More training sessions

Today we had a couple of interesting guest presenters: one from the US Foreign Agricultural Service and another from the West African Trade Hub. They talked about exporting to the US and opportunities for volunteers to get involved on the ground, at the local level (like with farmers or something). This was cool because a) it made me optimistic about work possibilities when I get back to my site, and b) it reminds me that there is life after Peace Corps and it doesn't have to involve a boring accountant job or whatever. Hell, I almost applied to a pretty sweet FAS internship back in 2005. [I'm currently playing the "What if...? game in my head.]

But I'm wavering here (between optimism and depression) because the prospect of going back to my site, feeling so goddamn isolated and frustrated and dealing with jerks/creeps and other generally poor work partners, does not inspire the enthusiasm and motivation to go back. Argh. And I'm still really, really tired... which might explain why this post is so uninspired. [I probably stayed up too late watching those HIMYM episodes. ;)]

WAIST+IST = sleepy

Ok, so it's a little unusual that I should be so sleepy right now (it's only 9pm on a lazy Sunday!), but the last two weeks have been exhausting. The All-Volunteer conference in Dakar was very interesting and, more importantly, WAIST (West African Invitational Softball Tournament, read: drunken softball party) was an absolute riot. I'll post some pictures from that part of the week to Picasa.

We've been back in Thies for almost a week now and our training sessions have been going fairly well. Some have been less successful/informative/worthwhile than others. [Note to self: don't try to teach about the importance of intimacy in an adult classroom while you yourself are wearing dark sunglasses and ignoring questions.] A session we had on food security and the process for certifying artisanal food products was fascinating. We learned that only 30% of market transactions here are in the formal sector, so any effort to formalize more of it could be kinda cool. I'm just grateful to finally get some relevant training to take back to my community; hopefully I CAN do something productive in the next 21 months.

And...I'm starting to lose focus (a bed and an episode of How I Met Your Mother are calling me). Anyway, we are staying in the center this weekend instead of our homestays. This morning a whole bunch of us took advantage of the day off to go to a nearby monastery known for its goat cheese. We sat through an exceptionally long Lenten mass and were rewarded with delicious, delicious goat cheese. We all ate too much and were happy happy happy (I swear I'm not just speaking for myself here).

Ok. That's all I can do. Goodnight!

Permagardening

I'm in Thies right now for a few days of Food Security-related Permagarden training. For a SED/Eco-T volunteer, this has actually been loads of fun: a chance to get dirty and green and actually feel productive. If I'm especially motivated, maybe I can take some of this stuff back to my site and start a small garden there. [Ha. You never know...]

There are pictures on Picasa. You can check out the permagarden plot my group prepared today. You can see what happens to a white shirt when you're dumb enough to pick up a sack of charcoal. And you can see just how happy an Eco-T vol can look when she has something to show for the day's work.

Next up: Dakar for the All-Vol conference and some drunken softball playing. Back to Thies next week for the rest of our In-Service training.

Gratitude

Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I am so grateful (and lucky!) to have this surrogate family.
:D

La lutte

January – ‘tis the season for la lutte! That’s a style of traditional Seereer wrestling, and the season is in full force. Every week, the competition is held in a different village. What used to be a weeklong event is now a more modernized, compressed, high-energy weekend with three nights of wrestling. Sunday night is the culmination with the heavyweight finals and the presentation of the champions for the other two weight classes. The lutte was quite possibly the coolest thing I’ve seen in my village so far.

Night I : [ho-ly-shit]
Having suffered through another excruciating hour with my language tutor with only the solace of the excitement to follow, I headed into town to meet E~. I found her at a friend’s house, where the buzz of anticipation was decidedly less high-pitched than I expected. In fact, the women barely seemed to register the loud speaker noise coming from the village square and they were in no hurry to head in that direction. It took the time to make and drink tea (at least an hour) before E~ and I took our leave.

When we got to the main square, it was dark out and electric. Huge tarps marked off the arena, keeping the source of the noise, the music, the thrill hidden. E~ found an unmarked hole in the fabric wall and leaned in, speakeasy-style, to negotiate a ticket for me.

Even now I can’t adequately describe what it was like when we first entered the arena. It was loud – the crowd, the drumming, the chanting. There were people – the audience - lining the arena, standing or sitting in chairs and on the ground. And there, in the middle of it all, stomping and strutting and peacocking around the square, were a bunch of young, buff, half-naked men: the lutteurs.

It took me a good hour to un-drop my jaw. These men, ripped and clothed in underwear and gris-gris (protective, good luck talismans) and not much else, were running around the arena, dancing creatively to the beat of the tam-tam drummers, and pouring strength-giving ‘potions’ over their bodies. It was like watching Olympic swimmers gone Lord of the Flies and, I would find out later, these weren’t even the heaviest weight classes. Yes, there was some wrestling, too, but honestly, my brain was too overwhelmed by the entire spectacle to really focus on the sport’s finer points.

