2 Babies are Born in the Bush

As I wrote about before, my father told me that there was an addition to our family when I returned from Ourossogoui and that there would be a naming ceremony on Tuesday.  He also said that nothing would happen until Tuesday so I could go about the next few days as normal.  So I unpacked my things from my trip and spent the afternoon with my family.  While sitting there my uncle came back on our horse drawn carriage with another addition to our family although a quite short lived addition, a medium sized ram and a bushel of onions.  Word to the wise: if you are any form of livestock in Senegal, stay away from large amount onions.  I have never seen this fair well for the livestock.

Well the next day began as I had remembered before my trip; I headed to the master farm, came back for lunch, and then took a short nap after lunch in my room.  After my nap, I went into the large building, hubere, in our galle and sat with my family who were watching TV by solar power and satellite.  As I sat there, many women came into the hubere and greeted us and then disappearing on the side of the house.  One of these women was my work counterpart that I intended to go and greet at her galle but had yet to find the time to do so.  So when curiosity got the best of me I followed the trail of women and I found pleasantly that they were on the side of the house making more bignets than i had ever seen in one place.  Now bignets are little bits of fried dough that can be bready, caky, or millet/grainy, my family was making bready bignets.  I have a soft spot for them that is getting bigger.  The way things are typically cooked here is over an open flame of logs radiating out from a central fire and a metal pot with three legs holding it 4 inches or so above the ground.  The women next to my house were using a wok like pot full of oil over an open flame.  My first thought was fire hazard, but I am no bignet expert.  So there were two women pulling out marble sized dough balls from a basin full of dough and putting them on a metal serving tray to rise for a short while before being dropped into the oil where another lady was frying the dough balls and then putting them in a bowl.  When you want the oil hotter you add wood and when the bignets start cooking too hot you remove some.  Later a second pot was started to make cafe Touba, super sweet chai tea like coffee.  I hope that gives you a good idea of the atmosphere.
So I had come around the corner and greeted everyone and even though there were no men I joined the women to listen to Pulaar and talk some.  At first there might have been 10 women all together.  3 working on bignets and about three working on the coffee and then a bunch of women sitting on the concrete next to the hubere, but as the pile of bignets began to increase so did the number of women and children, I am unsure the final number.  It might have hit 25 women.  In fact, I should remember the exact number of single women above the age of 20 because the conversation eventually turned to why I did not have a wife and then to introducing me to all the single ladies, including my counter part.  Now one of the first weeks I was in Diagaly I tried to put a damper on the marriage suggestion by saying that I could not marry someone too young because I was 30; the age I said was required of my wife was at least 25.  Now I told this to two men, one I don't think spread this.  So I think taht one mention to one person about a somewhat arbitrary statement is now known by many in my town because where that man lived was as far as possible in my town from the women that was going through every single women in the bignet circle and saying "Well what about Chagie, or what about Rugie, or what about...."  And after this was said the women would look at me like they were waiting for a response.  This is one place where language improvement  doesn't really help because i can't fall back on the old standby of "mi faamaani" or " I don't understand" because they knew I understood.  Well eventually the conversation was redirected but not after I many an awkward moment for me.  I guess we will just put it with the rest.

Well eventually 2 giant bowls, probably 3 feet in diameter and 18 inches deep, of bignets piled about the outside rim were made and maybe 3 gallons of cafe Touba.  Now cups of cafe Touba and bags of bignets were being passed out to the women and kids in our galle and in surrounding areas.  Things got exciting and a bit crazy, and then the women and children began to file out and there was once again silence and only two piles of charcoal and ash and some plastic bags to indicate the previous excitement.

Monday was fairly normal as well until afternoon when extended family began to come in for the Inde, or naming ceremony on the next day.  I think it was the calm before the storm.

When I woke on Tuesday I went ahead and got into my comci, or traditional garb.  At 7:30 there was already a gathering of women over a very large pot of cafe Touba and a large pile of bread.  I went to join the women and eat bread and drink a cup of coffee.  After two cups of coffee, way too much, large mats began to be pulled out and blankets laid apon them for people to sit and ataya, senegalese  tea, was already being cooked, and greetings were happening on all sides of me as people began to come in.  Cafe Touba and bread continued to be passed around and preparations were beginning for our lunch.  After that the ram was slaughtered hilal in the center of our galle and then cleaned on the side by my uncle and my neighbor as fire after fire began to be lit to cook the onions, rice, and sheep.  That was about 10 am.  Until lunch we sat on mats, moving whenever the sun caught us, and drank ataya and talked and napped and listened to a badiraado or traditional Pulaar guitarist play music.  When the food was finished, serving tray after serving tray went out peoples heads to all areas of our galle and then began leaving the galle go to neighbors and other people in the community.  Enough food was eaten to justify mass napping and lounging and drinking of ataya and greeting.  My sister received a name, Fatamata Dia, after my aunt, and the women and kids gave money and candy and other gifts with lots of clapping and commotion.

