Yesterday around 5 o'clock, we were invited to go see a presentation that the French students were putting on summarizing the work they'd been doing for the past six days. I wasn't particularly thrilled, but it was better than sitting at home, and I was craving listening to a language I actually understood.
So we showed up to their “logement”, their hotel...sort of. It was the same sort of set up that we had in Toubacouta, with individual huts. It was a pretty nice set up, lots of flowers and trees...not exactly natural for Fatick. Yaay, her sister (another one...it's Seydou's Mom, visiting from Matam...she works for U.S. AID there), and the second cassiere/maid...I forgot her name, and me walked into this central multipurpose room where a projector was set up, as well as a few chairs. All three women had dressed up for the occasion, wearing colorful pointy high heeled shoes, colorful outfits, and makeup. I knew better, and wore jeans...of course the French kids were wearing the typical hippie beatnik apparel...a button-down plaid shirt, holey jeans, hippie skirts, or balloon pants with sandals. Of the 20 or so French students that were milling about, 3 came over and said hello to us.
We sat down and waited half an hour for the students to get their act together. They finally turned on their presentation and began. More Senegalese began to fill up the room after about an hour, typically African style. It didn't bother me one bit, and in fact I expected it...found it completely normal. We were even 20 minutes late, and I wasn't surprised.
Almost immediately I realized that this presentation was not going to go over well. I found in continually patronizing, condescending, and sometimes downright wrong. These students and their adult leaders had truly misrepresented the micro finance organizations in Fatick, and their role in social economic development. After the first half an hour, I knew “shit was going to hit the fan” during question and answer time. Here are some examples:
Without ever even having asked this question, the students had assumed that no concrete written manuel existed. Of course it does...there are manuels for every level of organization; for the groups of women, for their regional and district membership, and for the mutuelle. During question and answer time, Yaay tried to tell the students that they did in fact have a manual. The students talked really slowly to her, as if speaking to a five year old, pointing to the PDIF manual (the Belgian NGO to which they belong, to which they were presenting their “research”) and said, “Yes, but we want to make sure that what you're actually doing, corresponds directly to a tangible list of guidelines – like this one here – and that its consistent, and that all women have access to the information inside the manual.” Yaay responded, “Of course we do – and of course the women have access to it!” The girl looked at her for a moment and said, “You mean to tell me that all women know there is a manual?” “YES!” Then they proceeded to say that they need a 'standard' method of penalizing women who haven't paid, etc. etc., and what the interest rates are. “We have those too! They ARE standardized!! I'll show you the manual!” Aiyaya....
There was a comment in the “Negative critiques,” that “It seems like the women's groups are not very well organized. It seems like the same women are presidents of their groups and the mutuals...this is thereby a conflict of interest, and may prevent women from climbing up the social ladder. We also believe there is a blockage of information at the top, and that women at the base don't have access to information.” This assumption is total B.S. - I've only been here 2 weeks and even I know this is B.S. I have no idea where they got this from. The only accurate statement is that Madame Sow/Yaay, IS indeed the president of her women's group, and also the president of the mutuelle where I work. This does not mean, in this culture, that there is a conflict of interest, or that she hoards information. This simply means in the Senegalese society of which I am rapidly understanding and becoming a part of, certain women are dynamic, charismatic, smart women which have spent years gaining respect and trust from women in the community. For this reason, she has a long and dedicated rapport of being honest, diligent and dignified in the community – women trust her, they WANT her in these positions. Also, these positions are VOTED on, by the women at the base. It is these very women who elected her. Also, some of these women do not want to advance up the social ladder, which is difficult for us Westerners to comprehend – and obviously these French students. Some women at “the base” have absolutely no interest in one day becoming President of their group. Especially the fact that Madame Sow, for example, has a French oral/written skill level that allows her to express herself and communicate ona level that far surpasses the majority of the women in her group. This is why she's perfect for the job.
Also, the information DOES, indeed, filter down from the president to the other members...why the French kids assumed the Madame Sow hoards information from the other members is completely beyond me. She got pretty passionate at this point in defending herself after the presentation, making sure they understand that ALL members are invite and participate in every meeting...and that no information is kept from anyone. It's a truly Senegalese mentality – everyone shares, and we're all in this together. Maybe it's related to poverty, as in...”we are better off working together and trusting each other, than we are alone.” This concept is alien to us, and the French, because we don't “need” anyone in the West...we all have money, and it's every man for himself. The French kid's assumption that information gets blocked and not passed on, and the presidents might be intentioned or selfish – makes perfect sense in their own society, where individualism reigns. But not here. Here everyone is in it together....they have to be in this world.
In regard to the level of French; the majority of women who were there last night, do not speak French very well. There was also a problem of comprehension. They probably understood less than me with regard to the presentation – for whatever reason, the French kids had made the relationships between the women's groups, to their districts, to the mutuelle, to PDF extremely and unnecessarily complicated – which I've noticed, tends to be standard in making you seem smarter than you are by Western ideals...somehow more professional or something. Their flowcharts and graphs were filled with arrows and lines and labels...and they zoomed through them without much of an explanation. Even I had trouble comprehending what they were talking about. But this just succeeded in confusing the women, who needed to be explained in Wolof by Madame Sow time and time again. They also used some English words, which only I knew and had to explain to everyone else...like “empowerment.” Why they chose to use this word is beyond me. Even Madame Sow had some issues with some French words like “fongabilite,” and “clientalisme.” She had to ask after the presentation what the heck those words meant.
They also had a slide where they divided up by the percentage of women they spoke to who chose to do agricultural activities with the money they borrowed, as opposed to women who chose to do “petit commerce” (petty commerce...like selling peanuts, etc). 70% of the women they spoke to chose petit commerce, while only 30% of the women chose to do agriculture. The French students presented this fact like it was a bad thing. They said the reason that less women choose to do agriculture MUST be because the length of the “montant”, the sum of the loan, is not long enough to incorporate time needed to pay back a loan. For example, a woman won't benefit financially from her crop until the harvest, which is at least 6 months after she borrowed the money. They were presenting this fact as though it was something to be rectified - “you women must do this this and this so that more women will be inclined to do agriculture.” While this might be the case for a minority of the women, the French kids overlooked a vital component to the situation. The month of April, which we're in now, is the “saison seche.” (the Dry Season). Fatick is full of sand, hardly any green...the horses and goats at pasture eat nothing but yellowed, dead grass that poked up from cracked, dry earth. There is nothing here. Of COURSE the women are not going to choose to do agricultural activities with the money they've received on credit....they wouldn't be able to pay it back. Why would they start these activities now? If the French students had come back during “l'hivernage,” or the rainy season, they would see quickly that many more women would want to start agricultural projects. They “didn't think of this.”
