Thanksgiving turned out far better than I expected. I planned on too little food and more aggravation than it's worth, but I was pleasantly surprised.
Sunday afternoon the Peace Corps volunteer who lives about 23 kilometers south of me on a dirt road came up and spent the night and on Monday morning, at 5 am, we were picked up by our sept place. We are lucky, as I know a driver and can get front door service, which is monumental when considering I would otherwise have a 15 minuteswalk in the dark to get to the garage. The trip to the regional house in Kaolack took the regular, dusty 3 hours, but was aggravated by my iPod freezing 10 minutes into the trip. So to pass the time, I played "Counted the Dead Things" and racked up five dead goats, one dead bull, one dog, and three indefinable animals.
We got to the regional house and immediately I searched for a bed, knowing that the population of the house would swell enormously and that there weren’t enough sleeping apparatuses to go around. Luckily, I found a bed. The rest of the day was spent relaxing and just socializing. That afternoon one of the Peace Corps doctors showed up to administer Swine Flu and regular flu shots. Those of us under 24 years received the Swine Flu shot and those over were just SOL. No reactions or side effects. Thank God!
On Tuesday, we formed a "pricing party" and four of us, myself included, headed to the market to find out how much everything would cost for dinner. This involved asking multiple stands for the price on one item, but it's necessary so as not to be ripped off. We did get some looks when we said we were just pricing, and not buying. There is no "shopping" here and people walk into stores and know exactly what they want. Browsing is unheard of. Thanks to this adventure, we did learn that the further one travels into the market (or the abyss and I call it) the better the produce becomes. I guess the produces at the entrance is picked off pretty quickly, but in the back we found scallions and parsley! I couldn't stop sniffing the parsley.
By tuesday night, food committees were formed and the work was divided. I am often amazed at how volunteers often accomplish tasks. Maybe it's the level of ingenuity and drive that is necessary in all voluteers to survive here. For example, we all wanted cornbread but couldn't determine how to make it until one volunteer suggested we use millet. The idea was reflected on and we decided to try it, and it worked. My experience in the States would be to have forgotten it altogether.
My responsibility was dicing and chopping. I seemed to be the only one who know how to do it and I was happy to, seeing as how I didn't want anyone to lose a finger. And I did try to pass on my skills. Thank you Food Network. I started dicing about 8 am, but I had to leave before 10 am, because I was meeting with some people from an NGO, which I will explain further on,
Everything pulled together around 5pm and we had a heap of food. There were three turkeys, millet bread, mashed potatoes, gravy, soup, cucumber salad, deviled eggs, dinner rolls, cupcakes, pineapple upside down cake, and apple crisp. I ate till I was about to explode. I wish I could have eaten more, but I'm not used to stuffing myself anymore.
- - - - - - -
In Koungheul, there is a group of young girls that are a part of an NGO called 10,000 Girls, and the headquarters is based in Kaolack. The founder and current leader of the NGO is an African American woman who lives here in Kaolack and one of her assistants is a volunteer who decided to work for the NGO for 6 months after her service was finished. The aim of the NGO is to empower young girls to stay in school and work; both are required to be enrolled with the NGO. The division of girls here in Koungheul own and operate a restaurant and are very shortly moving into the couture and fabric business, for which I am very excited to be involved.
Saturday evening, I received a message from the assistant saying that on Tuesday she along with some British nationals would be in Koungheul for the day visiting the girls who own the restaurant. I declined to accompany them, as I wanted and was required to be in Kaolack at the time. Luckily, they were all to be back in Kaolack on Wednesday, and I said I would stop by and say hello and get their opinion on what they saw.
10am Wednesday. I rolled up into 10,000 Girls office, which is just a 10 minute walk from the regional house and quickly found the Brits and introduced myself and what I was doing. We talked for a while and I discovered that they are apart of some larger organization that wants to become and NGO and works with restaurant businesses. I didn't understand everything, and was more focused on their opinions than what they actually did.
I found out they had gone to Koungheul and had done and action plan with the group of girls, and gather other information. An action plan just maps out what they wanted to do over a specified period of time. Well, the girls didn't know much about their business, and so the Brits decided to do on it English and it was suggested that I would help translate into French or Wolof. They only issue is that they are doing an extensive business plan and it won’t relate well to the girls. Although, I am extremely excited to have it because it will be over 5 years and include purchasing a building, meaning it will be extensive and will save me much foot work and research when grant writing time comes.
Next, one girl told me that they would like to see the girls do a costing analysis to better understand their costs and she then gave me some technical term. What she said would allow any company to operate efficiently, but it isn't that practical to teach a overhead per unit cost to these girls. But it is important that they learn all their costs. The Brits want a costing report, but the girls have no idea and the restaurant is closed until at least January due to the construction of the highway through downtown Koungheul. My counterpart and I haven't figured out what we are going to tell the Brits, but my guess is that they will have to wait.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Money, Money, Money!
The other day, my counterpart took me to meet a women’s group. What a walk! But anyways, the groups is a bunch of women who have a boutique in which they sell millet and rice, pickled vegetables, died fish and juices. Mostly a bunch of agricultural products as they have a small plot of land. Their clientele is mostly local people with a few larger orders coming from around the region and Dakar.
After walking into the compound, we were directed into the first building and told asked to sit, at which point our host left us. This happens a lot. I walk into a house and am immediately taking the ‘salon’ or living room and left to my thoughts. I guess I’m supposed to relax and marvel at the lavishness of the family’s wealth, which is usually demonstrated with pealing linoleum, moth-eaten couches, and cable TV.