Things wrapped up around 7.  Many of the people I had been talking to during the day insisted that I visit their village and then they lead their saretd out of the compound with up to a large number of people on board and the rest of us relaxing under a darkening sky on stick beds.  I usually drink ataya once a day, and if I have drank it twice in a day I will usually turn down the third round.  Well at the end of the day I counted that I had drank 3 cups of cafe Touba and 7 rounds of ataya, with three glasses per round; a new record for me.  I also turned down 3 rounds which had I drank would have given me a nice even 10.  Set goals not limits right.

Well originally this was intended to be a short blog post to justify a picture of my new sister, but maybe as people are learning I have a hard time keeping these posts short and Senegal has yet to give me little to write about.  Well the next day I wanted to get back into my routine.  I headed to the master farm and started working on some of our ongoing projects.  About 11 o clock Guyloode told me that the naming ceremony in a neighboring village that was supposed to be in a week was actually today and that we would go later.  Although I had some reservations due to exhaustion and no traditional clothes we went to another naming ceremony in Mboyen at galle mBoye.  The events were pretty close to what had happened the day before.  The men sat around and ate, talked politics, and drank ataya.  My lips hurt from the overdose of ataya the day before but  i still powered through.  I left in the afternoon and went to a garden owned by one of the men at the naming ceremony and then headed home exhausted around 5.  With my galle and rest in sight I heard a yell from a familiar galle but an unfamiliar person to come and greet them.  I walked over, bent under the shade structure, and as I extended my hand my lower back threw its hands up in surrender of all the bending to shake hands over the two day period.  My knees buckled, my non greeting hand grabbed my back, and by brow cringed.  I had not the endurance for the amount of greeting as I had done in those two days and I learned a valuable lesson.  You have to work your way into a two day greeting marathon.  You can't expect to be able to greet like that overnight.  A week later I am still feeling this reminder.

Now, my sister is a little over 2 weeks old and she is pretty darn cute.  After 2 weeks I was allowed to see her and now I show her to all of y'all.

Fatamata Dia

Ourossogui and Back 01/31/2015

I awoke early on Sunday the 25th to catch a ride into Linguere and then go to Oursssogui the next day for a language seminar with other volunteers from my stage.  When I arrived in the middle of the market there was no moon and there was no sun.  I sat down on the log bench to wait on the buh taxi, but the only movement was men moving about either coming or going to pray.  The longer I sat there the more I analyzed the situation further and began to get worried that there wasn't going to be a car today and that I would need to navigate my way to the road in order to hale a "sept place" and go to Linguere.  As my thoughts increased I beggan to get angry; angry that there was not a schedule that always left or arrived at a certain time with a certain number of seats and driven by English speaking Americans.  Then out of the dark a man, whom I had never to my knowledge met, walks up and he calls my name.  He then asks where I am going and then takes me to the truck sitting in the dark on the other side of the market square.  As we walk across the market he tries to teach me a little bit of Wolof and we laugh at my horrible use of the letter "r."

Arriving at the truck I see only one familiar face, a lady who sells vegetables in the market.  I greet her most days but I didn't know her name, actually still don't.  She helps me with my bag and I climb up onto top of the latter rack like bench and sit down.  Shortly after my bag is snug and me settled the truck, which is like an old mazda or toyota, the small pickup begins swaying violently back and forth like a ship in rough water.  When I turn back, I  see two horns coming up through the benches in the back of the truck bed; following those revealed a full sized adult cow sitting, with the help of some rope, underneath the 7 or so of us on the bush taxi.  She was not happy with the situation, and if I can speak for the group, none of us were either.  The rest of the ride was pretty normal.  The sun rose above the trees behind us as we picked up passengers on the side of the road, some 2 legged and some 4 legged, on the highway to Linguere.

