2-10-2009

So we returned Sunday night from an intense, overwhelming 4-day trip in a region called Toubacuta about 7 hours South of Dakar. I am still reeling from this experience, and because of the lack of MSID's attempt at discussing our reactions to this trip – I still feel pretty unsatisfied about any conclusions I should come to about the whole ordeal.

Thursday morning we were supposed to arrive at W.A.R.C. At 7:00am. Since Melanie and I live about 30 minutes away from W.A.R.C by foot, Papa Ignace insisted that we hail a cab. The streets were quiet, dark and deserted, especially in our neighborhood because there aren't any street lights. We got into the cab and for 1000 cfa we made it to W.A.R.C by 7:00am on the dot.
What was amusing was that all the girls from the group, 8 of us all together, were all there on time. None of the boys had yet arrived, even the ones who live in the same neighborhood as W.A.R.C. At about 7:20, the boys came and we hopped in the 25-passenger van. There were 14 of us MSID students, Josephine, Wali (the program coordinators), the driver, and 5 male Senegalese students who live in the region to where we were traveling.

About 20 minutes on the road from Dakar, the streets began to become bumpy, full of potholes and the infrastructure disappeared. As far as the eye could see, was flat, dry, yellow grass, still in the heat from lack of wind. This is what I imagined when I thought of stereotypical Africa. Gigantic, twisted baobabs reached into the sky beneath the blazing sun, and stray cattle with menacing horns wandered among the grass. Small groups of goats leaped through the grass. Every once in a while, we saw tiny villages that had no more than 60 people. Women with babies on their back and bowls/baskets on their head stared at us as we drove by, highlighted by a backdrop of cement block huts with rooves made of straw. I didn't think I would see many, if at all, huts like this...at least not so close to Dakar. After having a discussion with one of the Senegalese students sitting next to me, Aba, about the corruption in Senegal, I learned that the government of Senegal doesn't necessarily lack the funds to build up the rest of the country, they simply lack the will. All of the State's funding goes directly to Dakar or Thies, the two largest cities of Senegal.

As we continued, a horrible putrid smell leeked through our cracked windows, and we all covered our noses with whatever was lying around. As we looked out the window to see what the source of the stench was, we saw for miles and miles on either side of the road was basically a field of garbage. Not even animals were seen picking through the mess...and smoke curled up into the sun, as we were told they were doing slow burning to get rid of it. I had wondered where my trash went a few days ago, and I was now seeing where it was being dumped.

After traveling through Kaolac, a city I had heard much about but was very disappointed by, the roads disappeared to make way for gravel. We stopped at Kaolac to get fruit for the trip, and as soon as the car stopped, a swarm of street children encircled the bus. Boys of all heights, between 5 and about 13 years old, wearing a variety of ragged second-hand clothing from the United States. They were fascinated by us, and they were just standing around us as we stood outside next to the bus to stretch out legs. We weren't sure what to do besides waving and smiling at them. Andrew, one of the boys in our group, proceeded to high five them, which they loved.
The city itself had garbage strewn about on the side of the streets in haphazard piles. Horses pulled carts through the streets, ribs protruding from their sides. It wasn't even really a city by U.S. standards...it was only a couple streets long, with short stores and boutiques, and sand for sidewalks. Fruit stands and people selling Orange cards dotted the street, and women selling peanuts and other produce. After about 10 minutes of stretching out feet, we got back in the bus. The boys surrounded our bus and waved in the windows, until all the sudden I noticed them all scattering in a split second, sprinting in all directions. We were really confused until we saw the shop owner with a whip. He was not messing around....we weren't sure if he actually whipped any of the kids, but he had a look in his eyes that he would have. I was extremely bothered by this, and someone shared the story of having seen a police officer beating the crap out of a small girl in downtown Dakar, who was trying to solicit something from a group of tourists. I guess this sort of thing is normal...it doesn't seem like the street kids are treated with respect, and children in general are not valued in the same way that we are used to at home. Many of the kids at the wrestling match were in groups with their friends, parents nowhere to be found. After speaking to Mama Leontine about it the other day, and also mentioning the small girl I saw wandering around in the street the first day I arrived here, she said that communities themselves look out for children. If the little girl I saw, according to her, walked to far, eventually someone would pick her up and take her home. Parents are not particularly strict and paranoid when it comes to their kids.

Around one o'clock, we stopped in a town called Sokone. It apparently was where Professor Sene, (a well-respected university professor and head of MSID) grew up. It was a tiny, dusty compound of huts and buildings, with tall palm streets providing a bit of shade to the goats, chickens, and donkeys that wandered about. We all sat in chairs in a circle under the tree, while a small assembly of villagers began to gather around us. As Professor Sene began to introduce his family to use, including his older brother who was now the chief and taught at the Daara (Koranic school) in the village. He was dressed in a violet, typical Muslim boubou which resembles a oversized robe with no buttons or zipper in the front. He mentioned in Wolof that has four wives, but he only introduced us to the first and second wives. The other two weren't as important. And since each wife had six or seven children, and this did not include cousins and other relatives, needless to say there were a TON of kids.

