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.