The Quiet American

Music Video, Dakar Style

Check out this video! Although it is in French, you can understand enough by watching. It's about Dakarnoise culture, even though the group (Amadou & Mariam) are from Mali. I can practically taste the toasted peanuts and chawarmas again...

Note- the "Cinema Paris" is the only real movie theatre in the entire country, and it only has 2 screens! I almost went there, but decided I was not sufficident enough in French to sit through 3 hours of "Harry Potter et la Coupe de Fou".

Almond Blossoms Rock!

It's the tail end now of my favorite time of year in the valley: almond blossom season. Not only do the blooms mean that the trees can be pollinated and start producing a crop, they actually make everything around them look pretty.

Not So Peaceful Peace Corps Week

Last week was the yearly Peace Corps Week, when returned volunteers are encouraged to go out into their communities and share Peace Corps experiences. Since I am currently substitute teaching, it was pretty fitting that I present to local schools. While I don't look back on everything with rose - colored glasses, there is still something special about opening up young minds to the outside world. I also tried to do my part by sharing photos and stories for a presentation at UC Davis, but it wasn't quite the same without a live audience of kids.

My brother does a pretty good job at keeping me in check about not relating everything in life to Africa (with a nice, friendly, "this one time when I was in Senegal..."), and I try not to talk about it too much. That being said, I really enjoyed talking to these kids about what life is like in Africa. I spoke with a group of fifth grade classes, and, at my old elemantary school, the same group of K-3 classes where I once was a student. That really opened up their eyes - that someone who once had the same teacher and sat in the same chair moved across the world and ate giant lizards.

As much as I looked forward to taking part in Peace Corps Week, it was one long week. As one of my friends put it best, my life sounded like a bad country song. My grandpa's garage was broken into, one of my students had major disciplinary problems, I found out I have even more Peace Corps-related health problems, my dad's truck was stolen from right in front of him, and, oh yeah, a cat I've had most of my life died. I've gone through 4 cats in 2 years now, not the greatest record.

Somewhere between the astonishment that someone had the gall to take my dad's truck off our ranch and the child I taught who I still cannot believe may be unredeemable, I felt the weight of the maddness of our society. Then I remembered watching the kids in my village run around with a cat on a pole the day after my own cat died, the crazies who were left behind to beg, the daily marriage proposals (by guys who already had three wives), the women who begged me to take their babies, the guys who played soccer while their wives cooked their dinners over a fire from wood they choped themselves, my village counterpart who stole money from the kid's garden, the cutting ceremony that took place mere weeks after our public declaration against FGM, Haruna who used USAID money meant for the village for his own personal projects, my Eaux et Forets (waters and forests, government agency) counterparts who marched into my village with guns and "borrowed" my acacia and cashew seeds, my village uncle who took my money but never fixed my leaky roof, the peace corps guards who were like family to us and "let go" with almost no notice for gun-toting official guards who were of less help, the thousands of daily gerndarme stops and bribe paying, the opened package and $20 made-up customs fees, the Pulaar prostitutes who played in the tamba pool with a customer while we were swimming and were payed maybe $2 for their "work", the left behind children at the Dakar orphanage, the unexplained deaths and gut-wrenching sound of wailing.

Besides the presentations I did, Peace Corps Week gave me another chance to reflect on what life was like back in Africa, and how much different it is from America. There are still inequalities in both places. The student who caused me so much grief? Maybe he came from a broken home, and was broken himself. If anything, the past week has given me a renewed sense that help is needed in all places (although, of course, the need is more urgent abroad).

New Year, New Update

Now that the holidays are long over, I feel I owe you all an update. I should point out first that although most of the Christmas decorations have been packed up, the christmas tree (plastic, purchased at Macy's) still stands, lit in the living room. It was wonderful to have a Christmas with all of the trimings again, even though the overt commercialization really got under my skin. I got to resume the family tradition of Christmas Eve dinner, and the quasi-German Christmas gathering, the red cabbage our one nod to tradition. I even got to spend some time up in the mountains, and marveled at how we were able to survive Tahoe when it got down to 9 degrees. 2006 will probably go down as the one year in my life where the temperature ranged from 140 degrees to 9. Not counting the effects of wind chill and direct sunlight.

I went to a wine party back in December, and everyone said how different the party must have been compared to Christmas parties last year. I kept that in my mind as I celebrated New Years. New Years 2006 was at my friend Hilary's village, and we spent the night dancing with her real parents and her village parents. She bought some sparklers that seemed like a good idea to give out to the dancers, but we quickly put them away after seeing the potential safety problems. We ate a big féte (feast) complete with goat and rice, and oranges from the tree behind her hut. I think we fell asleep at 10. This year, I was with friends, out at a restaurant, and went over to someone's house before midnight, mostly to get away from the guys at the restaurant bar who were quickly getting trashed. We drank our champagne, made our good cheers, and promptly fell asleep. While some things have remained the same, such as my ability to fall asleep on a dime, so much has changed as well.