After about a half an hour of chatting and introducing ourselves with the chief, we were led into the Daara which was the nicest building in the town. We speculated that Professor Sene might have pitched in some of his money to build it for his village. It was one floor, and had one main hallway with rooms off to the sides without any furniture. It smelled like new paint, and it had the nicest bathrooms I have ever seen in Senegal. We were led off to the left into a spacious room with multicolored durable mats on the floor. We took our shoes off at the door and walked in. There was a set of double doors in the back which were opened to let in the light and fresh air. The smell and sound of livestock were strong, but not overwhelming. After playing cards and relaxing, a woman came in with multiple trays full of sweet beignets, which is originally a Belgian thing – fried dough balls that taste like home-made donuts. We ate way too many, and then came in the trays of natural peanuts that still tasted like plants....not like the processed peanuts in jars that you buy from the store. That's what I expected them to taste like...but they had just been shelled, and there was no salt on them.

Then came the food. There were six trays, three of each plate. One was fish and rice, with bell peppers in a dark, sweet and spicy sauce with cassava root (ich...tastes like a potato with a tart aftertaste), eggplant (yum), and this other type of eggplant that looks like those small pumpkin gourds people get during Halloween...very very bitter, I hate it. The other was beef, potatoes, rice with a dark brown peanut sauce.
As is customary, we sat around and ate our section of the plate on the floor, with spoons. We do this at home during lunch. The reason it's interesting, is that it really practices the technique of sharing and being conscientious of others around you. You're expected, at some point, to cut up the food in the center and divide it among everyone around you. If you can't do it on your own (cutting beef with a spoon is sometimes tricky), someone else will immediately use their spoon or hand to hold the piece of meat or vegetable to make it easier. You also are not expected to eat from someone else's pie section, this is pretty rude. At the end of the meal, each person's pie section is lined on either side with a small bit of rice to separate a person's pie section and the person next to them. There is always more than enough to go around, and sometimes the women will come back through and spoon out more rice and sauce.

When we were finished, I tasted ataxia for the first time. Since my family isn't Muslim, they don't take part in the daily, two-hour long activity that is drinking ataaya (Senegalese tea). It basically tastes like drinking the strongest molasses you have ever had, with some bits at the bottom that makes the concoction taste remotely like tea. It was too sweet, and I didn't like it at all. The reason it takes so long, is because there are three steps to the brewing process. The first is the sweetest, and the last cup (shot glass-sized), I guess is mixed with milk. People living in Dakar rarely do the third step.

At some point, I decided I needed to get off on my own. I wanted to see some of the town, and wander off. So I walked out the door and wandered slowly down the sandy road toward a clump of palm trees. As I walked, people about 100 feet away called out “Toubab!” to me from beyond their tall wooden fences as they put out the laundry. I waved and smiled back.

I found a shady spot under a tree, but just as I was about to breathe a sigh of relief at being alone for once, I saw a small girl about 9 or 10 years old walking toward me. She came over and shook my hand, smiling from ear to ear. I tried to speak to her in French, which she should be learning in school at this point, but when I asked her “Comment t'appelles-tu?” she responded “Bien,” meaning she didn't understand my question of “What's your name?” I tried to ask her simple things in Wolof like “Niaata at am nga?” How old are you? And as awkward as it was, I was happy to at least be able to ask her something. She sat next to me in the sand, pressing up against me, obviously really happy to be sitting next to me. When we learned later that white visitors aside from the Peace Corps every once in a while, is a rarity in Sokone, it made sense why she was so fascinated.

Just when I thought it would be ok to at least only have a little girl next to me plus some goats, two more people came over – two young men in their early twenties. I accepted the fact that I wouldn't have any alone time in Sokone. The one had a severe limp, and they said, “Bonjour, ca va?” as they approached. They asked me what I was doing here, etc, and I assumed they missed the ceremony when we first arrived. We chatted for a few minutes, and then I said I should probably be heading back to my group to see if we were about to leave. As we parted ways, they said, “Ba Beneen yoon (Bah benen yone),” See you next time. We waved and split off.

Once we were finished resting, we got back on the bus and waved goodbye to everyone in the village as we pulled out onto the road and left Sokone behind.

We continued on the road for several more hours. The road became so bad that it felt like we were fore-wheeling in the gigantic van, bouncing over potholes and honking the horn at cattle that wandered out in front of us. Finally we reached the “tourist” town of Toubacuta. We put out bags in our rooms, and went for a walk around the town. We went down to the beach and looked out over the water, surrounded by bright green mangroves. A light brown dog trotted after us. We circled around and saw the school which had been built in 1994, and was a series of six small buildings inside a fence with a bare courtyard in the middle. Students from four different villages have to walk to this school, as it is the only one for kindergarten through high school in the area. A few of the Senegalese students who had come down with us, led us to their families to say hello. Kids ran after us and up ahead there were older ones who played soccer. The wind blew through the town every once in a while, kicking up sand in our faces. To the extent that Toubacuta was touristy, was that there were a couple tents with locally-made wooden sculptures and cliché African-style masks, drums. This was where all the French and Belgian tourists come when they want to have a more “authentic” view of traditional African life. In this way, however, it isn't very traditional. But the frequency of this happening was obviously not very often, judging by the kids' reactions to us.