View from the ride into Linguere, enhanced a little.

When we reached the city we had 1 cow, 2 goats, and 6 sheep below our feet.  The lady from market helped me to know where to get off the taxi and then I headed across the length of town, bought two pieces of bread and 2 eggs, and hurried to make coffee without sugar and a breakfast with protein in it.  The day in Linguere was full of wasted time on my computer, cold drinks, coffee, and ended wonderfully with my first successful Skype with my Dad where I was able to fill in the gaps of my time in Senegal for the first time and talk without worrying about buying phone credit.  The day went by fast.
The next morning I closed down the regional house in Linguere and went to the garage to meet Oumar, the garage contact.  As soon as I got there he put me on a saret (horse/donkey draw carriage) to go to the Ourossogui garage, which I had no idea even existed.  A long saret ride dropped me in front of a small store with a few men and a bench in front.  I joined the men and spoke a little bit of Pulaar and tried to figure out if this bench would actually help me find my way to Ourossogui.  Patience and a little bit of faith held out long enough for an Peugot station wagon to come up and the group of men, who happened to be some of the broadest Pulo men I had been around, piled into this car.  Now sept place means  7 places in French.  That does not include the driver.  3 in the very back, 3 in the middle, and one in the front.  We fit but no one was happy.  We went the 3 hour ride changing the way that we leaned on one another, changing the location of our legs to prevent them from going to sleep, sweating on one another, and the man on my left kept farting; which was uncommon in Senegal.   We arrived to the busiest scene I had witnessed in a long time, the Ourossogui garage.  I soon felt overwhelmed as I walked around, but my nerves soon settled as people came up to me and talked to me in Pulaar and I was able to respond and find a place to sit and await my escorts coming from the Peace Corps Regional House.  Taylor and Eva arrived shortly on foot, Mathew followed shortly in minibus, and we were soon out in the city in search of food, drink, and a place to converse.  We found a "fast food" place outside the garage and before we had taken our seats we were all talking at the same time trying to tell stories of the many things that had happened in the last month and a half.  Many of the stories were similar but it was great to know how many people were going through the same issues as I .  We waited a long time for mediocre cold burgers and cold oily fries before we made the trek back to the regional house; including stops at the toubab store and the liquor store.  That night we relaxed and ate easy food and had drinks and caught up, it was very nice.

The next morning we woke up pretty early and headed off to our language seminar.  I was nervous.  The instructor, Fatimata Dia, and I had not really gotten along during our CBT time, and the volunteer that had left early from Diagaly the year before had done so right after his language seminar, supposedly because she had been very critical of his language.  I worried that she would be just as critical of me.  We set off on the 30 minute walk to Taylors host family compound through a very different environment than I see on my daily route in Diagaly.  Ourossogui is huge compared to Diagaly and it is busy with vendors and children and people everywhere.  As different as Ourossogui was to Diagaly, Taylor's family was from mine.  I think that the whole village of Diagaly could have gathered inside the walls of her galle with lots of room to spare.  There were buildings on all sides with groups of boys and young men studying the Qur'an on wooden tablets and there were groups of older men praying and there were groups of women making breakfast and sweeping and moving about.  We found Fatimata, discussed what we wanted out of the training, and shortly afterwards were translating sentences.  The worries I had were soon no longer there and we seemed to all have a good time and the day flew by.  The next few days were spent studying by day and then hanging out and eating good food by evening.  All passing quickly.

On the last day for me, January 30th, we finished early and Eva and I went to the market to try and get my hair cut.  With Eva as a lookout I sat down in Mamadou's chair and put my hair in his hands with faith and weak Pulaar skills.  Without any help I was able to communicate my desired haircut and talk to the barber about himself and America.  The haircut turned out great.  We then went out and bought seeds for my garden in village and some fabric, and finished out our quest at the USAID building to learn how to graft an improved variety of a native tree in the sahel, called Jabe in village or Jujube to most everyone else.  At the end of our training I acquired some scion wood to take back to village and acquired a feeling of confidence that I had yet to feel in Africa.

