Large events lately

Well, it may be needless to say, in observing my lack of posts, but I have been busy.  Everyday seems to be either completely full from waking to sleeping, or completely devoid of any plans.  It is a polarized lifestyle that I have really yet to become accustomed to.  In addition, the general fatigue and stress hampers my motivation (and general ability) to write anything coherent or worth posting.  For now, I will instead write about a couple recent events in my village.

It started with one voice, a heartbeat of singular pain. The cry broke the silence of the predawn morning, and almost simultaneously, the one voice was joined by all of the women in my family.  The collected wail of pain filled all sounds; it was otherworldy, disturbing.  The wailing gained volume and the voices trembled and cycloned to a sound that I had never heard before.  The other women in my village began to walk to my compound to add to the voice of grief. 

From my hut, I knew instantly what had happened.  The previous day, one of my host Mothers had gone to the hospital due to some complications with her abdomen.  I was told by one of my brothers that she was to return the next day.  She did not return as he had said.  In Senegal, health is not as predictable as it may be in the United States.  Many people refuse to go to the hospital until the absolute last moment.  Many try local “medicines” to alleviate their conditions.  For example, my sister currently has a very bad infection in her thumb from a cut.  Her thumb is swollen to twice its size and bright red.  I explained that she would need to go to the hospital to get a prescription for anti-biotics or at least a topical cream.  She refused and instead opened the cut over steaming water, squeezed her thumb and placed a mint leaf on it.  It hasn’t gotten any better.

In my compound, most of the village was gathering.  My brothers wept openly; yelling to the sky and sobbing in the sand.  One had to be restrained and forcibly moved back to his hut because of his grief.  One of my neighbors fell to the ground, rolling across the sand, her knees hitting rocks and logs.  Two others picked her up and carried her to lie down. 

I didn’t know what to do.  Even in America, there is not a specific thing to do when someone dies in a family.  I am part of my host family in spirit, but I did not live with this woman for everyday of my life like they did.

Later that day I was with the men from my village as they dug the grave.  The pickhead arced through the air, pointing towards the sky, the trees, and ending in the earth with a thump.  The brown and tan sandy soil was already removed, and the red ladderite clay was breaking into cake-like clumps.  The men formed a circle around the work and took turns wielding the pick.  Even in death, everyone from your village has a hand in your life.  Silence was the atmosphere except for the few comments about the movement of the soil out of the grave.  The solid thud of the pick punctuated the pall in the air brought my thoughts back to the events of the day.

When the work was done a rectangular hole remained, 2 meters by 1 meter.  The body will by washed with blessed water, and wrapped in white linen.  Once placed in the grave, branches will be placed over the hole and soil upon that.  Some day in the future, the branches will give way, and the body will be fully given back to the Earth. 

My host mother’s body arrived at exactly noon to the village, traveling in a metallic coffin in the back of a truck.  She was carried to a small shaded area in the back of the compound, where members of the family came to see the body, and one by one grief was felt by all despite the noonday sun.  The men took the body  to the gravesite.  A small prayer was said by the elders in a straight line.  The body was removed from the coffin, covered by a sheet to occlude it from sight.  Branches were laid over the entire grave and soil placed on top of that. 

It is very difficult to convey everything that happened that day.  Seeing the grief in my host family is something I won’t forget.  For a week, visitors arrived to pay their respects and stay with the family.

I walked into the large hut in my compound to try and talk to my village counterpart about starting a live fence.  Instead I sat in on the discussion of my sister’s dowry with the village elders.  She is to marry a man about 40 kilometers away.  When asked if we have similar meeting in America, I replied in the negative.  They then started listing off the money and clothing to be included in her dowry.  It is an interesting custom, similar to the bride’s parents paying for the wedding.  But, in some ways I really wonder how much my sister really knows this guy.  Maybe I am making assumptions, but in rural villages it is very common for people to get married without knowing each other that well.  Especially since my sister is 16 and the usually age difference between husband and wife is at least 9 years.  The treatment of women in Senegal is something that I have trouble accepting on a daily basis.

Perhaps it is only fitting that the next event I wanted to record was the naming ceremony for my new nephew.  He was born about two weeks ago and will be named Farine after the brother that originally held my name.  It is a strange thing to say that I have a nephew, since I am an only child and will therefore never have a true biological nephew or niece.  Furthermore, to tell have people tell me repeatedly I have a tokara, or namesake, as if he was really named after me is an aspect of inclusion into an adopted family that I have not experienced before and perhaps may do so only in this country.  Family seems to be one of the most important parts of Senegalese life, and by including me, my host family is sharing one of the best parts of their culture.

The mother and my sister sit in front of the larger house in the compound.  The cherno, or religious leader stands among the seated older men, loudly saying prayers.  The men mutter “Amin” intermittently and as one voice, collectively sounding like a motorcycle.  15 feet away, a goat screams: it is today’s lunch.  A small pit is dug next to the goat.  A knife saws through its throat and the blood is caught in the pit.  The tail is pulled to tighten the muscles of the vascular system and the goat passes.  “Welcome Farine Balde!” is called out with the death of the goat by the butcher. 

The women have not stopped chattering in high pitch for the whole affair.  More prayers are said and the rumbling of the men are the bass line to the excited treble.  The sweet millet and rice dough is dolled out to everyone and kola nuts dispersed.  The ceremony over, everyone disperses to shady huts to wait for lunch.