We had dinner at the hotel complex (six huts which included a bathroom with a flush toilet/sink/shower area, a king sized bed and a twin. I chose a hut with Kelsey and Sonya. We ate in their open eating space in the center pavilion, with a bar on one side and a kitchen on the other side with tables in the middle.

We played petank for a while until about 9:30pm. Petank is essentially the exact same game as bocce ball, only the only colors are brown and silver.

Afterward, as we had been discussing all day, we hopped on the bus to go to what we were expecting to be somewhere close by, where we would have a mock wrestling match between Wali and Zach (the tallest kid on the trip). It was listed in the syllabus, and we all got pretty into the idea by the time night came. I became Zach's “coach,” because the other Senegalese students and Waly himself were trash-talking Zach by saying that Wali was undefeated at wrestling because he was Serer (an ethnic group in Senegal), and that Zach wouldn't have a chance. I was helping Zach's cause, and by the time we all got in the bus, everyone on our trip was on Zach's side. Even Zach himself starting trash talking Wali, all in good fun. For all we knew, we were actually going to have a mock, Senegalese-style wrestling match. Other people were even deciding that they would like to fight too.

However, once the bus stopped, we saw hundreds of people milling around outside the bus. There were drum beats and white florescent light that seeped over the top of a high steel gate. Someone said, “I really don't think we're having the wrestling match.” We got out to a swarm of small children who crowded us and pulled on our shirts. We passed through the opening in the gate to see a crowd of people forming a circle in the middle where, illuminated by the soft white glow of the florescent bulbs, were real-life “lutteurs” (wrestlers). Wearing next to nothing, in the traditional cloth and gri-gri's (magic chords/strings/talismans), they strutted around and danced in the middle as the drum beats raged on. It was a mad-house, people shouting and whistling, and young children dancing in the middle as well. We found our way to some openings in the crowd and tried to sit on the sand, but were stopped by a man in a windbreaker and a baseball hat who insisted that we not sit on the ground. Instead, he shooed people away who had been sitting on very conspicuous chairs, about 10 – the only chairs that could be seen anywhere. We insisted that we didn't mind sitting on the sand, but they wouldn't hear it.

The match began and in addition to the drumbeats, a woman's screeching, non-melodious voice pierced the air. For anyone who's heard Indian music and dislike the stylized high-pitched women's voices, you might want to stay away from Senegalese female vocales during a “lutte” match. Vanessa liked the singing, but I couldn't reconcile my love for the cultural experience and the way her voice made my ears practically bleed.

The match itself, especially at the beginning didn't seem to be taken too seriously by the spectators. Two pairs of lutteurs were fighting at once, bent in a perpendicular, head-to-head position, testing each other's mental and physical strength, waiting until the right moment to push the other person down on the sand. The matches themselves didn't take very long, and since it was the beginning, people weren't watching that intensely....until the moment where one of the lutteurs took their opponent and slammed them down on the sand and dislocated their shoulder. Six of the loser's friends surrounded him while he popped it back in place, and they carried him out. Each loser, however, would spent at least two minutes on the ground, making a big spectacle of himself. He would cry, bang his fist on the sand, sit up on his knees and let fistfuls of sand fly out of his hands into the night air in frustration. His friends would eventually come and carry him off. We couldn't figure out if this was just something that was just expected of the loser, as part of the show, of if he was genuinely frustrated. I wasn't sure if, compared to our emotionless standards for men in United States, these men were just so upset that they allowed themselves to break down over their loss. Given the amount of pomp and showing off before their actual match, the whole night was a display of manhood and testosterone...perhaps since the anticipation was built up so much, that when the guy was humiliated, it genuinely resulted in feeling inconsolably crushed. Sometimes it just seemed like too much however, when the loser would kick and resist as he friends would try and carry him out.

In between fights, the drums would go crazy, and anyone from the crowd would get up and dance. Kids as young as 7 or 8 would dance, flinging about their legs and arms in rapid, crazed motions that still matched the beat. The kids were amazing. At one point, however, I noticed Professor Sene grabbing a child by the sleeve and pulling him over in front of us, and telling him to dance. Apparently the kid had some good moves, and the Professor slipped some money in his hand and told him to dance for us. When the kid seemed a bit embarrassed after a few seconds and tried to go away, the Professor pulled him back and told him to keep going. I felt very uncomfortable by this. Not the money thing...apparently it's totally fine and acceptable to give someone money, especially a child to reward him for something. It was the idea that the Professor forced the child to dance for us.

After about an hour, the drummers suddenly picked up and also came in front of us at the request of Professor Sene. In front of 300 people, the drummers were playing just for us, the white visitors. That also bothered me.

Wali then informed us that the singer was singing about us, saying that we've traveled a long way from America and we are welcome in their town, etc. I personally couldn't tell the difference between what she had been screeching about the entire time, and that she was singing about us. What was also weird, is that as the match drew to a close, the wrestlers who had been winning were going to be issued a trophy. I'm not sure what the trophy itself was, but WE were the ones who were chosen to go up in front of everyone and award the winners the trophies. I didn't get to go up, but six of us did. I couldn't understand why were getting singled out and getting all this special treatment. When they pulled us all in the middle of the circle to dance for everyone, I really felt uncomfortable. I just wanted to be a silent observer, and not get any more attention than anyone else. I assumed they were just being hospitable, but I wasn't expecting this kind of forcing into the limelight.