The next morning I packed and left with the rest of the group as they headed to class.  I had decided to head back a day early to village because I had been gone too long.  The garage in Ourossogui was still overwhelimng when I arrived even with my added confidence.  Since I had been uncomfortable on the "Sept Place" going to Ourossogui I decided to try my luck with a mini bus on the way back.  I was directed to the right bus, found a seat, secured my bags, paid my fare, and then waited for 2 hours while Almube/Talibe children sang me Muslim prayers and asked me to give them alms.  The bus finally left when it filled up and with much noise and smoke we headed west.  We made it about 10 km before we stopped next to a broken down semi to help a group of men.  We gave them some water, which in hindsight was a bad idea, and then headed back west.  This time we made it about 40 km before there was steam boiling out from the hood and a trail of water behind us.  This sight brought me fear but the driver just grabbed some water from the back and headed out again.  The trip was about 180 km and required about 4 stops to refill the radiator and one stop to refill the water jugs in Ranerrou before we came to a straight stretch of road with the only sign of human life is a sign of metal that reads "Diagaly 4 km."  Our driver stopped at the same time that I needed to get out so I didn't need to bang on the roof of the 1950s Mercedes bus with holes in tthe floor and welds upon welds that still wiggle in places that seem structurally important.  Well I am no engineer.  I exited the back of the bus and told the startled driver that I needed to get my bag from the top of the bus.

First, he asked me if I was going to St. Louis when i told him that I lived in Diagaly.  Reluctantly he gave me my bag and every passenger save one stared at me with wide eyes and probably sad thoughts about my inevitable death that would soon follow me exiting the bus in this desolate place.  The one who didn't was Habduli Njiay, a man I spoke to briefly and who new Diagaly.  He shook my hand through the window of the bus and said in Pulanglish, "A jarama, Good Luck."

In the heat of the day I walked north following a dirt road towards my village for the first time.  The place looked completely barren of life but I soon ran into a herd of cows.  The gaynaako that was trailing them assured me that my village did exist in the sand and trees in front of me.  Now at this point I thought to myself, "What if there are two Diagalys, and what if these aynaabe have no idea what I am saying.  What if the driver was right."  Still I headed on.  I met groups of people on sarets moving there homes south to find more feed and they laughed and greeted the lone white guy who speaks Pulaar in the middle of the bush, I saw many a trails of cows and sheep, and then I saw a forage and a mosque on the horizon and although I thought they looked quite different from what I remembered, they eventually turned into Diagaly, and inside Diagaly was my compound.

As I entered my compound, I was greeted with warm hand shakes and genuine smiles and then given a private late lunch in my room.  I ate, got some fresh clothes on, and then went to sit with my father under the neem tree.  He asked me about my trip and we talked for some time before he told me that my moother had given birth on the previous Tuesday and they would be giving the child a name on the upcoming Tuesday.  There was good energy in the air all around. 

Now I know that this story is starting to drag on, actually it has for a while now, but I am not concerned about you the reader right now.   Drink some ataya and take a nap if you must but I am not going to condense my post!

Now I got a shower, I checked my garden, and even though I was exhausted I didn't want to rest in my room; I wanted to hang out with my family.  That was Saturday and typically on Sundays I don't go to the master farm, but I figured I needed to since I had scion wood.  I called Guyloode and told him that I would see him in the morning.  The next day I awoke, ate breakfast, and headed out as usual, but unusual was the fact that it seemed that my status in Diagaly had changed.  Now I am unsure what happened.  I don't know if I had changed my view point  of the experience or if my absence had caused people to miss me or think I had ET'd (Early Terminated); I think it was mostly me but a little of the latter as well.  I went to the master farm and was eager to greet and see the people from my village who I had not seen in a week.  At the master farm we grafted Jabe trees and then just talked, but I wasn't trying to work or do something else, I wasn't getting down because I didn't understand or because people were laughing at me, I talked as best I could and was happy to just be there.  Guyloode told me that when I called the night before he thought it was my ensien Jack and that my Pulaar was very clean.  I went home and greeted people and talked with people with enthusiasm and enjoyment that before had been unheard of.

I know that this high will not always be this high and there will be hard days in the future.  I think that the joy I feel now is partly from the hard days I have had before it, but I am happy and I am relieved to be happy.  I feel like the struggle that many talk about in the beginning of service is perhaps starting to subside.  That the language is going to come to me and that I am going to enjoy my service.  I think from sitting in the dark market square and have a  group of people, some known and some unknown help me get to Linguere, and have my anxiety about language seminar to become such a good experience, to getting offf of a bus in the middle of the bush and finding Diagaly all comes down to having faith, being in the present, and accepting the help that has been so plentiful to me here.