After a few minutes, she returned and took us to another building, in which door number 1 hosted the boutique. Wow, that could do with some marketing tips, but on the upside, things were clearly labeled and priced. Behind door number two, was the ‘processing room.’ This made me smile and remember where I was. In this unlit room was one old African woman sifting through a bowl of millet. Around her were empty pots and pans. It was the quintessential African production line. Behind door number three was the “office,” and where my opinion of the group altered. In this nicely painted, tiled, and spacious room I learned that my host was the president of the organization and also did some treasury work, which in Africa, just spells disaster. And for some reason, there was a mattress and an armoire in the room. She brought out the accounting books and little notebooks of log entries and showed me how the finances work. It is a great system, and clearly she had been taught it. The only problem was, it didn’t add up. She had this individual book for bank deposits and withdrawls, which did not correspond with the numbers in the accounting book. None of the monthly profits matched the deposits into the bank account and I couldn’t figure out why. Then, she told me that my predecessor had helped them to find funding for the “office.” Yeah… that’s right… the room I was sitting in with the mattress and the armoire. Something seemed to be amiss.
The president told me the groups three goals are (1) electricity, (2) a computer and (3) money for raw materials . As the conversation continued, I learned that the electricity had been cut for a failure to pay the bill because the group didn’t have the funds. The President told me the amount she needed for the bill and I nearly hit the floor. Nothing they had shown me needed electricity. Then my counterpart asked for previous bills, but they conveniently couldn’t be found. As far as the computer was concerned. Why? What for? They don’t need one. They were managing just fine and I doubt that any of them know how to use them. Finally, why do they need money for raw materials? I thought they had land. This all refers back to what had been pounded into my head during training. The people here do not know what they truly need.
All of this does make sense one you learn that the group’s building is located inside of the president’s home! Electricty, a computer, money for raw materials. Sounds like the president is trying to line her own pockets.
On the way home, my counterpart gave me some other examples of mismanagement and told me that on our way out the president had asked him to persuade me to work with them. I think they’ve already reaped the benefits of a volunteer and other funding.
Afterwards, I was shocked, but then came to my senses and remembered I was in Africa. But this is commonplace, and obvious. So why do these NGOs allow this to happen? The president of an organization shouldn’t be allowed to line her own pockets. I’d have to say the problem lies with the NGOs and other development groups. They themselves are not always financed with their own money, and often have governmental funds to mismanage. But why not monitor and set in place practices that will discourage or block corruption? Isn’t that the “Teach a man to fish” argument? Maybe because that is too costly and it is less expensive to throw out tons of money and rely on statistics than it is to hand out what is necessary and monitor it. In this case, then I’m saying it’s “Teach a man to fish” versus “Superiority of numbers.” Who will win?
The problem is corruption is an institution, and it’s abetted by careless donors who throw money and then turn around and say ‘look at what we did’. At what point does a child’s misbehavior become the fault of the parents? I suppose it’s easy to get caught up in the excitement and effectiveness of a training program that say teaches 100 girls to make and sell bisap juice and then forget to teach ethics. So maybe the underlining problem is our own complacency with ethics.
After walking into the compound, we were directed into the first building and told asked to sit, at which point our host left us. This happens a lot. I walk into a house and am immediately taking the ‘salon’ or living room and left to my thoughts. I guess I’m supposed to relax and marvel at the lavishness of the family’s wealth, which is usually demonstrated with pealing linoleum, moth-eaten couches, and cable TV.
After a few minutes, she returned and took us to another building, in which door number 1 hosted the boutique. Wow, that could do with some marketing tips, but on the upside, things were clearly labeled and priced. Behind door number two, was the ‘processing room.’ This made me smile and remember where I was. In this unlit room was one old African woman sifting through a bowl of millet. Around her were empty pots and pans. It was the quintessential African production line. Behind door number three was the “office,” and where my opinion of the group altered. In this nicely painted, tiled, and spacious room I learned that my host was the president of the organization and also did some treasury work, which in Africa, just spells disaster. And for some reason, there was a mattress and an armoire in the room. She brought out the accounting books and little notebooks of log entries and showed me how the finances work. It is a great system, and clearly she had been taught it. The only problem was, it didn’t add up. She had this individual book for bank deposits and withdrawls, which did not correspond with the numbers in the accounting book. None of the monthly profits matched the deposits into the bank account and I couldn’t figure out why. Then, she told me that my predecessor had helped them to find funding for the “office.” Yeah… that’s right… the room I was sitting in with the mattress and the armoire. Something seemed to be amiss.
The president told me the groups three goals are (1) electricity, (2) a computer and (3) money for raw materials . As the conversation continued, I learned that the electricity had been cut for a failure to pay the bill because the group didn’t have the funds. The President told me the amount she needed for the bill and I nearly hit the floor. Nothing they had shown me needed electricity. Then my counterpart asked for previous bills, but they conveniently couldn’t be found. As far as the computer was concerned. Why? What for? They don’t need one. They were managing just fine and I doubt that any of them know how to use them. Finally, why do they need money for raw materials? I thought they had land. This all refers back to what had been pounded into my head during training. The people here do not know what they truly need.
All of this does make sense one you learn that the group’s building is located inside of the president’s home! Electricty, a computer, money for raw materials. Sounds like the president is trying to line her own pockets.
On the way home, my counterpart gave me some other examples of mismanagement and told me that on our way out the president had asked him to persuade me to work with them. I think they’ve already reaped the benefits of a volunteer and other funding.
