What Do You Mean the Electricity Is Out?

For the past week, I’ve been with my host family, and it was a grueling experience. My family lives in Tivaouane (pronounced Ti wa wan), it’s about 30 minutes north of the training compound, and I’m one of the more fortunate trainees who lives near the training center and has electricity… well that is when Dakar decides to not push the red button marked Tivaouane. It always seems to go out around 4am and then comes back in the afternoon.

I was the first one dropped off and I was greeted at the door by my host mother and father. The organized introduction lasted a whole 3 minutes and then I was left with this family who didn’t speak English. Thank God I speak French. I am graced with the traditional African family, consisting of more people than I can count and more names than a Chinese phone book. In my house, there is my father, mother, my sisters of the ages 10, and 8 and le petit Mohamed who is all of a year and a half and poorly behaved. Also, there is a 20 year old boy and an 18 year old girl who was originally introduced to me as my brother and sister respectively, but it turns out they are my cousins and the boy has been living with my host mother and father (his aunt and uncle) since his father passed away years ago. The 20 year old girl is also my cousin and is visiting during summer vacation.

My father is a truck driver for a local company and walks many kilometers to his work which has varying hours. Sometimes he is around for dinner and lunch and I never see him in the morning. My brother, the 20 year old, is waiting to pass the BAC, so he can run off to college. He works a few hours 5 days a week at a garden nearby. My host sisters do much of nothing and just play around all day and get into arguments. Who would have imagined a wheel on a stick would be so amusing? But it beats the hell out of kick-the-can.

Home life and rules are segregated. My host mother makes me breakfast every morning, which is always bread and butter or chocolate and coffee so sweet it could make me a diabetic. Lunch is always prepared by the maid and dinner is prepared by my 20 year old host sister. Doing nothing, or very little is a sign of wealth, so adults are less inclined to do as much around the house as American adults.
The biggest obstacle is the house itself. It’s unfinished. Imagine living in an unfinished basement with drywall up. Houses are made of concrete blocks and cement is used to bind everything together. The floor in the hallway is unfinished concrete. The rooms are usually complete and have poorly laid linoleum on the floors. The toilet and the shower are in the same 4’X4’ room, with the Turkish toilet being raised up 6” and in one corner; the rest of the area being used as the shower. I leave my sandals on. Showers are bucket baths. I fill my bucket up and take it into the bathroom when I shower, which is twice daily and that is considered below average.
The food is pretty consistent. It’s either rice or coucous and has fish with it. Any other meat is rare and is a special treat. Last night my sister was thrilled that my host mother agreed to buy a chicken for dinner. I guess it was ok, since it was the first night of Ramadan. We eat dinner together around a large tray that hosts the meal. As customary, no one talks and everyone eats with the right hand, as the left is used for less dignified purposes. Luckily, the men in my family are granted spoons. Needless to say, I had to just suck it up and deal with the double-dipping. Very often, the mother takes it upon herself to divide pieces of meat and place them in front of various family members. It was nice not having to pick out my fish bones, but I don’t care for someone touching my food. My trick for getting through any meal is to not look up. I look at my spoon, the rice in front of me, or my knee; never anyone else.

Soon after arriving, I asked my host mother to take me to the market so I could buy some local fabric and have pants made. She agreed and she helped me to get a good price on some cloth. I took her to avoid the tubob price, or the “foreigner” price. I’ve been called “tubob” all week by little kids and it get annoying.
Language classes are going well. In one week, we are already formulating sentences in the present and past tense. It’s not easy, as Wolof is structured as Object + Subject + Verb and can be difficult to organize mentally. Luckily, the verb doesn’t conjugate.

On Wednesday, I’ll be returning to the host family for 12 days. I’ll write more about my first week tomorrow, but for the mean time, I hope this suffice.

More Orientation

This morning, we went over the language requirements. The language one learns is based on the assigned type of work and site and everyone must demonstrate a proficiency on the mid-intermediate level. Since I will be doing Small Enterprise Development (SED), my group will focus on learning French, mostly due to the reports and governmental rigmarole needed to be successful. If a trainee reaches the mid-intermediate level in his or her language before swearing in, then the trainee can begin learning another language pertinent to his or her site. Due to my level of French, I will jump right into learning a local language, which will most likely be Wolof.

