A Tabaski Miracle

SO much time has passed! I took a short vacation to Morocco, met up with my parents, and had a great time touring the “imperial cities”. I just wish the king would let people into the palaces, many of which are centuries old. It would be nice to see more of them than the outer walls. And like all the other people I’ve talked to who visit Morocco, I was a bit overwhelmed by the salesmanship of the carpet vendors. But today’s story takes place on the return from vacation to
my village.

Arriving in Dakar at 3.30am, I went to the office where my friend Dana was staying. I got a few quick hours of sleep before we got up early to head to the garage and from there off to Linguere. Dana lives in the middle of the northern chunk of Senegal… right about where Pacman’s eye would be. AKA, the middle of nowhere. If you look at a map, it seems like Linguere is the major stop on a road that cuts right through the desert in Northern Senegal, just south of the Senegal River basin. In truth, Linguere is the end of the line. The road hasn’t been finished farther, not since I’ve been here, and probably not for a while after I leave, if it does get finished. So we took a van-load of people into the desert (after a lot of arguing over the price for bringing my bike, ending in my declaration “Dakar people are BAD”, to which the man responded, “yes, but I’m not from Dakar.” I needed to bring the bike back from Dakar after it got a complete makeover, so I had no option but to pay). After several hours of slow trekking along in the crowded van, we arrived at Dana’s village.

This is the farthest north I have been in Senegal and it surprised me to see just how different this part of the country is. Fewer trees, of course, but much less variety in the trees that were there—almost all were acacia or baobab, it seemed. Dana’s village is small, like mine, and right off the road. They speak Wolof, being situated near the center of the old Jolof empire, in an area where there are also many pulaar herders. I am ashamed to admit that I am prejudiced against Wolofs. They are an aggressive people-group and always seem angry and lying. This stereotype is mostly based on the wolofs I meet in garages, so I know it’s unfair, but even listening to the language, it sounds angry to me. And it’s true that Wolofs are, in general, much more aggressive than Pulaars. So, I was caught quite off-guard by how excessively NICE everyone in Dana’s village was. It was refreshing to see another volunteer at work in her site, and we did things like measure the school for a wall and build a mudstove. This may have been the best part of my vacation for regaining motivation at site. I stayed for 2 days before heading in to Linguere (populated with more very nice Wolofs) where I could catch a car early in the morning.

I left at 7.00 am, walking half an hour to the garage to catch a sept-place (station wagon) to Touba, where I would have to change cars. Bad luck, there were no sept-places today so I’d have to take a mini-car, which is really a large hollowed out van with benches welded in, generally “designed” to accommodate 35 people, but often squeezing in as many bodies as will possibly fit. I was joined by another Linguere volunteer and after a short wait, off we headed to Touba, an almost comfortable 3-hour ride away. Arriving in Touba, there was some confusion as to where I should get off the car, since the garage where we would arrive, and the garage where I could catch a car to Tamba were on different sides of the rather large, and religiously important Touba. As we pulled into town, the man in front of us turned around and said to us, two pants-wearing female volunteers, “This is Touba. Women don’t wear pants here. If they see that you’re not wearing a skirt, they will take your pants.” In pulaar, the word for pants is “touba”, so I chuckled at the thought of being “pantsed in Pants for wearing pants”. We got out of the car and took a special taxi-service for transporting passengers between the garages, which delivered me to the Tamba stand in the south-bound garage. I safely survived Touba with my pants unharmed.

But, as I arrived and asked for a sept-place to Tamba, I saw the
baggage being secured and the people getting in and I knew immediately
that I had missed it. That car was full. I was told (and I believed,
although who knows if I should have) that there would be no more
sept-places today. That left the mini-cars. 3 hours in a mini-car to
Touba, not a problem. But to Tamba, that’s at least 7.5 hours by
sept-place. Mini-cars always take longer. I was told that there is
a mini-car waiting for one more spot to fill. If I take the car, we
will leave immediately. I looked at the back-less empty middle seat
(in a row of 5, that really only fits 4 and half people) and said
"OK", thinking to myself, this may turn out to be the worst decision I've made in Senegal.