There was the same problem with their suggestion that women “diversify” the petit commerce activities they choose to do...too many women choose to sell peanuts, for example. This may be true...but after 6 days, did they really get a sense of what kind of materials are AVAILABLE in Fatick? The amount of 'stuff' that is available to buy...material for fabric, for example, even food ingredients...is severely lacking, even in comparison to Dakar – which is nothing compared to Europe and the United States – what the French kids were used to. We (Westerners) take for granted the amount of “stuff” that is available to us at our fingertips, at our ever beckoned call. All we have to do is jump in our car and drive at maximum half an hour to get anything that our hearts desire, anything we can imagine. This is simply not the case here in Fatick, and Senegal in general. I've started get used to not having options, not being able to buy...it's just not possible. It's just not HERE. This is why we had to drive two hours to a market in the middle of the country to get corn, peanuts and millet last weekend...its not something the local supermarket has a plentiful stock of. There is no such thing as a local supermakret here, like there was in Dakar. If a woman wanted to start a new activity, she would have to find a way to import/bring materials here to Fatick, which she could manipulate and sell. Most of the time this just isn't a plausible, realistic option...which is why women turn to selling peanuts, something that's familiar, quick and easy. If the French kids really want to help, they should have figured out a way to transport raw materials more effectively, to give the women more options for petit commerce. But someone that is only here for six days wouldn't understand the way this society/culture functions well enough to consider this factor.
They used the word “pauvre” an awful lot, which started to aggravate me. This means “poor.” As in “Fatick is one of the poorest regions in Senegal, and the women here are really poor.” While this is true, I'm not sure why they had to say this right in front of the women attending their presentation.
There was a bullet point that said, “What are these women going to be after PDIF leaves? Will they even be able to continue their groups?” This was under the category of “negative observations.” They implied rhetorically by this point, that because the women's groups are so “mismanaged” and “disorganized,” by European standards. (I'm pretty sure they got this impression after coming to our house to speak to the women in Yaay's group, remember how I was describing how the women were laying around on the ground with their shoes off? That they were acting a bit too comfortable, compared to the French students). They said it was obvious that major changes needed to be put in place so that when PDIF stops funding their credit, they will still be able to function. They were quite content that they were right in this assumption...and proceeded to give inappropriate suggestions of how the women should “better manage” themselves. Mind you, they came to this conclusions after 6 days...and about an hour of questioning per group. Madame Sow 'reacted' to this very strongly. She said that the mutuelle and the women's groups existed long before PDIF came to “help”...and they functioned fine without it. They relied on rotating credit, which limited the activities they could do because there just wasn't a lot of money going around. Which is why PDIF was a good change...they could dump 30 million CFA into the system they already had in place which allowed for more activities to be done. It gave the women more flexibility. BUT – this does not mean that the Europeans that ran PDIF helped the “poor Africans” figure out how to organize themselves...they had figured this out long before they had even been there.
The whole presentation was bullshit, pardon my French. They women asked me later why I hadn't spoke up to defend them – we all were relying on Madame Sow to speak for us (me and the women), because our French wasn't good enough. I said I didn't want to speak because first of all, the girls had laughed at me when I tried to speak French...and also, I've only been here 2 weeks, I'm not exactly an authority on the matter. So instead, I had taken notes about the presentation, and I whispered the points to Madame Sow, to which she enthusiastically shook her head and said, “Yes, Yes, there was that...thank you, I'd forgotten,” and she would address for me. We made a good team, and she continually high-fived me. She was speaking for everyone, about 6 women who knew her, altogether, who trusted her to represent their opinions.
Of course, this made her seem like a ranting, raving madwomen. Her passionate way of speaking in general...no matter what the subject is (she yells about Seydou spilling water, as if she's giving a speech to thousands of passionate spectators, gestures, facial expressions, etc)...so if you can try and imagine an intimidating African women intensely 'correcting' the French students, point by point, in the traditional half an hour time it takes to do so....the French kids looked really upset. Their leader, an obvious ex hippie woman with gray hair down to her waist, kept saying, “Please, please, let me finish....just know that this is a work in progress...we mustn't get upset..” to which Madame Sow would respond, “I'm not upset, I just need you to know the reality...I need you to correct this, and accurately represent what's going on with us.” At one point she steamrolled over the same French girl who had laughed at my French when they were at the mutuelle conducting the interview, who then promptly turned red...and when the focus was off her, she went outside to smoke and cry. I didn't even feel bad for her...after working with tons of overconfident, strong, intelligent women...the fact that this little French girl couldn't hold her own and defend her own research just irritated me.
Afterward, in the car ride home, all four of us spoke in rapid French-Wolof in frustration. Madame Sow high fived me again, recognizing that we had been partners in crime. I asked her if the presentations that PDIF does every year is like this....she said yes. EVERY YEAR, arrogant, patronizing French kids descend from on high to “evaluate” what these women do...and after 6 days, they think they understand it enough to criticize. And they never do. Who do they think they are? Even I don't know the vast majority of the way the micro finance system works around here, and I've been here much longer than these French kids have...and I don't even pretend that I do, much less make a presentation about it with “suggestions.”