Afterwards, I was shocked, but then came to my senses and remembered I was in Africa. But this is commonplace, and obvious. So why do these NGOs allow this to happen? The president of an organization shouldn’t be allowed to line her own pockets. I’d have to say the problem lies with the NGOs and other development groups. They themselves are not always financed with their own money, and often have governmental funds to mismanage. But why not monitor and set in place practices that will discourage or block corruption? Isn’t that the “Teach a man to fish” argument? Maybe because that is too costly and it is less expensive to throw out tons of money and rely on statistics than it is to hand out what is necessary and monitor it. In this case, then I’m saying it’s “Teach a man to fish” versus “Superiority of numbers.” Who will win?
The problem is corruption is an institution, and it’s abetted by careless donors who throw money and then turn around and say ‘look at what we did’. At what point does a child’s misbehavior become the fault of the parents? I suppose it’s easy to get caught up in the excitement and effectiveness of a training program that say teaches 100 girls to make and sell bisap juice and then forget to teach ethics. So maybe the underlining problem is our own complacency with ethics.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
MEMO: MOSES IN TOWN
Last night I went to take a shower and had a ghastly surprise. I got my shower gear ready and waddled across the compound to the shower in my crappy shower flip flops, closed the shower door, and arranged my arsenal of anti-dirtiness and turned on the water. Now, usually, the water takes a second or two to come out, which is normal anywhere, and in this brief moment, I looked down at the floor and was instantly sprayed with red liquid. Looking up, I saw red water flowing out of the shower head, and I thought I was in some horror movie, and then.... I realized... I am!!!
After the water ran red for a while it turned back to sandy clear and I finished my shower. Then I headed back to my room where I was met with a humming that could have rivaled a John Deer. That turned out to be the biggest flying SOB I have ever laid my eyes upon. It took my French dictionary, both my sandals, and the realization I throw like a girl to finally kill it.
I don't what's going on! Red water, giant insects. I promise my pyramid is not being built by Hebrews!
After the water ran red for a while it turned back to sandy clear and I finished my shower. Then I headed back to my room where I was met with a humming that could have rivaled a John Deer. That turned out to be the biggest flying SOB I have ever laid my eyes upon. It took my French dictionary, both my sandals, and the realization I throw like a girl to finally kill it.
I don't what's going on! Red water, giant insects. I promise my pyramid is not being built by Hebrews!
Friday, November 13, 2009
Sick Again
Well, I’ve gotten sick again! I’ve been in Senegal for a grand total of 3 months and I’ve been sick 4 times. The third time was a whopper! I had a cough for 3 weeks, but it went away in just enough time for the fourth illness.
Now I should point out the connection between how viruses and bacteria are transmitted and the lifestyle of the Senegalese. I always figured that outbreaks in the third world.... (oops! I mean least developed countries)… were due mostly to the lack of medicines and hygiene took a back seat. Yet, since living here, while never being far from my wagon train of medication, I’ve been sick more times in a quarter of a year than I have been in a quarter of a decade. Everyone, and I mean everyone, eats out of the same large, communal dinner bowl; whether you’re sick, sniffling, sneezing, or a child. A spoon, cleaned for dinner, is readied by a douse of water and a quick rub by your right hand. Soap optional. Then, the person who washed the spoon, will switch hands in order to hand off the spoon to you so that you don’t tough the head, though in the process, that’s exactly what they’ve done! I’ve seen children sneeze into the food bowl and women don’t eat with spoons; they use their hands. Also, it is customary for them to lick their hands periodically. There is one communal drinking cup that sits out all day long on top of the clay retaining pot. Maybe my baggage train of medication is necessary.
My fourth illness started three days ago with major fatigue, but nothing else. They next afternoon the fever struck, accompanied by some achiness. I thought nothing of it, took and ibuprofen, and decided to stay around my room resting. A few hours later, I received a text message from the Peace Corps doctors informing the volunteers of an outbreak of Dengue fever, which is caused by daytime mosquitoes. If you’re wondering, it’s the nighttime mosquitoes that cause malaria. I went to bed that night and woke up will all the symptoms except the rash and I was nauseous. I about panicked. I called the PC doctors and was told to rest and take fluids, and consider moving to the regional house for a few days. I didn’t feel very feverish and my headache was in the wrong spot so I decided to stay in bed reading and sleeping, and this morning, I’m much better, except I still feel a little nauseous.
One family member told me I was sick because I never eat much and don’t drink tea every day. As far as eating goes, I’m so tired of eating the same tasting food for every meal that it’s a challenge to get past the first whiff and continue. I always go for the vegetable and fish and leave the rice to everyone else. The moment I feel full, I stop. The tea comment made me laugh. This is Chinese imported tea and is more than a ritual than a drink. It takes forever to make and must be boiled, cooled, boiled again, infused with enough sugar to give a horse diabetes, and then cooled again. I usually dodge my dosage which is two to three glasses. Should I fail, then I usually just poor it into a cup and dispose of it later. It’s so sugary, that I’m usually bouncing off the wall a few hours later. It’s served in rounds, with everyone sharing the same two or three cups.
I am thinking about upgrading from a wagon train to a parked 747 behind my house. I hate being sick.
Now I should point out the connection between how viruses and bacteria are transmitted and the lifestyle of the Senegalese. I always figured that outbreaks in the third world.... (oops! I mean least developed countries)… were due mostly to the lack of medicines and hygiene took a back seat. Yet, since living here, while never being far from my wagon train of medication, I’ve been sick more times in a quarter of a year than I have been in a quarter of a decade. Everyone, and I mean everyone, eats out of the same large, communal dinner bowl; whether you’re sick, sniffling, sneezing, or a child. A spoon, cleaned for dinner, is readied by a douse of water and a quick rub by your right hand. Soap optional. Then, the person who washed the spoon, will switch hands in order to hand off the spoon to you so that you don’t tough the head, though in the process, that’s exactly what they’ve done! I’ve seen children sneeze into the food bowl and women don’t eat with spoons; they use their hands. Also, it is customary for them to lick their hands periodically. There is one communal drinking cup that sits out all day long on top of the clay retaining pot. Maybe my baggage train of medication is necessary.