It wasn't as bad as I had anticipated. I think it was 1 pm when we pulled out of Touba and I'm getting pretty good at sleeping just about anywhere in very awkward positions, so I sort of slumped onto the seat edge next to me and did the best I could. Once we got to Kaffrine, maybe 2 hours or so away, one of the men in my row disembarked... so I immediately moved in to his empty seat for the back support. Continue along the road until Koungeul, reached right around sunset. At this point we had to change to another mini-car, and wait about half an hour for the car to refill. Then on to Koumpentoum. Another switch to another mini-car, but this one was waiting for us to fill it up. So I didn't have the best seat, (as if there were any really GOOD seats on a mini-car) but it was ok. At least we didn't have to wait. In fact, there was a line of women trying to push their way onto the car, but the apprenti (the assistant to the driver) was blocking the path until all of our car was seated. It was like being ushered backstage while the screaming fans without tickets try to force entry... only at the end of it was another long, almost comfortable carride, not chips and dip with a boyband. The woman at the front of the line tried to get me to take her baby so she could force herself into the seat next to me. It was crazy like that for about 2 minutes and then we were all on, so they were allowed to board and crammed to the point of standing room only, we continued on the way to Tamba. Most of them got off within the next 15 or 20 km, and we got into Tamba (100 km away) at about 9.45 pm. Not, as expected, the worst day of my life.

I got to the Tamba house, the eve of Thanksgiving, to find one volunteer there. All the rest went to Kedougou, so to avoid being alone at Thanksgiving, I joined Camille in an early morning departure to make it to Kedougou in time for Frisbee, lazyness, games, and supremely good eatin'. The boys went all out, and I got my first taste of Thanksgiving "Turducken"=Turkey, stuffed with Duck, stuffed with Chicken. REAL GOOD!

The next day, after a longish morning (because I just wasn't ready to jump back onto more transport) I returned to Tamba and had just enough time to stop at the bank before arriving at the garage at sunset... which means I, again, missed all the cars going past my village. It was the night before Tabaski (THE big holiday), and I was at the end of the end of the last of the last of transportation taking people to where they wanted to be to celebrate. There was a big 72-seater charter bus waiting in the garage lot, and we were 12. So, of course, we waited for it to fill up. And it did... eventually. We got on the road at 10pm and I thought, well I'll get home at midnight, and while that's not optimal, it's ok. I also got to wait with the chattiest little girl I've ever met. She is from a village near me and her mother recognized me from the baptism I accidentally attended on my way home from Amber's village, oh, 8 or more months ago. I had the best street food I've had in Senegal, because that's what the little girl was eating for dinner, and of course she shared her dinner with her new friend, me.

It is 80 km from Tamba to my village, but 25 km before my stop, is Manda-of-the-horrible-wait if you're unlucky and travelling in a mini-car (which I, thankfully, was not). But we stopped there anyway and most of the passengers got off the bus and we remained stationary for about half an hour. I finally woke up enough to realize I should ask what was going on and found out that the driver refused to continue because of rumors of banditry along the road, and I don't blame him. We would have to spend the night on the bus and we could continue at first light, around 6 am. So I snuggled into a seat and slept for a few hours, when the driver apparently changed his mind and decided to continue anyway after a few cars had come through with no problems. So we reloaded, and revved up, taking the road with a gendarme (national police force) escort at 2.30am. Now, the approach to my village is hard to see in the daylight, so I was trying particularly hard to see it in the moonless night. I heard the passengers behind me talking about the stop as we were getting close, because there was another guy who was going there too, so I know the apprenti knew we were meant to stop. BUT I MISSED IT!!! I looked and looked and didn't see it until I recognized the hill that is past it. What do you do at 3 am with no moon, on a road where bandits are known to cause trouble? I got off at the next village, along with a handful of others, briefly argued with the driver about why he hadn't stopped, and when the bus drove off mid-sentence, I knew there was nothing to do but stay put until morning. My new little friend and her mom had friends in the village, so we walked into the nearest compound, woke up her friends, and I jumped into bed with 2 or 3 of her daughters and slept a few hours. THIS is what they call teranga, the Senegalese hospitality. Who cares about being woken up at 3 am? You have guests and they need beds, roll over, and here's the extra sheet. After a 20 second greeting and conversation with the girl who I'd woken up, I rolled over and fell deeply asleep until the family's morning routine woke me up and I loaded up my bicycle. A neighbor from my village had come to buy bread and said, "AMINATA! What are you doing here? Did you sleep here? If you're ready to go, let's bike back home." And I was. So we did.

