Verify that they get enough mosquito nets during the upcoming national distribution 
• Health talks (causeries) on nutrition, malaria, hygiene and hand washing, diseases, etc.
• “Men As Partners” event, which sends a male Senegalese representative from Peace Corps to talk to the boys about their future, sex ed and reproductive health, violence, etc.
• Conference / event to advocate daara "modernization," as it is referred to in Senegal (improving conditions in daaras; teaching talibé a trade or sending them to French school, in addition to their Quranic studies) 
• French / alphabetization / literacy lessons with the kids

With the daara system so deeply entrenched in Senegalese society, I don’t know how long it will take for things to change in Senegal.  But I do know that I can try to help these boys that live in Kolda, even if it’s just to expand horizons a little or improve their health on a basic level.  I can try to help Habibu, that smart little talibé that hangs out downtown and knows me by name. 

After all, these are human beings we’re talking about.  Senegal’s future.  What’s more important than that?  So stay tuned for future stories!  In the mean time…

PLEASE DONATE:

If you’re interested in helping me reach out to the talibé, please support the work I’m doing by clicking on the “DONATE” PayPal button at the top of this website.  I am collecting donations to purchase these simple items for my health causeries:

• Bars of soap (25-50¢ per bar, depending on size) – Just $10 can buy 20-40 bars, enough for 1 daara! 
• Hand washing stations – bucket and pouring kettle ($4-6)
• Powder laundry soap (“Omo” – 10-50¢ per packet, depending on size)
• Bleach (“Eau de Javel” – $1 per bottle)

At this time, I only plan to distribute a few simple hygienic items to each daara, to go along with my health lessons.  This way I can help talibs practice what I teach, but will avoid creating dependency through large gifts.

DAARA DRIVE:

If you would like to support my work with talibé by donating items yourself, feel free to mail things like secondhand clothing, shoes (flip flops are great), light blankets or sheets, balls, marbles, simple games like checkers, etc.!  I am starting this drive now, but will not be distributing items until later in my service.  The idea is to establish a good relationship with the daaras first, conducting educational activities and events, so that handouts aren’t expected.  Ultimately, I will distribute the items to the daaras that I have formed the best relationships with. 

Mail items to:

PCV Lauren Seibert

Corps de la Paix

B.P. 26

Kolda, Senegal

Quote of the Day - Senegal Love

_______________________________________

Me: "Would you ever want to live anywhere else besides Senegal? Another country?"

Madou: "To visit, yes, but not to live forever."

Me: "Why?"

Madou: "Anywhere else I go, I would be a stranger. Here I'm home. I love Senegal. It is very poor, yes, but there is a strong sense of community. We care about each other, we just want to help everyone... that's why sometimes we stretch ourselves too far! But it's a good country." 

_______________________________________

Surprise, You're In Charge

Add three Peace Corps Volunteers to a mix of 52 Senegalese teenagers, three local English teachers, a dusty school building, heaps of sand and sun, and unrestricted creative potential, and what do you get?

A pretty unorthodox but successful (and fun) English camp in Dakar.

I’m still wondering how we pulled it off, considering I had never done an English camp before and the entire week was full of last-minute discoveries - such as: you’re in charge of planning and leading the entire camp! (We thought we would be assistants.) You’re on your own for printing any documents you need... and probably no one will help you! (You’d be amazed at the difficulty of cheaply and easily printing things in Senegal.) Naturally, you wait until just before camp starts each morning to buy any supplies needed – just send off one of the English teachers!

My closest PCV friend Faith and I fell into the leadership roles for this camp, so we both stepped up and alternated taking charge. Each night before the next day of camp, we brainstormed activity ideas and planned out the schedule, trying to make it as fun as possible for the teens.

The kids ranged from age 14 to 17, with English levels all over the spectrum. Some could barely form a sentence, while others could express their ideas and hold discussions. Some were shy, some were eager, some were cheeky. We had to come up with activities and games that would engage all of these levels.

In the end, it wasn’t too hard to think of ideas: we had already gone through the reverse cultural immersion ourselves, as new American volunteers getting used to Senegal and learning a new language. So we could put ourselves in their shoes. We figured they would want more talking and interaction games rather than writing. We guessed they’d want to get in the know on American pop culture, colloquial lingo, and how young people live in the States. We also figured they’d want to dance (Senegalese love to dance). Plenty music, check.

On the first day, we did a bunch of icebreakers and gave them each an American name, which was pretty funny. We supplied the last names (ranging from Martinez to Li to Jones), and they chose the first names (hence a boy naming himself Beyoncé).

First was Cross Culture day, where we talked about our own experiences with cultural transition, then did a True/False contest (we were intrigued to discover they didn’t know that American men propose marriage with a diamond ring... so naturally we acted out the scene for them). Next we had them make funny skits about some of the differences between our cultures. One of my groups made a skit about an American girl fending off marriage proposals from her taxi driver, which was hilarious and really does happen all the time. Another group acted out a Senegalese guy trying to bargain for items in America. One kid, playing an American, even shouted out “Are you kidding me?!”