As I was sitting there, I struck up sort of a relationship with the woman next to me, who's children were sitting on the ground at my side. The one little boy was no more than a year and a half, and could barely stand on his own. Considering the match went until 1 am, I was really surprised that people had brought their children of this age and had them stay until the very end. The older child who was holding her brother, kept talking to me and pointing and smiling. I wish I got a picture of her, but I didn't feel right doing that. At the end of the match, she gave me a grapefruit. I had no idea where she got it from, but of course I accepted. I ate it the next morning for breakfast, and even though it was green and white on the inside, it was definitely ripe and was actually a bit sweet.

The wrestler who had been sitting on the ground just next to us, and had been much more dedicated than the others with the superstitious practices (such as the gri-gri's), won the match. He wasn't as tall or as strong as some of the others, but he definitely knew how to win. At one point he was able to just push another wrestler by his shoulders, and his opponent fell to the ground because he wasn't expecting it. As far as the superstitions, he would run to each corner of the ring, put one leg out as he was kneeling, and drew something in the sand. He would also choose, for each round, from his assortment of plastic water bottles filled with a variety of different liquids. The other wrestlers did this as well, but weren't as consistent and extensive as he was. He poured sour milk on himself, some foul-smelling water, fresh blessed water, etc. etc. Then we could even pour sand on himself, which stuck of course. By the end of the night, he was incredibly filthy. He was awarded a pretty large bag of rice, and what was strange, he got into our van and we gave him a ride back to his village on the way. I have a picture of his back, but I'll have to get some better ones from Josh.

We had a slight disagreement on the van, probably because it was late and we were all grouchy, about the match. I had said that it seemed a little weird that all these things seemed to be centered around us, the chairs, the drummers, etc., and people seemed to get defensive that I was saying this. As in, I should just appreciate it as their culture. I dropped it, and found out later that several other people agreed with me, that something seemed set-up.

So the next day, Seth went to talk to Wali and asked if this sort of attention was given to all MSID students at wrestling matches. Wali responded by looking confused, and said, “Well...that entire wrestling match was arranged and paid for by us.” According to Jean-Marie, my host brother, you can't even watch wrestling in the villages during the dry season...so the entire thing was a set-up. My suspicions had been correct. Wali also told Seth that because “Americans tend to get bored”, some of the dancing and other entertainment was added for our satisfaction. I felt sort of betrayed, because all of us had sort of considered ourselves as anthropologists, sort of, as guests in a local village activity...how much of it was real, and how much of it was put on for us toubabs, as entertainment?

When Wali told the group later, everyone claimed after a few minutes of shock, that it wasn't important anyway to know ahead of time that it was arranged by us. I totally disagree. I'm not sure what you guys think, but my American background dictates that I expect honesty and directness at all times. I don't like to feel like I'm participating or watching one thing, only to later find out that it wasn't what I thought it was at all.

We went back to the hotel complex and went into our rooms. Sonya, Kelsey and I stayed up for another hour or so talking, so as a result, in the morning when we woke up at 8:00am, we were exhausted. Apparently everyone else was similarly run-down, after our long drive the day before and late night. Therefore, after we had our breakfast (typical Senegalese breakfast.....baguette with butter/jam/chocolate/etc, and coffee/tea), when we arrived at the bay to chat with the head of the fishing project in Toubacuta, I could barely stay awake. Once he began to speak French with a heavy accent, the mental fatigue set in, and I nodded off. When I woke up every few minutes, I saw at least four other people also with their eyes closed, chin in their hand. For those of us who are really good at French (Henry, Sonya and Brendon), it wasn't that much trouble for them to understand the guy and they stayed awake. When we got back on the bus, they gave us a debriefing. We learned that Korean/Japanese industries had come in and paid for the entire operation in Toubacuta, in exchange for fishing rights. As a result, most of the fish are gone from the water. As a response, the government is going to start issuing fishing licenses – therefore, this targets poor fishermen in the area who have fished for centuries. They won't technically be allowed to fish, in order to give the fish in the water a chance to reproduce. Instead of harnessing the influence of the Korean industry, the poor fishermen are the ones who suffer. They argued that they will still continue to fish, despite not having licences, because their livelihood depends on fish.

We then went to another village where we were made to wait half an hour for who knows what, and when we filed into a small room and sat on white plastic chairs, two men came in and began to drone on in nearly incomprehensible French about education. Again, I snoozed....along with some of the Senegalese students. Of course some of the Americans were sleeping as well. I was expecting some sort of tour of wherever we were, instead of this sort of interactive experience, they just talked and talked. There was time for questions, but no one had any. I felt bad, but we also said that they should have been more conscientious of how tired we would all be, when they organized our field trip activities. Back in the van.