My fourth illness started three days ago with major fatigue, but nothing else. They next afternoon the fever struck, accompanied by some achiness. I thought nothing of it, took and ibuprofen, and decided to stay around my room resting. A few hours later, I received a text message from the Peace Corps doctors informing the volunteers of an outbreak of Dengue fever, which is caused by daytime mosquitoes. If you’re wondering, it’s the nighttime mosquitoes that cause malaria. I went to bed that night and woke up will all the symptoms except the rash and I was nauseous. I about panicked. I called the PC doctors and was told to rest and take fluids, and consider moving to the regional house for a few days. I didn’t feel very feverish and my headache was in the wrong spot so I decided to stay in bed reading and sleeping, and this morning, I’m much better, except I still feel a little nauseous.
One family member told me I was sick because I never eat much and don’t drink tea every day. As far as eating goes, I’m so tired of eating the same tasting food for every meal that it’s a challenge to get past the first whiff and continue. I always go for the vegetable and fish and leave the rice to everyone else. The moment I feel full, I stop. The tea comment made me laugh. This is Chinese imported tea and is more than a ritual than a drink. It takes forever to make and must be boiled, cooled, boiled again, infused with enough sugar to give a horse diabetes, and then cooled again. I usually dodge my dosage which is two to three glasses. Should I fail, then I usually just poor it into a cup and dispose of it later. It’s so sugary, that I’m usually bouncing off the wall a few hours later. It’s served in rounds, with everyone sharing the same two or three cups.
I am thinking about upgrading from a wagon train to a parked 747 behind my house. I hate being sick.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
I Ain't Yo' Baby Daddy!
Well, I thought the money issue was resolved. But I have another round to go. It’s an intricate story, but the gist is that I have had to deal with a family member who lives in Kaolack. She is the mother of a few of the children in the house and had told me to wait until her arrival to discuss my contribution towards the family expenses. She currently lives in Kaolack while she is studying to become some sort of nurse and her children lived in the house here in Koungheul until this past Sunday, when the mother took them back to Kaolack to be with her and attend school.
Saturday, the mother showed up sometime in the afternoon, while I was on the phone. Shortly after, she introduced herself and had me sit down with her, alongside the rest of the adults, who had gathered to chat. She welcomed me and we made small talk for a few minutes until she informed me that I was “her son” and a “member of the family” and that if I have an issue I should come directly to her or the family and NOT use my counterpart as an intermediately. This point was made multiple times followed by “do you understand” and some smiles. It only stopped when I got short and said “I got it.” By this point, I’ve known her for a grand total of 5 minutes, and I’m already pissed. The only reasons she wanted my counterpart left out is that she figured she could get one over me. NOT!
Money is a sensitive issue in Senegal. People here become ravenous wolfs when the money comes out; but they’ll preach solidarity all day long. This is advice given and my observation. Knowing this, I let the conversation drift and figured she could bring up the subject on her own. Time is on my side, as I’m not hurting for money. The afternoon drifts away and is followed by our nightly viewing of a Spanish sitcom dubbed in French, which, in turn, is followed by dinner. Afterwards, she calls me over and we sit in two plastic chairs making small talk about her life in Kaolack and my politically correct observations of Senegal.I knew this conversation was going to turn to money, and when it did, I let her have her say, which includes the following: (1) I am a member of the family (2) She considers me her son (3) Life in the cities is more expensive (4) Life in Senegal is more difficult (4) Americans have money (5) The family is poor (5) She has no husband to help (he’s got another family in the Ivory Coast! Jerry! Jerry!) (6) She’s going to school and is working. (7)The family member sending money is struggling (LIE!!) (7) Electricity is expensive (8) I have to pay for private high school because my son has repeated multiple levels.
I should also clarify another point of contention in all of this. My predecessor was generous. It’s nice that he was able to help out the family in such a way, but I cannot and I won’t as he did. He paid the same amount that I am currently paying; in addition, he paid for the electricity, which, in total, equated to two-thirds of the stipend given by Peace Corps. Furthermore, I know he made donations, including a year’s school enrollment and school clothes. There is no way he was not using American funds.
Now, as I reread these points, I can imagine why it’s easy to take pity on them. But maybe I can explain my cynicism with the points that I made to her. In essence, they all rebuttals, but points nonetheless. First, I told her that I am paying the same contribution every month that my predecessor paid and that I am only responsible for my costs. Upon hearing this, she asked me how I knew what my predecessor paid and if my counterpart told me. I informed her I had emailed my predecessor, which did not go over well. Secondly, I noted, although she says I’m a member of the family, I was asked for money my first day her, and asked to give an abhorrent amount. Third, I said she doesn’t understand American life and cannot therefore make an appropriate comparison. Fourth, my American family will not contribute. Fifth, we eat the same, inexpensive thing, for lunch, and we eat rice with beans for every dinner and we are not village folk. Sixth, there is a family member in Dakar sending money. Seven, I am not responsible for the private education. Seventh, I am one person and will not use as much electricity as you think. Finally, I told her that my Senegalese instructor from the Peace Corps told me what I wanted to give was appropriate and if it wasn’t good enough I would move, implying she could take what I was offering or zero!