On Pop Culture day, we played all kinds of American music and taught them our crazy dances (everything from the Cupid Shuffle to the Wobble and the Dougie). It was hilarious watching them attempt these dances – some kids inevitably held back, but a bunch of them got really into it. They didn’t like the Cha Cha Slide, but they rocked the Dougie.

Unlike American teens of the same age, these kids weren’t sarcastic or too cool for camp. They were young, so occasionally they got rowdy… but they were interested in learning and willing to try most things. If an element of competition was involved, even better. We did a bunch of outdoor games too, from egg races to musical chairs with Michael Jackson songs.

Geography Day involved stressing the massive diversity and regional differences of the United States. I drew a big map of the States on the chalkboard, and we passed out pictures of things representing each major region of the U.S., and we had the different groups present. Obviously this was very subjective… so there now exists a group of kids in Senegal who know about random things like chicken and waffles, Philly cheesesteaks, and bubble tea. But hey… America is pretty random.

On the last day, we had a party – music, talent show, prizes, food and all. “Talents” performed ranged from a group of girls singing “My Heart Will Go On” (they picked this on their own, I kid you not) to guys rapping in English and two comedy skits.

In the end, though it took a lot of work, the camp was deemed a success. In evaluation surveys we collected, every participant said they enjoyed the camp and would do it again, and everyone felt like their English had improved. Some of their responses were really sweet: “This English camp helped me to know more things that I didn’t know. It made me to be very happy and to feel better too.” And: “I would like to do [camp] again, and not just for the next year, but for every year.”

The funniest response to the question “Would you do English Camp again next year?” was scribbled in all capitals: “YES YES YES YES.” This was my first time ever planning an English camp, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat – hopefully with more prep time! But most likely, we’ll still end up running around last minute trying buy bottles of bissap juice while calling the school principal to unlock the gate, and by the way, where are all the chairs? T.I.S. (This Is Senegal).

Me with my team

Tricky Conversations

Today I return home and sweep into my family compound in a bicycle whirlwind of sand, just as the sun is setting.  I hop down, greeting each family member (the more dignified ones grasping my hand briefly, the younger ones cheekily dapping me up).  I run through the itinerary of where I’d been that day, what I’d done and who I’d seen (this is necessary whenever returning home), and scrabble through my mind for questions I can ask them in Pulaar. 

The animals do something ridiculous that makes me giggle, like the baby goats hopping all over each other or the chickens stupidly perching on the satellite dish again, and my family giggles at me for the same reason.

After washing off a little of the day’s dust, I sink into a plastic chair and listen to my host dad’s radio show for a while.  I write down a few of the Pulaar phrases I catch into my notebook.  After eating dinner (maafe gerte - rice and peanut sauce, my favorite) around 9 PM, I sit staring at the glowing embers as my uncle makes ataaya, trying to calm my mind.  Senegalese people do a lot of sitting, and that’s one of the things I’ve found the hardest about this culture, since I have eternal ants in my pants.

I chat for a bit with my host mom, Mariama.  She catches me up on the latest developments: she’s started a boutique (small shop) in a section of our house, a very common thing here – practically every other house has a boutique.  They sell things like coffee, eggs, cooking oil, soap, butter, mayonnaise, phone credit, candies, baguettes – and if they happen to have a refrigerator (luxury!), maybe some sodas or kossam (sour milk).  I am excited because now I don’t have to run next door at some ungodly time in the morning to buy eggs for breakfast.

She goes on to relate the latest misadventures of our resident grandmother, who is old and confused.  She has been known to wander out of the house and into neighbor’s houses, forgetting where she is.  Sometimes she imagines things, like the time she thought soldiers came into the house, and we have to sift out the truth from the tall tales.

During the conversation lulls, I skim through a National Geographic article on the Aboriginal people of Australia.  I am mentally comparing their way of living to the things I see here, and some things are pretty similar: very basic housing, living day-to-day and consuming all food the day you make it, holding on to cultural traditions amidst the rising tide of modernity, multiple wives.  I exclaim aloud when I read that one woman’s father had eight wives.

“That’s a lot of wives!” I say to Mariama.  “In Senegal people have up to four, right? Isn’t that the limit in the Koran?”

Mariama laughs.  “My father had eleven wives.”  She grins as my jaw drops.  “He first had eight wives, and then his brother died, who had three wives.  So then they came to live with us, and he had eleven.”

I close my mouth and process this for a moment.  I guess since she lives in the city now, I hadn’t associated my host mom with the extremes of village life.

She continues, “You know, in the village, men don’t work like the women.  They just rely on their wives to bring in the money – to keep gardens, sell things.  They don’t do anything; they just sit.  That’s why they have so many wives.”