I wonder if this culture and way of life will continue the way that it is.  Even at this moment a new ladderite, or hard packed soil, road is being constructed 50 meters from my village.  With roads come more transportation of both people and ideas.  Progress may inevitably do away with much of the culture that rural Senegal has.  I really wonder if the people in my village realize how much change can occur in the span of a few decades. 

Samba Diaba

So I have been living at my site in Saare Samba Diaba near Kolda for over a month now.  There is so much that I could tell, but at the same time there is so much that I don’t know if I could really distill down and convey to fully realize my experience.  I guess the important things to get out of the way first are that I am enjoying my time there and am excited to see where the next two years take me.  Samba Diaba is about 12 kilometers northwest of the main city of Kolda.  To get there I bike on a dirt/sand path that is used by everyone going to and from the villages in that direction.  The landscape is essentially flat and characterized by tall grasses that cover most of the area where trees most likely used to stand.  The trees are sparse in the grassy areas to make room for the peanut and cornfields for the surrounding villages.  In the distance multiple types of trees punctuate the horizon: palms with tall trunks, wide deciduous trees with feather-like leaves, and Baobab trees that look like they were first imagined by Dr. Seuss.  A note about the Baobabs: they have very wide rotund trunks that are hollow with short stubby branches and fruit that hang like Christmas ornaments.  Apparently, it is common belief that genies reside within the hollow portions of the trees.

The sunsets in Senegal never fail to be remarkable.  The combination of sparse but present cloud cover at day’s end make for a painter’s dream of colors and hues.  Deep reds fold into pale yellows over a sun that while still visible, is in a haze of light.  I speak of the sunsets so vividly, because that is the time that I typically will be biking back from town to my village.  The people along my path usually know me now, since I am the only American, or “White” person rather, that lives in that area.  They will call out my name and greet me as I pedal past, and I will shout my greetings into the wind behind me.

“Farin,” they will yell. 

Since Farin Balde is my Senegalese name.

And I will answer, “Nallu-don?” 

Which is the after-lunch greeting that essentially means, ‘Is there no evil this afternoon?’

As I round the bend to the outskirts of my village, I have a moment of reluctance to continue into it.  When I am in village, the weight of my responsibility and the highest expectations of the people I am to serve are ever-present in my mind.  Returning to village acutely reminds me of the reality of my undertaking.  When I was preparing for Peace Corps, and thinking about my career, I knew that I needed to choose a path that led me to helping people that sought help.  Now that I have a village of 460 people looking to me for new knowledge, American philosophy, and enrichment, the role of a Volunteer is more real than I could have imagined before coming to Senegal.

The moment of pause passes as soon as someone sees me and shouts, “Farin arti!”  Which means, Farin has returned!  I am always met with smiles and extensive greetings no matter how long I have been away.  My service is going to be so much more than just what projects I can bring to the people of my village.  My true legacy instead will be the relationships and experiences that I will have. 

That being said, I am still going to get things done.

When I arrive at my hut I feel an immediate comfort, since I like my hut.  That may seem simplistic, but it actually carries huge importance to me.  Being able to be comfortable where I was living was a huge question before arriving in village and “nesting”.  My hut is both small and large at the same time.  It is small in comparison to the amount of activities that I conduct there and especially in comparison to American standards of living.  However, it is large in comparison to standards in Senegal, where a hut of my size could easily be used by an entire family of five, without a thought of discomfort by the individuals.  But, I have to say my favorite thing about where I live is my backyard.  The entirety of my backyard, which is on the larger side of the spectrum of volunteers that live in villages, is bordered with trees.  There is even long green grass that is aesthetically pleasing.  My duus, or bathroom area is shaded by a large Moringa tree, which I will have to explain about later. All in all, being surrounded with plants is one thing that makes me the most content.  That probably comes from growing up in Western Washington State, known for evergreens.

Village life moves at a strolling pace.  Time is not valued monetarily as it sometimes is in Western society.  I wake up a little while after sunrise, since the energy and activity is up before I am.  The braying donkeys, crowing of roosters, and the pounding of the day’s grain by the women are my alarm clocks.  I will typically stay in my hut for an hour or so after waking to make myself a cup of coffee and listen to a bit of music, before starting the day in earnest.  Alone time is a luxury not often had during the middle of the day. 

I bend down and walk outside my door to all of my family already up.  The women are pounding and cooking rice for breakfast, the men are sitting and usually drinking tea, and the children are doing the same thing all children do when not direct by their parents: living impulse to impulse.  I take time, and greet all members of my family, extending formalized questions about their sleep and waking.  Then I sit with my brothers, and listen to their conversations, and try to understand when they ask me things. 

Breakfast arrives, which is always rice porridge, sweetened with sugar and sometimes enriched with fresh milk or yogurt.  The men get their bowls, and the women settle down to their own with the children.  After finishing, I begin the activities of my day that could range from working in the fields with my family or counterpart, or just walking around the village and talking to people.  My village is small enough where everyone knows me, and I am going to know all of them.  Lunch is an important meal to families, and is served around 2:00 in the afternoon.  You are always expected to come home for lunch, unless you tell someone that you are eating somewhere else. 

Lunch is almost always rice, with a savory peanut sauce on top.  The sauce is flavored with dried fish, tomato paste, and whatever else could be afforded that day.  Eating meat is rare, and usually I can’t compel myself to eat it due to the various parts of the cow that are included.  The afternoon is spent in the same way that the mornings are: with dependence upon the program for the day.

Come nighttime, the heat of the day is over, and everyone comes out to languish in the coolness of the air.  Groups form around different huts and people exchange news of the day, jokes, and in general just enjoy each others’ company.  I head to my hut around 9:00 to read and relax before sleeping.