The night’s stimulation was interrupted, and then interrupted again and again, when the generator powering the arena lights cut out. Since the fight officials couldn’t very well officiate in the dark, the matches got held up every time the power shut off. Eventually E~ got fed up and we left. For the better, perhaps, since I can’t really think of anything that could have pulled me away from the scene.

Night II : Ear Plugs
Saturday night was the continuation of the lutte. This time, E~ and I and a bunch of children showed up early, before the lutteurs even, to snag some good seats behind the organizing commission. To our left was a dozen tam-tam drummers; to the right, half a dozen hefty female musicians who spent the night chanting praise-songs of the various wrestlers and notable village-people. The noise levels were beyond intense; the crowd’s reactions to the back-and-forth between the drummers and singers was almost as loud as the music itself. Again, there was some wrestling…which was ever-harder to focus on.

Night III : The Riot
Sunday night was the most anticipated night of the lutte. Even all of the toubab tourists from the campements came, sprinkling the crowd with white and random camera flashes of light. The light- and middle-weight awards were presented, again with lots of praise-chants from those lady singers. And the winners took to dancing outrageously in the center of the tam-tam circle, much to the crowd’s delight.

And then Mbalka, the local lutteur, darling of ML~, and a champion of some recent Africa Cup lutte, arrived. The crowd, which had been cheering enthusiastically for two-and-a-half nights already, erupted into a thunderous roar. And Mbalka relished every shout, every cheer, every second of the crowd’s adulation. He ran circles around the arena, strutting and stomping to the drumming, soaking up the attention. The other wrestlers awkwardly continued their rounds and their matches, trying to pretend like they were still attracting some of the attention. Everything was wonderful and festive.

But then something was not wonderful. There was a loud noise from off to my right. The women around me, who had been cheering and clapping in delight, snatched up their children, knocked over chairs, and started to rush anywhere, away from that noise. I had been so caught up in the show that at first I didn’t know what we were running from – an animal stampede, maybe? (Yes, that’s dumb, but this is Africa, right? The Discover Channel has me convinced they materialize from nothing like storm clouds.) E~ yelled for me to get out of the arena, to get away and get safe.

It wasn’t until a little later, when we had reconvened at E~’s mother’s home, with all of the kids and grandkids accounted for, that the rush and the riot were explained. Apparently, the organizing commissioners had decided that Mbalka had shown up for the lutte’s registration – gasp – late. Excuse my shock, but this is Senegal, isn’t it? Everyone is late to everything. And, horror of horrors, they weren’t about to let anyone break the rules and fight, even someone like the adored local Mbalka.

The young people’s collective reaction: riot. Throw a shit-fit. Tear apart the arena (explaining the loud noise). And maybe try to beat up the commissioners. The villagers know that this sort of thing – favoritism or de-favoritism of a local lutteur - has happened before and the resulting melee has resulted in some serious injuries, even a death or two. Hence the people-stampede.

Unfortunately, this meant that the lutte was cut short. The heavy-weight fights were not fought. If Mbalka wasn’t going to fight, no one was. And instead of ending on a high note, the 2010 ML~ event ended with most of the villagers peering out from their compounds, wondering if those angry youths had succeeded in finding those despicable commissioners (they didn’t).

Still, for me, it was one hell of an experience.

Pictures and videos are up on picasa.

Thanks, Jackie!

My friend Jackie brought this article to my attention. Unfortunately, I'm inclined to agree with most of its conclusions.

http://www.foreignpolicy.com/story/cms.php?story_id=4295&page=0

Another king-sized post, now in 100-calorie portions!

Maybe as I get further into my Peace Corps service, arbitrary time markers will become less important. At some point, I'll probably stop counting months in Africa or weeks since install. Invariably, there will be an inflection point where the end is in sight, when I'll be counting down months, then weeks. (I know at least one volunteer clever enough to have a running count of both time into and time left in service.) But for now, I'm still counting up - and you can expect I'll continue noting those arbitrary time frames. As of this past Thursday, I've been in Senegal for 5 months.

Seereer training
My Seereer crash course was a hit: in 3 days we covered many of the key grammar points my ML~ tutor hadn't yet considered necessary. You know, obscure complex things like conjugation in the future tense. Plus, I got to visit a different corner of the country for a few days and break up the boys' club that was my language group (Byron, Jack, David and our teacher Assan). Someone had to roll her eyes in exasperation when they started fighting with sticks in class. (Seriously.)

Family reunion, Africa-style
Last Saturday I went to a family reunion. True to every stereotype of Africa I've ever heard, kinship is essential here. Childcare, social security, old-age care: extended family and friends (who are probably not-so-distant family anyway) are the providers of all those services; and you can't really rely on the government or private sector if your social circle falls through. People cultivate their family-and-friends network assiduously. It's why greetings are so important; why many Senegalese seem to have impeccable memories of acquaintances they met once twelve years ago; why finding a common relation, no matter how many generations back, is as important in the ritualistic greetings as asking "How's the family?"