We then drove down a dirt road through a grassy meadow full of boabobs and cashew trees and found ourselves at the water. We waited for over 30 minutes for the guy to get the canoes (pirogues), and we split up between them. I was expecting a nice quiet canoe trip, but no....after about a minute, the Senegalese students and Wali began to sing Wolof songs. They would get up in the boat and stomp and dance, making the boat tip slightly from side to side. They were repetitive songs, which they incessantly forced us to sing. We were annoyed on the way there, but on the way back, we joined in. One of the songs included some words that meant clap your hands either 10 or 4 times, and whoever was leading the song would try and trick everyone into clap more times. A little like Simon Says...we felt like we were in summer camp again:). Another song went “J'ai oublie mon Chaya....J'ai oublie mon Chaya....a la maison” (I forgot my pants...I forgot my pants...at the house). I am still singing that song in my head. Or “Dans mon coeur...dans mon coeur....je vais chanter __name___ dans mon coeur!” (In my heart, in my heart...I will sing (name) in my heart!) I only remember the French songs, the Wolof ones were much harder to learn, in my opinion. At one point on the way there, and practically the entire way back, the two canoes were racing each other while the Senegalese students and MSID students in each canoe competed by singing louder than the other. It got a bit ridiculous, as each of us stood up and danced as well to incite the people on the other canoe. It was fun.

We also saw a bunch of military personnel doing swimming training in the water next to us, fully clothed, some of them wearing blue goggles, as their officer watched them from a boat. We waved to them and they waved back.

We arrived at a sandy beach, with bright green mangroves everywhere. We climbed up and walked barefoot through the sand until we found a small bamboo pavilion where a man in army print waited stiffly for us. We sat down at long tables and listened to him speak about the environmental project he was in charge of, which was in place to save the mangroves. It was in this reserve, where it is illegal to fish or cut the mangrove plants. The mangroves are dying all across the river, so this project started in the early 2000's. I asked if the project had been successful so far, and what the specific results are, and he said that they have increased personnel (which are unpaid), the number of fish/fish species have increased significantly, etc. There supposedly also manatees which are endangered.

We walked around among the mangroves, down on the beach. I noticed thousands of tiny fish using the mangrove roots as hiding places. I tried to take a picture but it didn't come out.

We walked all the way back, I was barefoot, my feet totally covered in mud and sand. We walked across a desolate mud pit with a layer of salt on the surface, which is full of water when it's the rainy season. We saw a monkey far in the distance, and I think Andrew got a picture.

After we returned to the bus, we went back to the hotel. We ate dinner, I showered, then we went to a dance show. Wali assured us this time that it WAS arranged, was I suppose was better to know this time.

We arrived, and it was a similar set up to the wrestling match; conspicuous chairs for us, a sandy middle area, and hundreds of people around the circle. When I stepped off the bus, of course the children were everywhere, but there was this one little girl in a pink dress who came up next to me and took my hand, as if she already knew me. I asked her name, and she said her name was Fatama. When we approached our chairs however, someone reached out and pulled her away from me. I lost her in the crowd.

Most of us sat on the chairs, but since there weren't enough for everyone, I sat on the ground. The show began with a dance troupe who we were informed weren't Serer (the ethnic group of the village), but Mandigue. There was about 12 dancers, people in awesome shape in their early twenties. It involved heavy drum beats, one of the girls singing in the typical style, and fast-paced rhythmic moves. Then there were fire eaters and stilt walkers, which I thought was a bit excessive. Especially when the fire eater started putting the stones which were on fire into his pants, where we saw it still burning. He also set them up in a line, and scooted around on his butt between the flames, which I was sure his clothes would catch on fire. Then a white guy came out with dread locks, and began to juggle torches. It was pretty cool, I must admit, and the crowd went wild. After all of this, the drums continued and I realized it was open-dance time. For the next hour and a half at least, random people came out from the spectators to have the entire center to themselves. I could not believe the dance skills of the average person. It was amazing.

At one point however, I was a bit struck by some women who began to take the moves to a whole new level. They began to sort of compete, one after the other, using their sexuality as dance moves. It involved the women getting on all fours and shaking their behinds in the air. At one point a woman got down on the ground and began gyrating her hips. It was explicit and didn't leave much room for the imagination. It was difficult to detach myself from my Puritan-influenced, Western ideas of what's appropriate when it comes to public dancing. I guess when one compares the dancing that is done is clubs in the United States, it really wasn't all that much worse – I suppose it was just because there were small children around...but I suppose they were too young to even understand the adult concepts that were attached to these moves.

Of course, at some point, we were forced to dance together in front of everyone. It wasn't so bad, I was forced pretty quickly to get over my stage fright. Then they pulled us up one at a time to dance on our own in front of everyone. At some point when the group was dancing, Fatama ran up to me again, and said “C'est moi! C'est moi, Fatama!” and I said “Yes, I remember you!” I took her hands and we danced together for a bit, which was cute. Everyone was like, “We're so jealous! You made a friend!” She came back to sit next to me, along with another little boy who I discovered later, wasn't actually her brother or any relation as I had assumed. She sat on my lap for the rest of the show, holding my hands and at one point falling asleep on my chest. Her hair was dusty and her skin also had a thick layer of dust. Maybe this sounds creepy, but for some reason it was comfortable and cute. She had really cold hands. Everyone here is cold all the time, and wears heavy winter coats and sweatshirts all the time, because they are used to 100+ degree weather. Low 80's is considered frigid. I was amazed by the reality of this...while I was sitting there in a tank top and a light jacket, and was sweating, she was ice cold. I just could not understand where her parents were, and why her mother wasn't coming to look for her. Maybe she didn't have parents.