Amidst all of this down time, I decided to try to call the village to wish them a happy Tabaski. Tabaski is also known as El-eid, and is an important holiday in the muslim year, second only to Korite, which marks the end of Ramadan. Tabski is also known as the sheep slaughter holiday, because that's what people do - it marks when Abraham (Ibrahima) sacrificed a sheep instead of his own son. Needless to say, it is a big day in the village, and a great day to call. Unfortunately, a lot of other people thought it was a great day to call, and instead of reaching my village family and friends, I talked to Ami, the telecentre owner, exchanged 5 minutes of Pulaar greetings, hung up and promised to call again, and got nothing but subsequent busy tones. I cross my fingers and hope all is well there... Hiijam!

Dakar Rally Video

I found at random a video of the Dakar Auto Rally, something that actually passed through my village while I was there. It's basically a bunch of European guys driving as fast as possible through the desert. It's pretty bizzare to watch the clip of it from the Western perspective, and to pick up on the Pulaar at the same time. One driver in last year's rally actually ran over a child in the city where a friend of mine served. My friend had the dubious task of translating for the drivers, and watching them decide the cost of a girl's life. Enjoy.

Missing In Action

Around this time last year, I wrote here about a package that got sent from the U.S. to Senegal, and turned up there a full year later, via a sidetrip to the Bahamas.  Last week, a package showed up at home, over six months after my dad originally sent it.  Thanks to La Post's love of official stamps, I know the package went from the U.S. to Dakar, then back again, without reaching even Tamba.  I also can't miss the obvious signs that my package made it all the way to Senegal - the tell-tale SENEGAL tape, always a bad sign when receiving a package. 

Although it would have been stellar six months ago, now I am stuck with a crumbling, riffled package, with, amongst other things, Girl Scout cookies from last February.  The post officials were kind enough to open up the package for me! Some more of what would have been the perfect Peace Corps care package:

• Magazines - The Economist, The New Yorker.  A little dated to be reading now, and I don't have my villages to give the old copies to.  Of course, my villagers were a lot more interested in my copies of Vanity Fair and US Weekly than they were in the tiny print of the Economist.
• Clif Bars.  I survived last Ramadam thanks to them.
• Fly tape.  My hut really could have used it earlier. 
• Flea and tick collar.  Hopefully Jerry the Wonder Mutt is getting along ok without one now.  More to the point, hopefully she is still alive.
• Aveeno Skin Relief Lotion.  For some reason, my skin was in a state of constant irritation.  Maybe it was the bad water, or maybe it was just all those staph infections.  Whatever the reason, this lotion was the only thing that soothed it.  I guess it wasn't as valuable to the post officials as the cookies, because I have plently of leftover lotion. 

The package in full glory.

One Vote

Don't forget to vote next Tuesday! Check out this video to remind you why:

The Lost Photos

My room is a mess, full of Peace Corps paperwork, clothes, beaded jewelry, and camping gear. I was going through some things I had not touched since I packed them in my village, and found my old photo chip. The camera that it used is now worthless, but the photos are not. Most precious to me have been my only photos of the triplets, which I had long thought lost. Now that they are found, I can finally present why these babies changed my time in Africa, at least through a few photos:

Above is my "Aunt" Nyata, who came every day from her compound (on the other side of the village) to help care for the triplets. She was nursing her own son, Demba, but like all of the other village women, had a stigma against sharing her milk. I was told it was because they were afriad there would not be enough milk left for their own babies. So, instead, the triplets were fed formula. Some formula was initially provided by the Ministre de Solidaritie, and the rest was provided by me, and my twice-weekly bike rides to the pharmacy.

Nee Dioulde's sister came from a neighbooring village, Naye, to help out, and returned home a few weeks after I came back. She helped occasionally, but was there more out of duty. Everyone took turns holding the babies, keeping them wrapped in cool clothe, and trying to get them to eat.

This is one of the girls, taken as she is fed. They often had a hard time taking in any milk. I bought pacifiers for them, but they kept on falling out of the triplets' mouths, so the pacifiers got passed on to other infants in the village, including Demba.

This is Aminata, my tokara (namesake). Tokaras are a pretty big deal in Pulaar society. There were quite a few babies named Aminata during my time in the village, including a boy (and Ami is definately a girl's name), but this time, it was different, and I am supposed to watch over her for life. Often tokaras spoil the child, and has a close tie with the family. I still worry about my Aminata even though it has been over a year since I last saw her. When I knew her, her hands shook a lot, she ate very little; everyone about her seemed so fragile. Now, I wonder, does she walk or talk? Has life in Dakar been good to her? Does she still live with her brother and sister? Has she been told about her mother, or that she came from a village?

Seeing these photos makes me wonder more, and hope that they are in good care, better care than all of the aunts could have provided. Seeing this reminds me that I am longer Aminata to anyone.