She accepted with the caveat of “we’ll help you out, since your family.” Whatever. So Saturday, I gave my contribution to the predetermined family member and got my receipt. I’m not taking any chances. She signed triangle with a line through it. Figures. Then Tuesday evening, I saw her with an expensive fabric that she bought for an outfit for an upcoming holiday. This happens here, and I’ve heard stories of other volunteers going through the same thing. I won’t let this get go, and I have decided to wait until Friday to bring up the fact our diet is absurd, and when they give me the “ain’t got no money” line, I’ll point out the fabric and threaten to call the mother in Kaolack to discuss a change in my contribution. Maybe this will be my justification for moving.
Despite all this though, I am making great progress with the children. We now have homework session in my hut every evening. It started when one kid asked to review and the others felt left o. ut. The boy that I wrote about in my last post is making great strides. He can now do double digit addition and carry over, which put his math skills above his class and currently, he is on the floor of my room writing over and over the letters A-M and almost recite without error. Last week, he could only say ABCD. He keeps telling me he is tired, but I won’t let him leave. Next, I’ll see if he can individually pick out certain letters. I found out that he sits in the last bench in the class, which is what happens to students who are duds. The teacher has so many students, that he or she will put the ones that are forerunners in the front and the duds in the back to be forgotten about. His problem is he has never had any reinforcement at home or at school.
Saturday, the mother showed up sometime in the afternoon, while I was on the phone. Shortly after, she introduced herself and had me sit down with her, alongside the rest of the adults, who had gathered to chat. She welcomed me and we made small talk for a few minutes until she informed me that I was “her son” and a “member of the family” and that if I have an issue I should come directly to her or the family and NOT use my counterpart as an intermediately. This point was made multiple times followed by “do you understand” and some smiles. It only stopped when I got short and said “I got it.” By this point, I’ve known her for a grand total of 5 minutes, and I’m already pissed. The only reasons she wanted my counterpart left out is that she figured she could get one over me. NOT!
Money is a sensitive issue in Senegal. People here become ravenous wolfs when the money comes out; but they’ll preach solidarity all day long. This is advice given and my observation. Knowing this, I let the conversation drift and figured she could bring up the subject on her own. Time is on my side, as I’m not hurting for money. The afternoon drifts away and is followed by our nightly viewing of a Spanish sitcom dubbed in French, which, in turn, is followed by dinner. Afterwards, she calls me over and we sit in two plastic chairs making small talk about her life in Kaolack and my politically correct observations of Senegal.I knew this conversation was going to turn to money, and when it did, I let her have her say, which includes the following: (1) I am a member of the family (2) She considers me her son (3) Life in the cities is more expensive (4) Life in Senegal is more difficult (4) Americans have money (5) The family is poor (5) She has no husband to help (he’s got another family in the Ivory Coast! Jerry! Jerry!) (6) She’s going to school and is working. (7)The family member sending money is struggling (LIE!!) (7) Electricity is expensive (8) I have to pay for private high school because my son has repeated multiple levels.
I should also clarify another point of contention in all of this. My predecessor was generous. It’s nice that he was able to help out the family in such a way, but I cannot and I won’t as he did. He paid the same amount that I am currently paying; in addition, he paid for the electricity, which, in total, equated to two-thirds of the stipend given by Peace Corps. Furthermore, I know he made donations, including a year’s school enrollment and school clothes. There is no way he was not using American funds.
Now, as I reread these points, I can imagine why it’s easy to take pity on them. But maybe I can explain my cynicism with the points that I made to her. In essence, they all rebuttals, but points nonetheless. First, I told her that I am paying the same contribution every month that my predecessor paid and that I am only responsible for my costs. Upon hearing this, she asked me how I knew what my predecessor paid and if my counterpart told me. I informed her I had emailed my predecessor, which did not go over well. Secondly, I noted, although she says I’m a member of the family, I was asked for money my first day her, and asked to give an abhorrent amount. Third, I said she doesn’t understand American life and cannot therefore make an appropriate comparison. Fourth, my American family will not contribute. Fifth, we eat the same, inexpensive thing, for lunch, and we eat rice with beans for every dinner and we are not village folk. Sixth, there is a family member in Dakar sending money. Seven, I am not responsible for the private education. Seventh, I am one person and will not use as much electricity as you think. Finally, I told her that my Senegalese instructor from the Peace Corps told me what I wanted to give was appropriate and if it wasn’t good enough I would move, implying she could take what I was offering or zero!
She accepted with the caveat of “we’ll help you out, since your family.” Whatever. So Saturday, I gave my contribution to the predetermined family member and got my receipt. I’m not taking any chances. She signed triangle with a line through it. Figures. Then Tuesday evening, I saw her with an expensive fabric that she bought for an outfit for an upcoming holiday. This happens here, and I’ve heard stories of other volunteers going through the same thing. I won’t let this get go, and I have decided to wait until Friday to bring up the fact our diet is absurd, and when they give me the “ain’t got no money” line, I’ll point out the fabric and threaten to call the mother in Kaolack to discuss a change in my contribution. Maybe this will be my justification for moving.
Despite all this though, I am making great progress with the children. We now have homework session in my hut every evening. It started when one kid asked to review and the others felt left o. ut. The boy that I wrote about in my last post is making great strides. He can now do double digit addition and carry over, which put his math skills above his class and currently, he is on the floor of my room writing over and over the letters A-M and almost recite without error. Last week, he could only say ABCD. He keeps telling me he is tired, but I won’t let him leave. Next, I’ll see if he can individually pick out certain letters. I found out that he sits in the last bench in the class, which is what happens to students who are duds. The teacher has so many students, that he or she will put the ones that are forerunners in the front and the duds in the back to be forgotten about. His problem is he has never had any reinforcement at home or at school.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
My endeavor to have internet in my hut is progressing. Last week, I went to the Orange boutique in Koungheul to acquire information on having internet installed in. The worker (forthwith known as the “idiot”) was a complete dunce and I let my American culture come out in a flurry. First, the idiot didn’t know anything about the bandwidths or the prices or the installation process. When the idiot finally located the prices on the net with his computer, I asked him to email me the link and he promptly informed me it wasn’t possible! I asked him if it truly was impossible, or if he just didn’t know how to do it. And at that point, any hope of getting info is lost. Luckily, he did inform me I needed to send in a demand to the office in Kaffrine.