The worst part was, that these kids were not trying to be rude or mean. They honestly thought they were here with positive intentions, “helping out.” They honestly seemed utterly confused and hurt and shocked when the Senegalese women passionately refuted all the hard work they had done. I link this to the age-old mentality that has existed in Europe since missionary/slavery/colonial times....European's presence in Africa, whatever the form – religious, social or economic – has been seen as patronage. As a way that Europeans can “aid” the lesser race, the inferior black man who “can't figure it out on his own.” Even economic exploitation during colonialism was justified, and honestly believed by most Europeans, as a “service” to Africa....that without European influence in selling their precious resources and commodities “for them,” the Africans wouldn't have the know-how or initiative to do it on their own. The Europeans at least now recognize that they have screwed things up here beyond recognition – a genuine example of FUBAR – but even as Africans themselves, are trying to fix it, themselves, with dignity...Europeans STILL think they need to come down here and analyze, get involved, “help out.” It's still an idea of patronage, (patronizing patronage), but one that now takes the form in our modern era of humanitarian work...in the form of NGO's. If there is one thing I've learned since I've been in Fatick, is that these are competent human beings. They don't need these ridiculous jaded French kids telling them how to run their business, which is something they've been doing in this city since the mid 80's. And it's working for them. It's helped countless women.
The only different, and the only way I am justifying to myself working for US AID or another international aid organization like it, is that these organizing work WITH locals. American employees are installed on a semi-permanent, two year basis. They do not come down for 6 days a year to analyze, type up a report, and leave. The people live here, work with locals, and the locals are permanent employees. They also work with sustainable, durable activities. They understand the culture and what will actually benefit the society; they don't rely on ideas that have worked for Europe or the U.S. Systematic regulatory restrictions and manuals are not what holds groups together in this country, although they also rely on this in the case that a woman has “malintentions,” or does not respect the rules. So I guess in that sense, there is a reliance on rules...but this takes a backseat in what holds the group together. I think I've beaten a dead horse already with what holds the group together...community and a sense of interdependence.
So anyway...another strike against the French. But I enjoyed the bonding experience it created between me and Yaay and her friends...they women felt that I truly understood their situation. When I explained to them what I just described to you about European patronage throughout the ages, and how this was an example of this...they all high fived me and shouted their appreciation from the backseat, hooting in approval – as if to say, she really gets this. “Degg la!” (It's true). It made me feel like I had earned a certain status among them...I wasn't “one of them,” but I had some sort of position. They had accepted me...I had become a “toubab a part” (a different sort of toubab), one that wasn't in the same category as those “putains francais.” (I'm not going to translate that one).
I just want to mention a few silly things that happen every time I walk down the main road into downtown Fatick. There are the same people every time:
The restaurant. It's called “RESTO NEW LOOK”, yes, with English words. One time I passed by there (a small cement hut with a straw roof, with women inside cooking, with tables outside), and the women said, “Toubab – kaay fi,” (come here). I don't know why, but I went over...probably because there were no men there. They then asked me if I understood Wolof, since I understood the “kaay fi” part. That started a very very basic conversation about what I'm doing here, how long I'll be here, where do I live, how long I've been here, what Senegalese food I've had/like, etc, etc...it was fun. They were nice, and I took a picture. Now every time I walk by, I stop and chat, and they get excited about this. They were making what looked like potstickers last time, and it smelled good. I forgot the Senegalese name – I've had them before, they're good, they're basically “fish balls” instead of meatballs.
There is this one young woman, maybe 23 years old, who sits on a certain cement wall every day with some of her friends, while they watch kids play. (A lot of people just sit around at like 5 o'clock, partly because unemployment is so high, and also because people really love to socialize and be around other people). Anyway, she has an infant. One time she saw me, and said something in Wolof, about “samma doom,” and when I asked her to repeat, she held out her child to me. “Prend mon enfant! Cadeau!” (take my child...present!) She burst into laughter, when I said, “Lan?” Then I understood what she was saying and laughed with her. I held up my hands which each were holding something already, and I said, “Baneen yoon!” (Next time!) Now, every time I pass by there, she holds out her child and laughs. It's a bizarre sense of humor, but somehow it's funny.
There was this group of boys, all preteens, no older than 15, that approached me on this road in downtown Fatick the other day. They were sitting around talking and came up when I passed. “No tudd...Toubab...kaay” (What's your name...come here). I told them and shook their hands, boldly asking, “Ca va?” The one kid proceeded to tell me, straight-faced, in French, that on the 18th of April, the marabou is going to come and have a festival, something something. And that they need money for the marabou for this, something something, can I give them money? They were totally making this up, and it was obvious. Modou was with me, the 14 year old, and afterward he confirmed this fact...but I already knew. I in fact anticipated this. The kid was starting to smirk now, and his friends were smiling as well, and he held his hand out expectantly. I opened my eyes wide in mock surprise and said, “Oh really? The marabou is coming? The 18th, huh...well I have decided to give you all TWO HUNDRED U.S. dollars......next week. I'll meet you here?” The smiles dropped from their faces, and they stared at me incredulously...with shock. Never before had a Toubab caught a joke with them, and threw it back...they weren't sure if I was joking or now. “Two hundred U.S. dollars? Really? You promise? You're joking?” “No, no, 200 U.S. dollars, I'll bring it next week.” They looked around at each other eagerly, smiling. “Ok Toubab, next week. You promise?” “yes, yes, I'll see you next week.” Then I left, waving goodbye and smiling. Modou said...”They were teasing you...you know that right?” He seemed concerned that I had been conned, and would actually return with $200 bucks next week. “Of course I know that,” I said, “Which is why I was kidding too. Do you think they know I was?” “They'll realize it after a while,” he said, looking at me, impressed. He started to laugh, and we continued on.