In the afternoon, we had a cultural fair. We rotated between six stations that informed us about Senegalese life. They ranged from different fabrics and outfits, Islam, spices and food, food bowl manners, and well-water and toilet training. The last was the most interesting. Apparently, everyone has been told volunteers don't know how to get their own water nor wash their own clothes. Therefore, we had a well demonstration on the proper technique of lugging water out of a hole. Following that, we were demonstrated the best way to use a Turkish toilet. And let's just say, I know why the left hand is shunned. Thank God I'm SED! Most likely, I wont have this problem.

First Day

We landed in Dakar early this morning and after avoiding several harassment attempts, we boarded our buses for Theis, which, due to immense traffic, was three hours away. The road out of Dakar was laden with undeveloped buildings, horse carts, and many women carrying baskets on their heads.

When we arrived at the Peace Corps compound, we were greeted warmly by all the staff, whose names I cannot pronounce nor spell. Heck, I don't even know where the first name ends and the last name begins. Anyways, the compound is very nice and has several buildings, including dorms, a lounge, and various other rooms.

Lunch was served in large tin bowl to groups of five. We were all given a spoon and told to dig in. We had a rice and beef mixture and it was delicious and spicy, despite the constant and unavoidable double dipping. I suppose that isn't a big deal, considering the small pharmacy I am now carrying in my luggage.

The afternoon consisted of a meeting with our respective coordinators to determine which type of sites, rural or urban, we would prefer and which language we should begin learning. My coordinator determined I would begin right into a local language because I have a strong backing in French. After that meeting, I had my French exam which consisted of an instructor, a tape recorder and me. It went on for nearly 45 minutes. It should have been 15. She grilled me on my study abroad, my family, my hometown, and the importance of education and women in developing countries. The last one was a whopper!

The evening will be simple. Dinner at 7:30 and then bed. I'm still suffering from jet lag and not sleeping on the plane.

Here We Go!

Today I had my first taste of what life might be like in Senegal. I arrived at Washington International Airport (Reagan) and found my friend without any hassle. Planning to share a cab was a great way to avoid lugging heavy suitcases around, but it got interesting when I found her surrounded by a few others with more than just a little baggage. It wasn't a problem, as the airport offers a shuttle service.

The problem was the shuttle service!

The individual running the booth seemed a little too laissez-faire about the obviously exorbitant amount of luggage we had and despite his many attempt to
convince me there was ample room in the back of the passenger van, I was not sold. I doubted even the available space for the seven of us; yet I was out-voted.

The driver of the shuttle was French-African and even used some French with his counterpart. I think I was the only one of us who was able to understand his conversations with his co worker. So onward he proceeded to cram our luggage into the back of the van like a bad game of tetris as we stared on in amazement of how all but two bags fit!

All went according to plan until we came to a red light and then, upon the light turning green, and the driver pushing the peddle, the van failed to move forward. In fact, it rolled backwards; much to the horror of the Cadillac behind us. It took a minute but the group finally came to a consensus: The tranny dropped.

Despite time being short, the driver said we could wait for another van to come, but after being told quite profusely that the hotel was only a block away, we decided to hoof it.

Bad idea.

I figured we could just take cabs the rest of the way but no, it was not so. Someone made the point that life in Senegal may be full of very similar situations and after a moment pondering this point, no one wanted to be "that person" who suggests alternative transportation.

The van was in the left turn lane and traffic was thick. We had one person directing traffic, another standing guard on the curve, and 5 people unloading the van like a free-for-all ant party on a carcus. And the hotel wasn't a block away. It wasn't 2, it wasn't 3, not even 4. It was a grand total of 6 blocks up hill in the summer heat.

I was hot an tired and needed my lunch. What a start!

I Need A Shrink-Ray!

One week remains until I depart for Senegal.

I spoke today with the Peace Corps Director of Senegal and was informed that it would be rare for someone in Small Enterprise Development to be anywhere other than a large town. So I'm now holding out for electricity. I was even told that some volunteers have been fortunate enough to live with families who have air conditioning. I feel bad for the agro-development volunteers. They will be in very rural areas. I don't think there's such a thing as anti-lion spray.

At this point, it's safe to say I'm trying to fit half of the Tools & Hardware department at Home Depot into my suitcase. Needless to say, I'm being over zealous. I'm taking a small wrench, screwdriver, duct tape, and glue. On one hand I hope these things will be useful since I'm taking them. On the other, I hope I never come across any reason for needing them. I've been told to only take what I can carry, which, so far, is one large and one small suit case, my carry on backpackers backpack, and my laptop case. I think I need to consolodate. My solution: Space Bags! and an acceptance of that which is going, ain't comin' back!

Do I need bug spray?