So the next day I asked my counterpart how to write a demand and he was actually surprised that I didn’t know. At least I knew what one was, thanks to a story I read in a French class in college. It’s a request for something written in formal French and looks much like a memo. I told my counterpart that demands are not commonplace in the US, and I left out why. After writing the demand, I sent it in and then I waited. Remember, lots of waiting in Senegal.
After a few days I received a call from the office in Kaffrine informing me that I needed to go in person to the office! The idiot never said anything about this. There was no way around this and so I was off to kaffrine. It took me two hours in a sept place to reach the office and, after finding the office, I signed up for what I wanted. The only thing that concerns me was the technican who will install the internet next week was the guy who filled out the paper work. I have receipts for everything, but this is Africa and one cannot be too careful. He did tell me that I would have to pay an additional CFA 10,000 ($20) for installation and I could pay it while I was at the office or when he comes in install the internet. This makes no sense, so I refused to pay it on the spot and I need to call the customer service again to get information about this so-called “installation.”
On an unrelated topic, the children of the house have started school this week, and I’ve gotten a glimpse into the education system of Senegal. My assumption was that is very much a European system of education, with a French influence. Well, I certainly see the French influence, but I don’t think it is as rigorous. The children start later and there is no preschool. Children may attend school anywhere from 5 years to 8 years of age but they cannot partake in the class, they may only listen and watch. At eight years old, they begin school and start as we have in the States with the ABCs and reading. Why they start late, I don’t know. Maybe there is backlog in the school system. I do know that there can be around 50 children in the class and teachers are not paid well. So one afternoon, the children were reviewing what they had done in class that day and I got involved by giving them simple addition problems. I noticed right away that the 8 year old could do more than the 10 year old. I knew they started later, but I could tell something wasn’t quite right. I later found out that the 10 year is now retaking, for the third time, the first level, and is in the same class as the 8 year old, his cousin. Not much reinforcement at home, as his mother is dead, his father is MIA, and the adults here have no formal education. For the past few days, I’ve been working with him on the ABCs and simple addition and he can’t retain anything. I sing the ABCs in French, by section, and ask him to repeat it and he can’t. I wrote out the ABCs with every other one missing, and he can’t complete the blanks, even after stopping to sing the song again. I showed him the same math problem 4 times and on the 5th, I gave it for him to do, and he couldn’t. He just laughs and smiles. My outlook is grim. At least he lives in a country wrought full of manual labor. Right now, as I’m typing this, he is stilling on my floor counting his plastic Fanta bottle tops that he keeps in his Micky Mouse backpack, and soon, he’ll probably get up and start going through my trash again. He loves to open the yogurt packages and lick what is left.
So the next day I asked my counterpart how to write a demand and he was actually surprised that I didn’t know. At least I knew what one was, thanks to a story I read in a French class in college. It’s a request for something written in formal French and looks much like a memo. I told my counterpart that demands are not commonplace in the US, and I left out why. After writing the demand, I sent it in and then I waited. Remember, lots of waiting in Senegal.
After a few days I received a call from the office in Kaffrine informing me that I needed to go in person to the office! The idiot never said anything about this. There was no way around this and so I was off to kaffrine. It took me two hours in a sept place to reach the office and, after finding the office, I signed up for what I wanted. The only thing that concerns me was the technican who will install the internet next week was the guy who filled out the paper work. I have receipts for everything, but this is Africa and one cannot be too careful. He did tell me that I would have to pay an additional CFA 10,000 ($20) for installation and I could pay it while I was at the office or when he comes in install the internet. This makes no sense, so I refused to pay it on the spot and I need to call the customer service again to get information about this so-called “installation.”
On an unrelated topic, the children of the house have started school this week, and I’ve gotten a glimpse into the education system of Senegal. My assumption was that is very much a European system of education, with a French influence. Well, I certainly see the French influence, but I don’t think it is as rigorous. The children start later and there is no preschool. Children may attend school anywhere from 5 years to 8 years of age but they cannot partake in the class, they may only listen and watch. At eight years old, they begin school and start as we have in the States with the ABCs and reading. Why they start late, I don’t know. Maybe there is backlog in the school system. I do know that there can be around 50 children in the class and teachers are not paid well. So one afternoon, the children were reviewing what they had done in class that day and I got involved by giving them simple addition problems. I noticed right away that the 8 year old could do more than the 10 year old. I knew they started later, but I could tell something wasn’t quite right. I later found out that the 10 year is now retaking, for the third time, the first level, and is in the same class as the 8 year old, his cousin. Not much reinforcement at home, as his mother is dead, his father is MIA, and the adults here have no formal education. For the past few days, I’ve been working with him on the ABCs and simple addition and he can’t retain anything. I sing the ABCs in French, by section, and ask him to repeat it and he can’t. I wrote out the ABCs with every other one missing, and he can’t complete the blanks, even after stopping to sing the song again. I showed him the same math problem 4 times and on the 5th, I gave it for him to do, and he couldn’t. He just laughs and smiles. My outlook is grim. At least he lives in a country wrought full of manual labor. Right now, as I’m typing this, he is stilling on my floor counting his plastic Fanta bottle tops that he keeps in his Micky Mouse backpack, and soon, he’ll probably get up and start going through my trash again. He loves to open the yogurt packages and lick what is left.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Another Week
This past week was spent meeting new people in the community and getting to know my surroundings. Most of whom I met I can’t remember their names. This can be an issue because people here are insulted if someone doesn’t remember a name. “Big deal” I always think, but when your life is centered on daily market visits and sweeping the sand (yes they do that) remembering someone’s name is a big deal. What’s funny about the whole situation is that names are so repetitive here but I can’t pronounce them!