When I left, both her and the boy, Mamadou, came with us to the bus and waved goodbye until we pulled off.

When we got back to the hotel around 1:00am, the boys all went to sleep, and the girls asked Margaretta (who was born and spent part of her childhood in Liberia, so she is somewhat familiar with African-style dance), to give us some lessons. We knew we were scheduled to go out dancing the next night, and we were really inspired to learn some African style dancing. So we stayed outside in the courtyard for about 30 minutes learning one or two moves. They included moving your knees simultaneously in an outward circular motion, while also moving your rear end in a circle. This didn't even touch the arms. Needless to say we looked ridiculous, but it was still fun.

The next day after breakfast, we drove about 20 minutes away to a small village for what we knew to be a talk on a women's micro finance organization. Of course there were children everywhere when we arrived, barefoot and dusty, wild eyed and curious. Wali told us later that no Peace Coors volunteers or government representatives (even though there is a supervisor in Toubacuta), had ever visited this particular village – so this was the first time they had seen white people face-to-face. Goats ran rampant, and dust blew into our faces from all around. The sun was high and hot as we waited for the women to “prepare.” Some people from inside a darkened house called to use from the window. We talked to them for a minute and then when they decided the conversation was over they said, “ok, a toute a l'heure!” (Ok, see you later!)

Finally, Wali came out and split us up into two groups. Me, Henry, Josh, Nellie, Kelsey, Brendon and Seth walked about five minutes away down a pretty wide sand road overshadowed by a huge baobab. Straw huts lined our paths, as well as a house made of scrap sheet metal. We arrived at a large tree covered in leaves, which served as the second most shady spot in the village. There were chairs for us students, for Walli, and for about six women dressed in their most colorful African boubous. There were giant logs that also served as seating for the throng of villagers who congregated to see what all the fuss was about. The ceremony began after a few moments, where each of us (as we had done in Sokone), introduced ourselves in Wolof:

Salaam maleikoum, Danielle la tuddu. Ciribassi la sant. Maangi jang komkom ci universite ci Dakar. Maangi joge Chicago ci Amerik. Jereujef.
(Peace be upon you. My name is Danielle. Ciribassi is my family name. I am studying economics at the university in Dakar. I come from Chicago in the United States. Thank you).

We proceeded by listening to Wali translate from Wolof into French about when the Micro finance group was established (2003), how many women are in it, etc. Then we were free to ask questions. One at a time we students asked Wali our questions in French, which he would translate into Wolof for us. After the women answered them in Wolof, he would then translate into French for us. We asked questions about membership fees, what they do with the loans they receive from local credit mutuals and how they decide who gets a loan. They each put in a certain amount of money each month, they also do petty commerce, and get loans from mutuals in order to help each other fund projects. It was pretty difficult to make sense of it all in French when there was so much vocabulary I wasn't familiar with, such as interest rates. Surprisingly, when I asked what the consequences were for women who didn't help pay back the loan, they said it never happens – that the women always pay back the loan in full. I suppose the social collateral is more effective than asset collateral: the women's dignity is at stake, and also it's basically like stealing money from your neighbor if you don't help pay back what you borrowed. Since they don't have any asset collateral, however, they have a difficult time getting real financing from banks and other financial institutions in Senegal. Oftentimes, if possible, one of the wealthier people in the town puts their house, etc, as collateral for the women. Also, they don't focus on the women as much as individual entrepreneurs; instead, they often pool all the money together and buy some more farmland that all the women can work on together and share the benefits. They said the solidarity of their community was the most important thing.

Something worth remembering for myself, was when I asked an elderly woman next to me something in Wolof, and she understood me. This was really a small victory for me. There was a donkey tied to a tree in the near distance, baying painfully. It wouldn't stop. I turned to the woman and said, “Da fa marr?” (Is it thirsty?) She smiled in surprise and said, “Wow, da fa marr.”

After about an hour and a half of question-answer session, Wali asked if there were any other questions. I said, “Est-ce qu'elles ont des questions pour nous?” (Do they have any questions for us?) He laughed and when he translated, the women laughed as well. But it caused a stir of murmuring among the women, so it turned out that evidently they did have a lot to ask.

They began by asking us why we were there, and what we were planning to do to help them. Wali laughed and offered to tell them we didn't know how to answer this question. None of the students had anything to say about it right away, so I piped up and said, “Well, we are here to study the system you use to help yourselves. We want to learn how it works, how it's successful, and perhaps some of the problems you have. We can learn more about this in school, and then use what we've learned from you, to share the information all over the world for people in other countries who are having similar difficulties.” Yes – that was all in French. You are free to clap if you want:)

When Wali translated this into Wolof, the women began to smile and nod. Then they began to look at me and smile. I suppose it was a good answer. Then the other students began to think of reasons why we were here, and how we could help. I believe it satisfied their curiosity. I couldn't understand why Wali hadn't told them ahead of time why we were coming, when he had set up the meeting. Oh well, it worked out.