There is a woman who lives with us...forgot her name, but it took me a while to figure out she is not only one of the “maids,” who helps with chores and dresses like a maid (no foulard/head covering, just an old t-shirt and an African skirt/panne)...but she is also a “Cassiere” at the mutuelle. (cashier). Along with Binta, she does the register and helps me figure out how to manage transactions when women come to the window. I didn't know she was the same person because she doesn't dress like a maid when we leave in the morning for work. I always thought she just walked over to our house from another house earlier than I woke up in the mornings....I had no idea that it was the same person. She wears a wig with straight light brown hair, pencils her eyebrows darker, and wears beautiful African clothes with jewelry. She lookslike a totally different person. Anyway, this woman has a child. When she is in her “maid” role, she usually has her baby attached to her, or near her, or breastfeeding. They love each other, its so cute...this woman is pretty soft spoken, as is her baby, and they spend most of the time just staring, smiling into each others eyes while the baby breast feeds. Then the mother kisses her arms. The baby is about a year and a half, just learned to walk about a month or two ago...waddling around on rubbery little legs. Both of them are very, very dark...so apparently the father, wherever he is (probably works in Dakar like most of the men around here), is also dark. The baby's name is Marie-Gabrielle (yes, they're Christian), and she always wears a silver bracelet that is attached by a chain to her finger, as well as gri-gris with shells around her waist. Like all girl babies in Senegal, she has her ears pierced, which the doctor does at the hospital the day they're born...the most sterile option.
Marie-Gabrielle hates me. It's getting better...but for the first two weeks, any time she saw me..from across the room even, her face would screw up and she would scream-cry and run to her mother. She would hide her face until I left the room. She's never seen a white person, and for her, I must have looked sickly or deformed. When everyone around you is dark, with very distinct African features...and then you see someone of Italian/Jewish descent with white skin and a more prominent nose...I must look horrifying. Earlier this week, any time I was close to her, she would cry...about 10 feet or less. Otherwise, if I was in the room, she would glare at me with unease from the protection of her mother. I would smile at her, play games from across the room like peaking out from my hand, covering me eyes...which she would watch warily. Today...I got her to wave her hand back at me, and even laugh a little when I copied her babble..she can't talk yet. Everyone keeps trying to force her to come to me, and keeps trying to put her into my lap, which I resist...obviously it makes her even more terrified, because she screams when they do that. It has to be her own choice. “Ndank, ndank”....(little by little).
So there is this new project that I am sort of being included on with Yaay, which I think is pretty interesting. The other day Yaay handed me a packet to read, in French of course, of this new invention created by a Senegalese team that they're trying to push. It's a “four solaire,” or a solar oven, which in the introduction claims to be the salvation for women in Senegal – no longer will they need to buy charcoal or wood! And “in a place like Africa, shouldn't we be using our sun power to our advantage?” Sounds like a great idea.
Here are the downsides that I found:
Traditional recipes must all be adapted for the solar oven (which takes a lot of time, and a lot of trial and error to get them right). Also, the receipts aren't standard anymore (1 cup of this, 2 tablespoons of that), because for example the quantity of water, and the time to cook has to change EVERY DAY depending on the amount of sunlight.
The adapted recipes at the back of the packet take around 2 ½ – 3 hours (or more) – and that doesn't include the preparation time (preheating, chopping vegetables, etc).
There are a lot of limitations for when it can be used:
It can't be used at all during the rainy season...for obvious reasons
It must be used when there is plenty of DIRECT sunlight or it will take an inordinate time, enough to make it not worth it. Even if the woman uses a traditional oven to accompany the solar oven like the packet suggests to “finish cooking,” it isn't practical. I don't think women would actually do this...in times when the solar oven wouldn't work perfectly, I think they would revert to what they're used to and just rely on traditional methods.
You can't use the solar oven for the majority of Senegalese dishes: you can't do grilling or steaming, etc, with the solar oven
You have to adjust the orientation and inclination of the oven as often as possible (they suggest every half an hour), to obtain the maximum benefit from sunlight...because the sun rotates throughout the day and the rays of sunlight change direction. The packet contradicts itself in this point, because it suggests that while allowing the oven to heat up for an hour, one can go to the market in the meantime – maximizing time! But this doesn't make any sense, because in order to heat up the oven, you have to be there to re-orient the oven. It also isn't a good idea to just leave this contraption out in the open...its basically a huge box with glass and a orientating piece of glass which you incline to bounce the sunlight off the other glass. When each family has an average of 5-6 children running around, and given the amount of heats this thing emits out the bottom, its a terrible idea to leave it alone. This just isn't convenient.
Every time that you open the oven, or to check on the food inside, the temperature lowers an average of 20-30 degrees Celsius...therefore it says it's “preferable” not to do it. But if you can't mix when you normally would mix, or check on the food...especially when the recipes have to be adapted, etc...you risk the dishes getting ruined.
So needless to say, this solar oven thing has a lot of downsides to it...although it seems like a good idea. If these negative aspects can be rectified, I would say they should push it. But for 60,000 CFA ($120 U.S.), which is a LOT of money for the average woman to take out a loan for, it doesn't seem worth it.
Yesterday after work, Yaay drove up in the car and told me to hop in. I was excited, considering I think I'm the only one of our group that hasn't yet done any site visits...I've pretty much went from the house to work every day and back. I hopped in, and off we went.
We wound up in downtown Fatick, where Yaay finally unveiled her plan for what we were about to do. There was a local Patisserie run by a local women's group, where they had invested in a solar oven. I was excited to see this thing in action, and we entered the small shop. There was one man in front handeling the cash register, and we went through a curtain into the kitchen, where there were about six women. They were mixing batter, and helping each other pour the batter into molds, where they then put it into a small oven. A bowl of sweet breads in various shapes sat in a bowl. It didn't seem like they made much else; not the raisen bread, cake, and French pastries I was expecting.
After the salutations and chatting was over, we were led behind the shop to look at the oven. You couldn't really miss it...even if you were distracted by the huge white and green mosque behind the pastry shop, you would then immediately be drawn to the large white box before you with a huge glass cover that was open and tilted toward the sun. There were about 7 tiny tins inside filled with a white batter...eventually to become small cakes (without icing or anything). We stood behind the ovens and took pictures...for whatever reason, they had me stand in the middle. I'm not sure why, considering I had nothing to do with this oven whatsoever, and felt like I should be off to the side looking. Oh well, I'm getting used to this sort of treatement. Of course things didn't get any better when Yaay told me to “Kaay fii,” and I followed instinctively...and they realized I can speak some Wolof. Oops. :)
A ton of heat was spilling out from underneath the lid while we stood behind it to take the picture, but I wasn't convinced it was enough. Amongst all the rukus and congratulatory gossip, I asked how long these cakes would take to finish. “About an hour and a half,” she responded. “And how long do they take usually?” I asked. “About 15 minutes,” she said quietly. So about six times longer than usual.... when I said this, Yaay raised her eyebrows and said to me as the others were farther away, “C'est trop lent...” (It's too slow.) She was right. We came back after lunch to check on the progress, and the cakes were finished...but they didn't look very appetizing. They hadn't browned on the top like they would have in a regular oven, and moreover the traditional oven inside had made six times the amount of cakes. In my opinion, it needed to be improved before pushed on other women's groups elsewhere.