The money issue persists with my family and I’m working with my counterpart to find a solution. At the moment, I don’t believe it is wise to go into detail, but the biggest concern for me will my having to find a new family and move all my things. But I do think that can be avoided, as progress has been made, albeit in an odd way. In one foul swoop, in the form of a clandestine toilet window meeting, I found out that it is just one woman causing issues, and her past experiences in troublemaking is why she was sent from her husband and now lives in Koungheul with her sister!
I went to Kaolack on Sunday. I made it a day trip because I didn’t want to spend the night, and the Peace Corps suggest that we make every effort to spend every of the first month at site. It was a challenge for me because Kaolack is 3 hours one way by a cramped sept place. Luckily, one of my friends who lives along the main road needed to go to Kaolack as well to use the internet. She lives in a village north of the Route National One and has to walk through 7km through loose sand to get to The RN1, where she finds a car. In Kaolack, I picked up what I had accidently left behind in the regional house, which included my all my cooking supplies, which are now a God-sent because of the family’s lack of variety in meal selection. For the last 5 dinners, we’ve had the same thing.
While I was in Kaolack, my counterpart sent me a text me
ssage telling me his father had passed away. The veteran volunteers weren’t joking when they say we’ll see the full circle of life here in Senegal. I was surprised because my counterpart had told me he was improving. I’m not sure which illness his father had, but I think it may have been Parkinson’s or MS. Fortunately for my counterpart, his father lived in village about 25 kilometers south of Koungheul, just before the Gambia.
Monday afternoon my counterpart invited me to the funeral service. Since he was still in his father’s village, he sent his nephew to my house to escort me to the church. We arrived at the church early and wound up waiting for my counterpart to arrive. While waiting, I found out my counterpart was coming with his father’s body. Shortly thereafter, I heard a car horn and in pulled the church’s white (of course) mini Toyota pick-up with about 10 people sitting in the back. As the pick-up turned around, I noticed a crummy, blue box in the back and then realized it was the casket. I don’t know if this box was an impromptu coffin or meant to appear like this, but it was shaky and had slits in it. It was almost like a box car crate. After being unloaded from the pick-up, the coffin was placed inside the church, in the center aisle, and a short ceremony was given. Then, it was picked up, placed back onto the pick-up and off it went to the cemetery, with the multitude walking behind it.
The grave in the cemetery was already prepared and dug between some already disposed of people, and the crowd gathered around and more prayers were said. At the end, my counterpart’s father was relieved of his coffin and placed, well wrapped in tacky cloth, into the earth. And in the scuttle to place him in the ground, many of the crowd began to press forward to get a look and I noticed people standing on the graves of other people! I told one guy to get off. I’ve given up on respect in formal events here in Senegal.
Tuesday morning my counterpart called me and invited me to the funeral services in his father’s village. He told me to come to his house (which is on the other side of the cemetery) and we would walk to the car that was to take us to his village. After walking for about 10 minutes, we rounded a corner and I saw this “car.” The best was to describe it is to picture a medium sized U-Haul truck with the back converted into a flat bed. Inside cramped 20 people and off we went down the bumpiest, most sandy road I have ever been on. I still have bruised from the bumps. A few kilometers into the trip, we heard a cracking sound and the truck came to a stop. After a close examination, we learned the tire had cracked, which resulted in a two hour sitting fest while we waited for a part to come. Once fixed we took, it was another half hour until we arrived.
Once in the village, there was more waiting. We had to wait for the priest to show up, which took another hour, and when he finally arrived, I wound up waiting even more. I while I waited, I sat inside the hut of my counterpart’s brother and talked with some of the people who obviously came inside to see if there really was a white guy in the village. At some point during my waiting the priest showed up and the family meeting started. I learned this when my counterpart sent me a text message saying he was sorry that he had to be in the meeting. I hadn’t realized he disappeared. After a while my counterpart’s brother comes back into the hut all flustered, and on his heels is my counterpart’s wife. They start talking about something that is going on and the most I can gather is there is some problem between the brother and someone else.
By this point, it’s pushing 6 hours since I last ate and my blood sugar is starting to drop. It’s always been an issue with me, but now it’s worse because the malaria medicine that I take diminishes my circulation. I’m always fidgeting and switching positions because of it. So during a lull, I leave the hut and see if I can find a boutique to buy something. I quickly realize that there aren’t any then, it was realized the white guy has left the hut and needs to be returned. So I am promptly escorted back to my chair inside the hut. At this point, I’m starting to loose feeling in my arms and legs and realize I need to eat. So with my counterpart still trapped in the family meeting, I went to his wife and tried to explain, in French, what was going on and that I needed to eat. Luckily she understood and rounded me up some tasty rice with some mouton. She ate with me as she is still breast feeding and hadn’t eaten in a long time. My counterpart later apologized, but it wasn’t a big deal. I got food.
During my lunch, which by this point is an early dinner, I learned the ongoing issue is between my counterpart’s brother and his sister and their dying father had asked for them to be reconciled. After a few melt downs, I think they did. Though, I’m still not sure. Soon after, the priest gathered everyone around for a short ceremony, and it was nice, aside from the woman who disrupted everyone when she decided to shoo away a duck that started eating the sacrificial rice. Yeah, I know…. Sacrificial rice. They’re Catholic right?