He took the other bicycle-less passenger headed to Coumba Diouma on the back of his own bike and I biked with my big back-pack load of vacation clothes and abundant supply of tootsie rolls, (thanks, mom) and we made our triumphant entry at about 8.30. My family was thrilled that I made it home to celebrate. They were certain I wasn't going to make it. But I did, alhumdulilaye. A Tabaski miracle!

Life In Translation

I spend a lot of my time thinking about translation: how to translate ideas and concepts (in multiple directions), how life would sound if I directly translated the word-world of Pulaar into English, how many things would not translate, etc.

Here are a few recent examples:

Film culture—I’ve talked before about how we are able to watch films in my village from time to time with generators and rigged up “theater systems”. I had a visitor just yesterday ask (with some wonder) about the fact that I had not brought a television with me to the village… I don’t know what I would do with a TV, and only just a few weeks ago discovered that someone IN MY FAMILY has a TV. It seems like such an out-of-place concept. But, where there’s a will, there’s a way. And so, we have “film” showings in the village. These vary from Brazilian soap operas* and Guinean sketch comedy to what we would more generally consider actual films. These aren’t exactly the box-office hits that you are watching over there in Hollywood-land. In Mary’s village, films about “les vampires” (more B-level Dracula flicks, less Twilight) have been all the rage. One day Mary’s mother very seriously told her that her daughter had been injured by a stick, but not just any stick—there was a vampire in the stick. While I was in Thies we watched a Wesley Snipe film about life in prison. They were interested to know that I had just heard about Wesley Snipe actually being in prison, but for somewhat-less glamorous crimes than in the movie.

*(Au Coeur du Peche, In the Heart of Sin, the one during my training ended a few months ago with some very dramatic deaths and long-awaited reunion. It has been replaced with Marina, which I know nothing about except that they were watching it in Amber’s village when I went to visit last week.)

While my friend Bethany visited recently, one of the kids was telling us what kinds of films he likes to watch: “jetleecha knorreees.” What? I didn’t understand but after repetition, Bethany understood: Jet Li/Chuck Norris. Here is a phenomenon that most definitely DOES NOT translate. If you mention the name Chuck Norris to anyone in my generation, you are most likely to get a joke in return and if you start with Chuck Norris jokes among a group of people, you will find that almost everyone has a favorite. But they don’t tell well in Pulaar. “Chuck Norris doesn’t sleep, he waits.” You could tell it, but I don’t think anyone in my village would find it very funny. “Chuck Norris doesn’t do push-ups, he pushes the ground down.” I don’t even know how to translate push-up without doing the action... at which point the joke would be lost and we’d be laughing at me trying to explain push-ups. I asked El Hadji who he thought would win in a fight between Jet Li and Chuck Norris. He says Jet Li. Bethany has her doubts about that. I’m undecided. I think it might be an everlasting battle that would tear the earth to shreds and leave the two round-house kicking in space… movie makers take note.

My favorite film translation item comes from a recent conversation I had at my neighbor’s house. They just got a new dog and Ibrahima named him “Rambo”. I like this story because if you translate it word-for-word into English it is exactly the same. I was trying to ask where he heard the name, so that he would tell me about the films but he wasn’t understanding my questions. His Aunt Aissatou understood me and she said, “O yi’ii mo ka filum. O wadi Karate.” (He saw him in the film. He does Karate.) To this, Ibrahima interjected, “O’oo! O fellay yimbe!” (Nuh-uh! He shoots people!) Well said, Ibrahima. Well said. Clearly knows his stuff, that one.