The thing that was strange is that these women didn't even understand the fundamental reasons for why the solar oven works. Yaay was convinced that there were currents of electricity in the inside of the oven, which somehow converted the sunlight into electrical energy. I told her that it works the same way your car heats up when you leave it outside in the sun; with the glass windows drawing in and trapping sunlight. They were surprised that sunlight alone can heat up the oven to that point.
Hopefully I can get a chance some time to ask the questions I came up with, and hopefully help with the whole process before they're mass-sold around Fatick. I wouldn't want women to spend the money on this thing and not use it.
I've had an interesting time getting along with my family. I'll describe each one, one by one:
Yaay Sow: I am really getting along with this woman. She is strong, dynamic, and passionate about what she does. She is unflinching and intelligent, quick-witted and fearless. She always picks up on things around her before everyone else does, she catches people who try and pull one over on her, she is great at multitasking at work – and she is a true businesswoman, involved in multiple projects, selling products, organizing alphabetization classes for women, running her mutuelle and her woman's group. We get along immensely because she realizes, despite my imperfect French and Wolof, that I also am pretty witty, strong-willed and ambitious. We spend a lot of time laughing and high-fiving. She's always looking out for me, pulling me through crowds, and introducing me to people...pulling me away from “si-si'” Senegalese men who try and hit on me with a witty remark that leaves them speechless. She laughed when I said the other day, as an example, “I can't marry you, I already have four husbands. I have enough problems with them, I don't want another husband.” (In Wolof, mind you). “Am na neenti jekker, am na jafe-jafe ak sammay jekker, begguma beneen.” After laughing uproariously, she continued in Wolof saying, when he persisted, “You couldn't handle being married to a Toubab; she would make you do all the work! You'd have to learn how to make beds, cook, clean, and take care of the children. That's what husbands do with white women.” I really admire her, and I know she really likes me. She says all the time, “You – you're different.” Not like other Americans. It isn't the first time I've heard that here, and it makes me smile.
Abdoullaye Sow: For some reason I just can't get used to the idea of calling him Papa, like I call his wife 'Yaay.' He hasn't been the nicest person to me since I've been here. Here are some examples:
We were eating ciep bu jen rouge for lunch, and Yaay was giving me more fish pieces than anyone else. Abdoullaye said in Wolof, “You're treating her better than you're treating your own children...and she's going to leave you, just like Laura.” (this was all later translated to me). “No she won't,” Yaay responded, “She'll keep in touch.” “Laura didn't even send any emails to us,” he responded. “They're all alike.” Yaay said, “No, she's different.” “We'll see,” he said, looking away.
He took me to the boutique to buy phone credit, where I wanted to buy 5,000CFA worth of credit. However, all they had were cards of 1,000CFA...so I just purchased 5 of them. Upon returning into the car, he said, “Men naa gis toubab yi, danu dof.” I understand this, and said, “Loutax?” (I can see that toubabs are crazy.) He hadn't said this in a smiling, joking sort of way. He raised his voice and said, “Why would you buy 5 1000's? If you don't buy one card of 5,000, you won't get any of the benefits! You wont get 10 free text messaging! You should have told me they didn't have any, we would have gone somewhere else. Don't you know that?” “I'm sorry, I didn't know,” I responded quietly. “I can return them...” “No,” he said gruffly, “we're going home. You've already bought it.”
Upon returning home, he mumbled something when he stopped in front of the gate. I heard “porte” and “ouvrir,” so I assumed he was telling me that the gate wasn't locked, that I could open it. It didn't occur to me that he was telling me to open the gates for him, so he could pull the car into the courtyard. Later, he came into the house and said, “Didn't you understand what I just said to you? I told you to open the doors.” “Oh, I'm sorry!” I said, laughing, “were you waiting out there for me to open the doors?” “Yes.” “Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't understand. You know, French isn't my native language either...sometimes I struggle with it as well.” “Well, what I said wasn't hard to understand,” he responded unsympathetically. “All I said was “open the door.” Everyone who knows French can understand that.” He then finished all of this with, “You need to go to bed, obviously.”
The next morning I came out of my room for breakfast at 8:30 like I always did, perhaps five minutes later than usual. This doesn't matter, as Yaay doesn't come out for breakfast until quarter to nine. We always eat together before going to work at 9. Abdoullaye comes over and says, “You were late today, weren't you.” “No, not really...” “You know, you could have had hot couscous in the morning, but it's cold now. If you got up early like everyone else, you could have had some.”
The thing is, the rest of the time he's a very nice person...he jokes with his kids, he smiles. He is very helpful and understanding with his wife, they get along very well. He actually reminds me a lot of my Dad or my Uncle Paul. I just can't understand the sarcastic remarks. He's very strictly Muslim, in the same ways and for the same reasons as my Dad is Catholic. In addition, he's religious in such a way that means he's given it some reflection, and he has distinct reasons for believing what he believes. We've even discussed polygamy, and he believes that it's an acceptable practice because God willed it in the Koran. He answered all my concerns for polygamy, to where I could no longer effectively argue against it. He even...sort of...addressed my issues with inequality of the sexes...why women sometimes aren't allowed in mosques, especially not unmarried women. He claims that the reason Senegal is one of the countries of Africa that's better off, is because its 94% Muslim. When I asked why the Middle East isn't as well off as Senegal, he said because they aren't all “true” Muslims, and they don't believe the Koran with their heart...where it forbids harming another human being. Of course he prays five times a day, and is very devout in his mannerisms, he closes his eyes, and seems less stressed afterwards.