When we concluded the meeting and stood up, everyone swarmed around us. Two women in particular told Wali to tell me something, and he said, “Ces femme veulent te dire que t'es leur amie.” (These women want to tell you that you're their friend.) I smiled and introduced myself again to them and shook their hands. They smiled back, and pointed to my camera, insisting that I take a picture with them. So I did. As soon as the children saw the camera, they went berserk. The women as well, at seeing for the first time, their image on the camera, went a little crazy. We proceeded back down the long sandy road toward the van, followed by at least 50 small children. They put peanuts into my hands, to the point where I couldn't hold them all. I have a ton of photos from these kids, who couldn't get enough of the photos. A woman came out of nowhere and pushed the kids away from swamping us, and put them in sort of an organized position and told them to sit still while I took a picture.

We then ate lunch in one of the buildings. After we ate, the toubabs among us sitting on cinder blocks, I realized I had to pee. Not having yet encountered this, I feel it necessary to mention – and brag- that yes, I peed in a hole. They had these outhouse things that you would see if you were camping, with a hole and a teapot. The worst part was just holding myself up that long to not fall in – it's really a leg workout. And I'm really glad I was wearing a skirt.

After we had oranges, bananas and ataaya, we then got onto the bus and drove away, waving at all the kids who chased after the bus.

The next stop was another village about 20 minutes away. We got out of the van and avoided the cattle with the frighteningly long horns, and surrounded the well. Walli spoke about the quality of the well water, which isn't very high. The problem is, the well is the only source of water in the town – it never goes dry, this isn't the problem – the problem is that the well isn't covered. Small animals, dust and people who commit suicide make their way into the well, and since there isn't a way to retrieve it, the people are forced to just drink the water anyway. They also are not aware of this information; they don't know that rotting organic matter is very bad for your health. The government doesn't bother to inform them, even though all it would take it covering the well with a tarp. Of course by this point there were about 30 small children gathering around behind us. When Walli was finished and we started to walk away, the children all leaned over the well to see what in the world we had been looking at down there.

We then proceeded to go through the entire ceremony again with the chief of the village. Introductions, translations, and questions. There were a lot more people gathered at this village, at least 60 people. The woman constantly stared at us, and this little girl behind me was touching my hair every once in a while and giggling with her friends. The kids were very unruly this time, kept talking and whispering until the chief had to tell them all to quiet down multiple times. We asked a bunch of questions (of course not mentioning the well water), about development. When Kelsey and I asked about maternity and general health care, the villagers erupted in laughter. The closest health center 5 kilometers away, and it just has basic health care (nutrition, basic medication, vaccines, etc). Any serious health problems would have to be taken to Dakar. It's obvious that this wouldn't be possible. We were almost a little embarrassed for asking the question...and a bit confused by their reaction. It was as if we had said a hilarious joke.

After the meeting, the villagers insisted that they take us on a tour of their village. We split up into groups again, and I went with the group who went to see the chief. He had been sick that day, so there had been a stand-in chief at the ceremony. We went into his cement hut, where there was a bed, dressers, everything you would normally find in a bedroom....except the dirty women calendar on the wall behind his bed. :) When we learned he had three wives, this was even more amusing.

The wives took us to their bedrooms, one for each of them. Their own respective children sleep in their mother's bedroom – and the girls sleep with their mother until they're married, even if they're spinsters and don't get married until their late 30's. This is to protect their chastity/dignity, to make sure they don't get pregnant.

We went in and out of the buildings in a crowd of people following us. Then, some of the kids pointed to a puppy who had wandered over by us. He was adorable...I started petting him and put my fingers in his mouth, which he started suckling on. He wasn't big enough to have teeth yet. The kids stopped talking and watched me curiously, and couldn't understand the way I was touching the dog. I haven't yet mentioned this, but the way Senegalese people conceptualize living things other than people, is completely different than in the U.S. One of the students in our group had a friend who was staying in St. Louis (the old French capital of Senegal), and they had been looking on the roof nearby where she lived, and she saw a group of young children who were torturing a kitten. (Cat's are never pets...they're always strays...sometimes they get into our house in Dakar, and no one seems to mind it, because they eat the mice). The girl had watched while the kids proceeded to smash the kitten to bits with a rock, while their parents stood around nearby, not seeming to be bothered by this in the least bit. One of Andrew's host brothers , demonstrated to him how he whips cats with the hose out in the backyard. No one seems to care here when cats screech and scream in pain nearby in the street, which happens all the time. I've stopped wondering what's happening to them. Dogs run around on painful broken legs, limping pitifully and whimpering a little. Veterinarians don't exist, needless to say, except maybe a couple in Dakar for the few wealthy people who keeps animals as pets. In a Muslim household, keeping pets is seen as dirty. Animals are creatures that belong outside. Therefore, I haven't been that shocked to only see two instances the entire time I've been here, of people walking their dogs. One case included Siberian Huskies....in Africa....in a city. Not a good place for huge dogs with fur who need a lot of space to run around.