Hmmm.

As I write this blog post, I am seated cross-legged on my bed surrounded by moringa seeds.  (I’m counting them for tomorrow, when I plant them in our family garden – my first agriculture venture!)  Over my head, mice scurry busily on the tarp that protects my sleeping head from the showers of the rainy season, which tend to leak through the thatched roof.  Don’t worry, I’m not pulling a Cinderella… the only talking I do with these stupid mice is to yell at them in various languages.

Outside, crickets chirp away, the cow moos itself to sleep, and the sheep bleet away their sorrows to the oblivious goats.  The chickens are blissfully quiet, but that only lasts until 5:00 AM.

It’s time for bed, but my head is swirling.  I’m still thinking about what Mariama said, and also a conversation I had earlier today with another Senegalese friend.

In that conversation, my friend told me he doesn’t believe Senegal (or Africa) “needs” gay rights.  He said that if the West can’t accept polygamy, then Africa shouldn’t have to accept the gay lifestyle.  (This was spurred from a discussion about President Obama’s recent visit to Senegal, and his clash with Senegalese President Macky Sall over gay rights.)

My friend’s perspective was one I hadn’t heard before, though I already knew about Senegal’s strict stance against homosexuality (it’s treated as a crime here).  Since my friend cares deeply about his people and is probably one of the least judgmental Senegalese I know, his comment took me by surprise.

Senegal is a country with a strong democratic track record, and good on them for that.  They’ve made many positive strides for health (such as the battle against HIV/AIDS) and human rights (such as the campaign against female genital cutting).  But every now and then, some cultural reality comes jarringly into focus and I realize what a long road it is to human equality and tolerance.

Well, step by step we go.  Or as they say in Pulaar: “seeda seeda” (little by little).

Choosing Chance

Living with poverty every day here in southern Senegal makes me wonder about chances. The chance of being assigned to Senegal of all the countries in the world for Peace Corps service. The chance of me, one person, having an impact. The chances so many kids here don’t have to pursue their dream in life. The chance of being born in the US, one of the few countries in the world with so many resources.

It’s strange to think about – like thinking about how tiny we are, one tiny planet with life (that we know of) amidst all the fathoms of stars in space. (Yes, I did some stargazing and pondering in Mbour, my training site, while lying on top of the family well. At first my host sisters thought it was hilarious – what odd thing is our toubab doing now? – but eventually they joined me.)

As I pass my days here, where simple tasks like bathing take twice as long because we have to draw water from the well, my mind is constantly flitting between continents. I try to wrap my mind around the differences, like the fact that Americans have so many systems and services already in place that we don't even think about some of the fundamentals of living on this earth.

Childhood vaccinations and regular boosters make it unnecessary for us to worry about most life-threatening diseases. Doctors and health insurance take care of pregnant mothers and babies, but would we know how to keep them healthy without access to those services? Every kind of food or meal we could want is readily available from stores or restaurants, limiting our knowledge of how to actually cultivate the earth and scrape together natural resources into nutritious meals. Machines do everything for us: wash our clothes, wash our dishes, make our food, make our coffee. English is everywhere, spreading across the globe. But what if, as is the case for many Senegalese ethnic groups here, your native language was only a spoken one, and you had to learn another language to read and write? You might be smart in school, but a barrier now impedes your ability to succeed.

A toss of the dice and I could have been born in a village without electricity, where the nearest health post is miles away, speaking a language no one beyond West Africa knows, where the highlight of the day is drinking tea. But now I'm here regardless of where I was born, and I’d like to insert a small piece of wisdom from one of my best friends, Dave Spencer:

“Maybe you don't have all your modern conveniences, but it's all relative. Sometimes I think about that. If the highlight of their day is drinking tea, how ‘high’ is that highlight relative to our highlights? When we drink tea, it's nothing. So that means that they’re getting more enjoyment out of the simple things. Does the fact that we have more things make our society better? I'd say probably not. Does it make us happier? Definitely not.”

He’s right about the tea. After a few months in Senegal, I’ve started to appreciate the small things in life much more. The tinge of mint added to the tea. Wind, lifting the heavy heat. A cold drink. Silence – so rare here. Human touch (Senegalese aren’t big on hugs). The very few, blissful times I get to be fully immersed in water. The value placed on human relationships, on visits and greetings and knowing names.

Here in the Kolda region, it takes extra work to not only live but thrive – convincing mothers to take their babies in for vaccinations, making suggestions on nutrition, encouraging people to sleep under mosquito nets to reduce malaria. Without all the Western conveniences, life is harder, but it feels good when you know you can get by.

I may have been born in the U.S., one in 300 million, but somehow my path led me here to Senegal. Now I’m one of about 40-60,000 in the city of Kolda. Who knows what impact my tiny self can have? But there’s one thing I know for sure: I’m going to make myself more than a number.