Generally he just seems like a tired person. He spent a long time “at sea,” working with his fishing business, when his kids were young. He didn't go to the parade on April 4th, because he “hadn't been used to going to any festivals because he missed most of them while he was at sea...now he doesn't care about them at all”.
I think the problem might be because this “Laura” (who everyone in town used to think I was, when I first got here...even though I've seen a picture and she was blond-haired, blue-eyed), wasn't very nice...or something. I'm not sure her personality was very warm. Sure she took a video of the goat being slaughtered, did laundry with Yaay every week, and helped to cook...but I don't get the impression she “Clicked.” Also, when Yaay asked Laura if she would ever return to Senegal one day...Laura apparently said right away, “Nah, I don't think I ever would.” How rude is that?! I'm pretty sure Abdoullaye's impression of me might be related to her.
Even since all of that happened last week, between me and him, he's been nicer. I've talked back to him (in a respectful way), instead of just cowering when he says things like that to me. For example, he asked me why I needed to get a Money Gram – what are you going to buy here with all that money! You tire your father here in Fatick (him), and you tire your father in the United States (by asking for money)!” I paused for a moment, and responded, “Yaay! Do I tire you out?” (No, of course not). “You see?! Why is it always the men who tire easily? No one else seems to tire from me...you should go lie down and rest for a while, and maybe you wouldn't be so tired by me.” He grinned and looked away, and Yaay started laughing and high fived me. I was right. He has been nicer to me since I proved I won't take his crap, and since then we've had many a conversation...about America, about how much electronics cost, the layouts/architecture of suburbs and urban planning in general compared to here, why it isn't allowed in the United States to buy a sheep and take it home to the suburbs to slaughter and gut it in your backyard, like it's allowed here (I said because of the FDA and other federal regulations...because that sort of thing used to be allowed, at the turn of the century...but everyone can't just make their own meat, it wouldn't be able to be regulated by the government to keep everyone healthy), etc. He asked me just this second (in a way that made me offer), to take him to the internet cafe one of these days to teach him how to use a computer...email, Microsoft Word, etc. I agreed...he's also been asking me how I am more often, and talking to me about the proper amount of couscous to eat so that my stomach doesn't explode from pain again. Ndank, Ndank.
Assan, Modou: These two are cool, I suppose I get along with them. Modou and I used to have some good conversations (mostly about religion) when he would “accompany” me places around town. But lately it's either been the girls, or – hooray – it's me, by myself. Also, I will describe something that happened between us a little later. Assan is either shy of me, or something...he has almost the same personality as Vick, only less of a brat to his parents/siblings. He's got that cocky, half grin look on his face all the time...and when all the kids decided they wanted to “draw, like Danielle” one day, he was making fun of everyone else's drawings. This wasn't nice especially because Roqueille wanted to draw just like me, and she was really trying to get it as close as possible, and you could tell she didn't appreciate his comments. I grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil and forced him to draw something, saying, “You're making fun of everyone else's drawings, and yet you say you can't draw! Here.” So he drew a stick figure, and said, smiling, “There!” I made fun of his drawing saying, “What is that? A man or a woman?” “A man.” “Really? How can he walk? Where are the feet?” (He draws the feet). “How can he hear? There's no ears?” (He draws the ears). “How can he pick up things, he has no hands!” etc, etc, etc. “Really, everyone else's drawings are much better than yours, your man would never survive if he were real.” Everyone laughed, and he smiled. He got the point.
Roqueille: She really likes me, and looks up to me. I think she sees me as an older sister, since she's the oldest and doesn't have one. She talks to me, asks questions, and seems genuinely interested in me as a person. She says, “I didn't see you yesterday night! Where were you?” She plays with my hair all the time, as does Penda, and although she has an air of overconfidence (she showed me her report card triumphantly, showing that she was #1 in her class of 25 students), I really like her. She showed me how to work the water filter out of the blue, as well as how to cook the rice...in a really slow, patient, step-by-step process, “Did you see how I did that? Now you...good, good,” in a way she must have memorized from when her mother taught her. I liked it. Khady, the maid, was laughing at me in the background like she usually does whenever I do anything.
Penda: She's really quiet, and I think she feels smothered by her older and younger sister. Roqueille is a very confident, intelligent girl, while Penda is quiet and barely finished 12th in her class of 20. Her younger sister gets all the attention and is pretty spoiled, just because she's so all over everyone all the time and acts really cute because she knows she can get attention. Penda mainly just gets ordered around. She really likes my hair, and I try to pay attention to her.
Seydou: This is an interesting case. Seydou is not one of the children, although Yaay and Abdoullaye, and even his own mother – Yaay's sister, Ngone – tell him he is. It it obvious they treat him differently. To me, it is more than obvious that Seydou doesn't WANT to be a bad boy. But no one pays any attention to him – except when they overreact, as soon as he does something wrong. Therefore, he does it more to get someone to give him SOME kind of attention. This fact is obvious to me. He is a cute, happy-go-lucky six year old most of the time, sometimes harmlessly pushing people's buttons. He tried to do it to me, until I did something people here don't to him...I ignored his annoying tendencies, instead of hitting and screaming at him. Instead, I pay him positive attention. I let him play games on my laptop, and yesterday I finally entrusted it with him while I went to the toilet...which he looked up at me with these huge eyes like, “REALLY?” this sincere look, and I said, “I trust you...and don't let Ngone touch it, ok? You're a big boy, I know you will take good care of it.” He nodded genuinely, shaking his head up and down. Indeed, he really did take good care of it. But 99% of the time, everyone is always hitting him upside the head, sometimes making him genuinely cry. When he runs around and plays outside, everyone tells him to sit down. His own mother grabbed him by the hand, hit him, and then told him to “Cry! Cry! I don't care.” When he started to cry. When I asked what he did, she said, “I told him to be still, and he wouldn't listen. He wanted to play.” I didn't understand this one bit....isn't that what a six year old is supposed to do? He was just sitting there, rocking, with this angry, tearful look on his face. To add, his mother doesn't live here most of the time. She's only visiting during the two week vacation they have (she's a teacher) for Independence Day and Easter...which the whole country takes off for, even though only 4% of the country is Christian. Most of the time she lives 10 hours away, in Matam, working for U.S. AID. She's divorced, which is why Seydou lives here. When we picked her up from the bus depot, Seydou was overjoyed to see her. She was happy to, and cuddled with him some, calling him, “Baby Seydou.” After making fun of his “rabbit ears” lightheartedly, she told him to sit to the side, away from her. She is about as non-maternal and dis affectionate toward him as you can get. After a few days, she barely touches him, even when he comes by her to cuddle. It breaks my heart. And since I'm nice to him (I always come and slap his hand, I taught him how to do thumb war and shadow puppets, etc), he really likes me. If I could take someone back to the States with me, I would take “Baby Seydou with the rabbit ears.”