It sometimes seems excessive. This family reunion, for instance, was region-wide and open to everyone sharing the maternal lineage Traboor. Not that maternal lineage is something I understand; it's not as simple as finding a common last name (since that'd be the paternal lineage, right?).

My host-father in the village is called Faye, but he's a Traboor through his mother. My host-mom is also a Faye, but she's a Wagadoo through her mom. My host-sister and I got to attend the reunion as children-of-a-Traboor, even though maternally I think we're Wagadoos...Maybe? In any case, we got matching dresses with other children-of-a-Traboor (a different color from the actual Traboor women). There was an extraordinary amount of cooking and food and talking. And, somehow, by the end of the day, a huge regional family rift had been resolved. Neat.

School
My grand plans for having a project to do in January - namely, computer workshops with the teachers at the public school - has been thwarted. Why? The Coupe d'Afrique soccer tournament. According to M.-the-creepy-as-ever-Directeur, until the Africa Cup finishes on January 31, the teachers have to get out early on the days when there is a match; they tack on a token half-hour to make up for lost time on the other days. Who would demand such a disruption to the school calendar? The staff, of course.

Throw in the afternoons off for Friday prayer and there's simply no time for the teachers to learn basic computer skills this month. Without even acknowledging a connection, the directeur launched into a tirade bemoaning Senegal's lack of a meritocracy vis-a-vis the U.S. I could barely hide my frustration.

The tailor
I'm not really big on clothes shopping. Put me in a kitchen store and I might never leave, but fashion has (quite visibly) never been a big concern. Here, though, buying cloth and having it tailored is fun. Yes, so most of the cloth comes in colors that absolutely do NOT compliment pale skin. The prints can be ...creative - who doesn't love wearing a dress plastered in a hundred blue chickens, or dollar signs, or pictures of Jesus? And, honestly, white people look 100% ridiculous in 100% of Senegalese clothing 100% of the time. None of this has stopped me from expanding my Senegalese wardrobe.

Most recently, I bought some fabric in Thies to make another pagne (wrap skirt). [Alyssa, I think they get easier to walk in as the fabric softens.] I decided to take it to Issa, the village tailor who made my stylish family reunion dress (a purple potato sack with arm-holes). In order to avoid being charged a jacked up toubab price, I confirmed with Fa, the woman who rents a room in our house. "He'll probably say 5000 (francs)," she said, "and you negotiate him down to 2000. They're used to people asking for a lowered price, so he'll start high. That's how it works here."

Back in my training village, I'd paid my uncle the tailor 2000 for a pagne - a price I felt must be good and honest since we were family. Now that I'm in a much smaller village, 2000 seemed a decent non-family price, too.

So, off I went to see Issa about a pagne with pockets. Issa doesn't speak much French and I don't speak much Seereer. But prices are usually discussed in French, so with the other pagne as a visual aid, I was sure we'd figure out the transaction. Here's how it went:

Me: Hello. How is the morning? Where is the family? How is the work? How are your kids? (Etc.)
Issa: Hello. It's morning. They are there. Peace only. They are there. Only peace. (Etc.)
Me: I'd like to pay for the potato sack dress. And to make a pagne with pockets like this one.
Issa: With pockets?
Me: Yes, with pockets.
Issa: Like this one?
Me: Yes, exactly like this one.
Issa: The same size?
Me: Yes. You can use the exact same measurements. They are both mine. How much will this cost?
Issa: 500 francs.
(Here my stupidity and failure to listen get in the way. Convinced I am being taken advantage of, I become indignant.)
Me: 5000?! That's expensive! I paid only 2000 for this other one.
Issa: You paid how much? (He is confused.)
Me: 2000. 2000 is good.
Issa: Ok. (Exasperated.) Fine. How about 1000?
...
Me: Wait. Did you say 500?
(Then I realize 1000 is still better than 2000, and I don't have the language skills to backpedal and explain my confusion.)
Me: When will this be ready?
Issa: Tonight.

Having integrated quite well into Senegalese Std Delay Time, I went back the next morning. I paid 1000 for the pagne. As I handed over the money, a woman smirked and gently chided Issa for charging me a toubab price.

Le Serpent Noir
A serpent noir made an appearance in our family compound. Fa and her kids startled it coming in late the other night. Just as I thought I was finally getting comfortable with the threat of cockroaches and mice and other creepy crawlers, now I have to worry about poisonous spitting black snakes that are only active at night and attract to warmth and lights?! Seeing them during the rainy season is apparently common enough to be no big deal; right now, though, it's considered a bad omen. Lovely.

And to end on a positive note...
Someday I'll have to share the hilarious story of the day I was convinced I had malaria for 12 hours...