Anyway, when I decided to pick up the puppy, the kids were really dumbfounded. The puppy kicked and resisted a bit, having never been held in this way, but eventually he calmed down and was still. As the kids watched, I told Wali to translate into Wolof that my parents are “animal doctors.” He smiled, and when he translated, the women and the kids who were standing around talked amongst themselves. In a place where healthcare doesn't even exist for people, they had a hard time wrapping their minds around the concept where animals would get healthcare. When I put the puppy down, I hoped that the kids had taken note about the right way to treat animals...and maybe they wouldn't abuse it.

That night, we went out to a “bar” in town about two minutes away in Toubacuta. It was a small space with speakers, as well as a small place to buy drinks in the back. It was only $2 to get in, which was not bad. We danced the same way the Congolese dance, where everyone stands in a circle, and one by one people go out in the middle and do something, then return to the outside. This is a lot of fun, after you get over the fear of being judged. Josh is getting really good at Senegalese style dancing, the getting real low and bouncing your knees in and out. I tried it as well and everyone clapped and cheered. Some of the guys in the group are actually really good at formal dancing, so during a slow song, they danced with us girls. The Senegalese guys at the club weren't as bad as I thought they would be in terms of trying to hook up with us, except for this one guy who was wearing a white t-shirt and a baseball cap. But since the girls had given the guys in our group a pep talk before we went to the club, to keep an eye on us and if they see us in a sticky situation, that they should come rescue us – we didn't have to worry. As soon as the guy, who had been dancing to my right, put his hand on my hip – which I immediately brushed away - Zach swooped in and took me away to dance. When the guy persisted with Kelsey and took her outside, Henry had some words with him, after we all went over and asked if she wanted to go inside and dance again. He stopped trying after that. It was a great night though, we all had a lot of fun.

The next day, before we left, we went to see something called concurant. We had no idea what it was previous to going, and it wasn't on the syllabus. Walli just said mysteriously, that it was “traditional.” Kelsey and I went back to our room to get something, and when we came back out, everyone had already left. So we went with one of the Senegalese students, who had agreed to take us to the group.

We walked down the road toward the sound of a drum beat. However, as we started to get close, Mbomb (his nickname) started acting really bizarre. He said he was afraid to go any further, and asked if we could go the rest of the way on our own. We asked him why, and he said he was afraid. Afraid of what?, we asked. He said something about fire, and said since he was black, they would beat him if he didn't “do something.” We were really confused. We said, stop joking around, and when we realized he was seriously not coming with us....we asked if we should also be afraid, and what was going on. He said would be fine because we're white.

Kelsey and I laughed it off uncomfortably and continued on. After having a little trouble locating the group, we found ourselves in the forested part of town just before the land dips into the water. The forest was crawling with men and boys from the village, who were all in good spirits. Once we arrived, we saw Mbomb, who was laughing at the joke he had pulled on us, making us scared. We weren't happy. The men and the boys all had machetes, and were chopping at the underbrush and at tree branches. Random fires had been started all over, as well as items such as tires. The smoke was very hard to take, and the heat was overwhelming. Three drummers filled the air with an intense beat, as the men worked. The women walked around with buckets of water. We assumed this was some tradition that used the control burning as not only a community building activity, but a way to restore nutrients into the soil. As we looked into the trees, we saw a man dressed in an orange, almost furry costume (like dreadlocks) – someone said he looked like Chewbacca from Star Wars. This man was the concurant himself. He was carrying a whip. This is what Mbomb was talking about when he said he would get beat if he didn't do it. Any man that was slacking off in his work in the woods, risked getting caught by the concurant and getting whipped. Judging by everyone's joviality however, I don't think this actually happens, or else people would be more worried about it.

After this, we presented on our own specific track back at the hotel pavilion. I did micro finance with Henry, Josh and Kelsey along with two Senegalese students. However, since we were the only group that had never had a class with which to draw data, we had to rely on what was said with the women. Given that Henry was the only one who really got everything that was said, because it was in complex French, we were all a bit confused. I had a hard time presenting as well because Henry had written the notes and points for our presentation, and I wasn't sure what he meant by the point he had designated for me to talk about in French. I wish I had been more like Josh, who just gave Henry's notes back and spoke on his own, off the top of his head. I think that would have been easier.

Then we got back on the bus and exchanged email addresses with some of the Senegalese students who weren't coming back to Dakar with us. Then we were on our way again. After only stopping for a bathroom break and to buy fruit, for the next 7 hours we were on the bus to Dakar. I shared my mp3 player ear bud with Edy (one of the Senegalese students), as the rest of the van was listening to their own music and he hadn't brought anything to do. He really liked some of the songs I played, which was cool.

We knew we had arrived in Dakar by the smell. We kind of forgot that Dakar smells like car exhaust and rotten eggs. Horses were in a ditch that had garbage in it, tied to a stick, eating garbage and drinking water out of a tire. About 40 live chickens had been strapped down in a mesh covering on the top of someone's car, while they flailed about. Trucks with sacks of grain towered 15 feet high soared by us, along with car rapids, and taxis. We were home.

We got to WARC at a little after 7:30pm. Melanie and I hailed a taxi and were home by around 8:15. The family had waited on us for dinner, and were happy to see us again. I shared my pictures after we showered and ate, and had a pretty interesting conversation with Ignace about development, and the government's role (or lack of role) in this sort of endeavor in Senegal.