On the way back I rode with the priest in the front seat! It took an hour travel back the 20+ kilometers . And this explains my first Senegalese funeral.
The money issue persists with my family and I’m working with my counterpart to find a solution. At the moment, I don’t believe it is wise to go into detail, but the biggest concern for me will my having to find a new family and move all my things. But I do think that can be avoided, as progress has been made, albeit in an odd way. In one foul swoop, in the form of a clandestine toilet window meeting, I found out that it is just one woman causing issues, and her past experiences in troublemaking is why she was sent from her husband and now lives in Koungheul with her sister!
I went to Kaolack on Sunday. I made it a day trip because I didn’t want to spend the night, and the Peace Corps suggest that we make every effort to spend every of the first month at site. It was a challenge for me because Kaolack is 3 hours one way by a cramped sept place. Luckily, one of my friends who lives along the main road needed to go to Kaolack as well to use the internet. She lives in a village north of the Route National One and has to walk through 7km through loose sand to get to The RN1, where she finds a car. In Kaolack, I picked up what I had accidently left behind in the regional house, which included my all my cooking supplies, which are now a God-sent because of the family’s lack of variety in meal selection. For the last 5 dinners, we’ve had the same thing.
While I was in Kaolack, my counterpart sent me a text me
ssage telling me his father had passed away. The veteran volunteers weren’t joking when they say we’ll see the full circle of life here in Senegal. I was surprised because my counterpart had told me he was improving. I’m not sure which illness his father had, but I think it may have been Parkinson’s or MS. Fortunately for my counterpart, his father lived in village about 25 kilometers south of Koungheul, just before the Gambia.
Monday afternoon my counterpart invited me to the funeral service. Since he was still in his father’s village, he sent his nephew to my house to escort me to the church. We arrived at the church early and wound up waiting for my counterpart to arrive. While waiting, I found out my counterpart was coming with his father’s body. Shortly thereafter, I heard a car horn and in pulled the church’s white (of course) mini Toyota pick-up with about 10 people sitting in the back. As the pick-up turned around, I noticed a crummy, blue box in the back and then realized it was the casket. I don’t know if this box was an impromptu coffin or meant to appear like this, but it was shaky and had slits in it. It was almost like a box car crate. After being unloaded from the pick-up, the coffin was placed inside the church, in the center aisle, and a short ceremony was given. Then, it was picked up, placed back onto the pick-up and off it went to the cemetery, with the multitude walking behind it.
The grave in the cemetery was already prepared and dug between some already disposed of people, and the crowd gathered around and more prayers were said. At the end, my counterpart’s father was relieved of his coffin and placed, well wrapped in tacky cloth, into the earth. And in the scuttle to place him in the ground, many of the crowd began to press forward to get a look and I noticed people standing on the graves of other people! I told one guy to get off. I’ve given up on respect in formal events here in Senegal.
Tuesday morning my counterpart called me and invited me to the funeral services in his father’s village. He told me to come to his house (which is on the other side of the cemetery) and we would walk to the car that was to take us to his village. After walking for about 10 minutes, we rounded a corner and I saw this “car.” The best was to describe it is to picture a medium sized U-Haul truck with the back converted into a flat bed. Inside cramped 20 people and off we went down the bumpiest, most sandy road I have ever been on. I still have bruised from the bumps. A few kilometers into the trip, we heard a cracking sound and the truck came to a stop. After a close examination, we learned the tire had cracked, which resulted in a two hour sitting fest while we waited for a part to come. Once fixed we took, it was another half hour until we arrived.
Once in the village, there was more waiting. We had to wait for the priest to show up, which took another hour, and when he finally arrived, I wound up waiting even more. I while I waited, I sat inside the hut of my counterpart’s brother and talked with some of the people who obviously came inside to see if there really was a white guy in the village. At some point during my waiting the priest showed up and the family meeting started. I learned this when my counterpart sent me a text message saying he was sorry that he had to be in the meeting. I hadn’t realized he disappeared. After a while my counterpart’s brother comes back into the hut all flustered, and on his heels is my counterpart’s wife. They start talking about something that is going on and the most I can gather is there is some problem between the brother and someone else.
By this point, it’s pushing 6 hours since I last ate and my blood sugar is starting to drop. It’s always been an issue with me, but now it’s worse because the malaria medicine that I take diminishes my circulation. I’m always fidgeting and switching positions because of it. So during a lull, I leave the hut and see if I can find a boutique to buy something. I quickly realize that there aren’t any then, it was realized the white guy has left the hut and needs to be returned. So I am promptly escorted back to my chair inside the hut. At this point, I’m starting to loose feeling in my arms and legs and realize I need to eat. So with my counterpart still trapped in the family meeting, I went to his wife and tried to explain, in French, what was going on and that I needed to eat. Luckily she understood and rounded me up some tasty rice with some mouton. She ate with me as she is still breast feeding and hadn’t eaten in a long time. My counterpart later apologized, but it wasn’t a big deal. I got food.
During my lunch, which by this point is an early dinner, I learned the ongoing issue is between my counterpart’s brother and his sister and their dying father had asked for them to be reconciled. After a few melt downs, I think they did. Though, I’m still not sure. Soon after, the priest gathered everyone around for a short ceremony, and it was nice, aside from the woman who disrupted everyone when she decided to shoo away a duck that started eating the sacrificial rice. Yeah, I know…. Sacrificial rice. They’re Catholic right?
On the way back I rode with the priest in the front seat! It took an hour travel back the 20+ kilometers . And this explains my first Senegalese funeral.
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