Ngone: Not much to say except she's really cute...but kind of overwhelming. Also, I don't think she genuinely likes me more than anyone else anymore...TOUBAB got old for her really fast. She's sweet and hangs over neighbors and friends of the family too. Does doesn't spend time with me like she used to. That's ok. I'm ok with her boogery fingers and face not being two inches away from my mouth all the time. She's cute...from afar. Kind of like a monkey.
I want to talk some about Americans. Americans who have stayed here, Americans like Laura. The other day when we were all talking about America, the suburbs, and how our culture differs from Senegal – i.e., leaving the house when you're 18 for college and to be emotionally and financially independent -, I said, “I wonder how it would be for you guys, if you came to visit me and my family in the United States. I bet it would be so different for you. They said, “We've always wanted to come to the United States, but you need an invitation from an American.” Then, I of course formally invited them to the States. I said, “If you ever have the means to get a passport and a visa, I will go to the embassy and send you an invitation” (Unlike Americans, the rest of the world needs a personal invitation from an American citizen – just to be able to come VISIT the United States). They looked at each other, shocked. Ngone (not the little kid, but Yaay's sister...same name), already has her passport. We talked about how much money they would need, and I said they could stay with my parents, no problem, and we could show them Chicago, as well as the suburbs...maybe even take a day trip to see the country...three sides of America – all of which would be new and exciting. It is a semi-plausible idea. It wouldn't be right away, they'd have to save up. But Yaay makes some good money, and so does her sister. If they came together, they could definitely work it out. They seemed to seriously consider it.
BUT – whether or not it's actually going to happen, or whether or not I evoked feelings of economic incompetence for them in the plausibility of the idea – the point is, is that I ASKED. Yaay said something to Abdoullaye, which made him smile, and I asked for the translation. “You're the first American I've ever met...Toubab in general...who has actually “invited” me to come visit them. All the other Americans just treat this like an internship, and our family and our house like a hotel (an experience, they've bought). They never stay in touch, and they've never asked to extend our relationship...for us to come visit them in America.” I was touched, but also ashamed. I bet the reason they never asked, was because they didn't think it was realistic that they would be able to afford the voyage to the U.S....but the fact that it didn't cross their mind to invite them??
On the contrary, truly insensitive remarks have been made to Yaay and her family as well by Americans. For example, someone supposedly said, “Wow, you have an old car!!” WHO SAYS THAT??? Yaay said she responded with, “Yes, it's old, but I'm lucky to have a car. Most people here don't. I'm living within my own means.”
So yea....I'm not even going to bother ranting about Americans. They're just oblivious...but generally I think the Americans who have come here in the past meant well.
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Today I was watching something on TV, where some Senegalese guy was speaking about his trip to Chicago, to visit the Senegalese immigrant population there. He said they are all living in worse conditions than they were here in Senegal. He said your money goes farther here; a man who lives like a rich man in Senegal, goes to America and becomes a poor man. He went to try and convince all the Senegalese in Chicago to come home.
Everyone here, however, thinks that the States are the epitomy of equality, a true melting pot of racial and religious equality; a true paradise, a model of how a country should be. (Yes, our democracy kicks Senegal's democracy's ass...this is true...they should learn from us in this respect). Senegalese think everyone is rich, powerful, and happy in the United States. That you have Senegalese good-nature and good will toward men, plus American opportunities and money. This isn't true. I try to explain that you have to sacrifice one for the other, I guess. Although our racial diversity in the U.S. can be a good thing...I've been exposed to a plethora of different people, culture, customs, and ways of thinking...as well as more jobs/money, there are many downsides. I'm not sure if our downsides have to do with race, or just are results of the effects on a human being of individualism and capitalism, but in the States, you don't talk to strangers, for example. You pretend like you're the only human being around, and you try and figure out whatever you're doing by yourself, and do not ask for help unless absolutely necessary...especially if you're in a city. Yes, even if you're waiting for an hour at a bus station with one other person. They will think you are a schizo if you speak to them, they will think you're going to hurt them. Children don't play outside by themselves. You don't say hello to people on the streets that you don't know. There is a ton of racism, in multiple levels and forms. Our crime rate is MUCH higher...and it includes crimes much more grisely and horrific than petty theft, or even rape. They would never understand how a mother in the suburbs who has a good job and enough money, can poison her children and shoot her husband for no reason. Or how someone can break into someone's home and kill all four children and the pregnant mother by cutting open her stomach to steal the fetus. Or how someone can become a serial killer by torturing their victimes, sometimes hundreds, for the sheer pleasure in ways that are inconceivable to the common person...almost as if it isn't real. Or how a divorced father can dress up like Santa Claus on Christmas and knock on the door of his family's house, shoot the little girl in the face who opens the door, and toss a hand grenade to the party inside...then commit suicide. Or how students, time and time again, copy each other in purchasing weapons, bringing them to school and unloading bullets into the bodies of their fellow students. Or how the American public can be more fascinated with the rape and murder of a child beauty queen 15 years after the crime, than with their local elections.
Sigh...this is another face of the reality of America, the reality the rest of the world doesn't see very often in our exported Hollywood films and Coca Cola advertisements...the land of the free, and home of the brave.