Games—All the rage in my neighborhood are the card games I’ve started teaching the kids. Uno is ever-popular and easy to learn, although “renversay” and “esskippity” are difficult concepts for some of the kids. It reminds me of playing Ludo, the Senegalese board game that is like Parcheesi or Sorry. My little bro, Amadou, is a whiz at rolling and repeatedly gets his wish when he rolls, saying “Hello, six-ski!” “Skip” becomes “Esskip” which then turns into “esskippity” or “mi kippi maa” (I sKIPPed you). We also play (English to Pulaar back to English)
• Go Fish → “Dabbu Liyyi” → Search for Fish
• Old Maid → “Maama” → Grandmother or Old Woman
• BS (or as I like it, No Way Dude!, thank you Ninja Turtle Playing cards) → “A Feenay!” → You Lie! (PS, it is culturally inappropriate to tell someone outright that they are lying, especially someone older or respected… like me. This makes the game extra-hilarious and the adults like to just watch us and laugh when someone gets caught lying.)
• Egyptian Rat Screw (ERS) → “Ndowru Skrew” which becomes more like “Ndowruski” → Rat-ski
• Golf → no translation, so “Golluf”

I’m trying to work up to Phase 10, but that is beyond the younger ones and now that Ndowruski is an option, the older ones are often convinced to play that instead of trying to learn P10.

General words/concepts—As we know, my bed is broken. I have yet to fix it, so currently I am laying the foam mattress on the floor at night and leaning it against the wall each morning. I like this because I feel that it “opens” up my room. I said that to woman in my compound. “O udditii suudu an.” In English, we don’t often use infixes. We use suffixes and prefixes. In Pulaar, every verb has at least one variant or relative derived by infixes. We do and re-do, wind and re-wind, write and re-write, pete and re-peat… just kidding. The Pulaar equivalent to ‘re-’ is ‘-it-’. This is really simplifying, but I think it makes my point. Haalugol is to say, haalitugol is to say again; winndugol is to write, winnditugol is to write again. To close is uddugol, to open udditugol. Conceptually that took me a long time to get straight, but I finally have it. So I used “udditugol” to mean open up the room. Conceptually that made sense to me. My friend didn’t get it. What do you mean “open” the room. I started with a door. If the door is closed, then you open it, and you can move through it. My bed was in the middle of the room, but now, my room is “open” and I can move all over it. I could even have a dance party if I wanted. I think she got it then. Either that or she was too tickled by the idea of a dance party in my room to continue seeking and explanation. In any case, this is just one example of the role that translation plays in my daily life.

Dreads, Kids, Work, and Camping

I'm too tired and lazy to write about the last few weeks. SO, here's a few "thousand words" to tell you what I've been up to:

On my birthday, (or L'anniversaire de Bob Marley, as they prefer to remember it), I made a piñata to share American birthday traditions with the schoolkids.

Notice I included the dreads for those who asked... this is, incidentally, the day that I began to painstakingly comb them out... see further down for results.

The kids LOVED the idea of a piñata. LOVED it.

I was showing Seikou how to strum. Strumming rhythmically is aparently very very tricky, but as long as Aminata plays the chords, the kids are thrilled with the music they make.

I spend a lot of time with kids and occasionally catch precious moments on film. Here's Hawa wearing a broken gourd on her head... who knows why?

In June my favorite school teacher got married and I got to be a "hostess" at the wedding. Consider this my bridesmaid's dress.

When Erik visited, he brought my dad's had with him and Amadou likes to ham it up.

Here's Erik and my host dad in "Senegalese" pose.

Our net distribution in Cour Bambey. YOU paid for those nets. THANK YOU!!!

Mike does part of our Nets causery during the distribution, explaining proper use, care, and importance of mosquito nets.

I've been working on a nutrition mural at the school kitchen: the 3 food groups-
Go (carbs), Grow (proteins), and Glow (vitamin/mineral rich F & Vs)!

I recently visited a waterfall with some friends. This is me and Kay.

This is my "Mom will want a picture of me" photo. You're welcome, Mom.

To get back from the falls, we had to ford a river - first carrying our bikes, then a second time with our stuff on our heads to keep it dry. The river was about chin-deep this day and we didn't lose any oxen (or bicycles). Take that, Oregon Trail!