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Anyone who's read – and I hope all of you have – my entry about my issues with killing and eating the goat, would be very proud of the progress I've made. Although I am still understanding the constant and unnecessary whipping/hitting/rock throwing of donkeys and horses, as well as pitying their skin-and-bones appearance...I am really making an effort to be more ok with the idea of slitting the throat of an animal who is happy and healthy and alive, just so I can cut it into pieces and devour it with delicious sauces and vegetables.
On Sunday, I decided I wanted to help make Yassa Poulet, so I could learn how to cook it. Unfortunately, there was no chicken. Yaay, her sister Ngone, and Abdoullaye had left for the market – the same market I had gone to last time. So, it became clear that unless I wanted to eat fish again...and I didn't, because I'm fricking tired of fish – I would have to go to the market and buy chicken.
So this is exactly what I did. And since cut up, dead chicken is more expensive than buying a live chicken (two live chickens are about $10 US), I decided to bite the bullet and buy live chickens. Roqueille and me walked to downtown Fatick to our little market, and wandered along the curb where 20 or so people were selling live chickens. They were tied tightly at the ankles, in pairs, rendered incapacitated on the ground. Squawking and occasional wing-flapping was seen, as well as people who were following me, dangling chickens by their feet. Surprisingly, I didn't feel nearly as guilty and uncomfortable by what I was doing as I thought I was. I literally was about to choose the chicken that was going to die in about an hour or so.
Instead I was concerned with finding the plumpest, heaviest birds for my money. I compared pairs of chicken in each arm, testing their weight, checking for imperfections on their skin that might hint at them being diseased, etc. I finally found some that looked alright, and were pretty heavy. Roqueille agreed that they were a good choice. I gave the man my 5,000CFA, and we walked away. Toubabs buying live chickens is also apparently a huge deal, because about 20 people had gathered around me as I was buying them. We pushed through the crowd and found three taxis that were parked in a small lot. They were basically 7-place taxis, waiting for enough people to fill up the taxi before leaving. Before getting in, I bought Roqueille a vanilla milk and myself a Fanta orange...a reward for coming with me and helping out. I've made that a custom lately with the kids...whoever accompanies me (because it's hot as hell during the day), I buy then a drink. After complaining that it was “too expensive,” she finally picked the drink and we went out to the taxis. They put the chickens in the trunk, and we sat around waited for more people going toward our neighborhood, Darou Salaam. We finally left, and the woman next to me...a very old woman carrying a bucket of peanuts, was struck by the fact that I answered her, “Bonjour Madame,” with “Maleikoum salaam, nanga def? Maangi fi, alxamdoulilaye.” She was old enough to remember colonialism, and seemed shocked that a white person would respond in her own language. I like doing that...I like leaving a positive impression of my race...for once.
We went home and I set the chickens down on the floor next to the kitchen. Everyone was shocked that I bought live chickens, and laughed while congratulating me. Even I couldn't believe I had done it. I looked at the chickens, who were hot and whose tongues were flicking in and out of their beaks. They looks around wearily, huddled next to each other.
Assan came out, and while he sharpened his machete (yes, a machete), he told me about the first time he killed a chicken, when he was 14. They had raised animals back then, including sheep and chicken, and one day his father told him to take a chicken he, Assan, had been taking care of...and kill it, for dinner. He felt sick to his stomach and did it...just like the Jews, Muslims are instructed to slit the animal's throat in a very precise manner. He refused to eat the meal after killing this chicken, because he couldn't eat an animal he had become attached to like that. Now, he says he can't even count how many chickens he's killed. Swipe, swipe, swipe, went the machete. The chicken's tongues, flicked in and out, as they watched him.
My heart started beating pretty fast, and he took the white chicken first. He took it behind the house, and I covered my ears, not sure if there was going to be screeching or not. There wasn't. He came back out without the chicken, but the machete was covered in blood. I made a little sound in horror, and the kids laughed at me. He cleaned his machete, and took the gray chicken. Now this chicken, as soon as Assan took it around the corner, started to shriek and flap its wings. “It saw the other one, dead,” Assan called to me. “That's why it's upset.” This bothered me a lot, because I didn't know that it would even recognize the other chicken, and furthermore, be able to comprehend it's own fate as a result.
It was all over in a few minutes, and Assan brought back the two corpses in a yellow bowl. They poured hot water over them, then dumped it out, to clean off all the blood. Their tongues hung out, and their gray, wrinkly eyelids were closed. Khady then proceeded to pluck the feathers from the bodies, and I watched intently...at which she laughed, of course.
We then took them into the kitchen, where Khady first showed me how to grab the chickens by their legs...stiff in rigor mortis...and hold them over the flame on the stove, to burn off all the leftover, tiny feathers. It was kind of like roasting a marshmallow. Meanwhile Roqueille and Penda took the other chicken and played with it on the counter, pretending it was a dinosaur...a headless, naked, pink chicken. It was kind of gross.
While Khady gutted the chicken, I helped Roqueille with the rice, and cutting up the 12 onions it takes to make Yassa for 15 people. Then the carrots, then the vegetable I can't name. Then we discovered that there were eggs inside the chicken...one of which, when we cracked it open, had a yolk that wasn't large and yellow...it was constricted, dark orange with red veins popping out on all sides. I was sure that this egg had been fertilized and had an embryo inside. But because I couldn't say embryo, I said, “This chicken was pregnant...there's a baby inside this egg.” Everyone looked at it and laughed. Roqueille said, “No, no, it can't be pregnant. There's no baby, see?” She cut it open, and of course there was no chick. Trying to explain myself further, I said, “No, no...it's not a baby YET....but there are definitley cells in there that were developing to become a baby.” Roqueille insisted, as did Khady and Penda....that a chicken's eggs can't have a baby inside them until they're laid, and COVERED. She said this was the main thing that actually PUTS a baby inside...the action of covering the eggs. I told her, in order to prove my point, “You need a rooster in order to put a baby in the eggs. And in the United States, there are machines where laboratories put eggs...they aren't covered, they just have the right amount of heat and light...and the babies come out.” This was their response, “Well that's the United States...this is Senegal. That wouldn't work here.” “But it's the same animal!!” I responded. But I realized it was futile...they had it all backwards, but it wasn't of any use explainig. I'm the foreigner, I don't know anything...remember?
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