Mariama and Malicke Camara: Siblings take on Senegal

It’s a funny mix of feelings that occur in the weeks, than the days, the hours, and finally the minutes before your loved one steps off the plane and into your world that you’ve hoped to share with the people you cherish the most. When my parents came to visit, I obsessed over the technicalities of the trip. How would I get them from place to place comfortably? Which hotels should I book? What was I forgetting about that would be useful information for middle-aged people coming from the 1^st world? I felt anxious, as any child is likely to feel in order to make sure her parents are proud of her in this new, strange life.

A couple of weeks ago, on a spur of the moment decision, my younger brother Peter also decided to take the opportunity to see Africa on his way back to the United States from his study abroad in Italy. Although some of the feelings were the same as with my parents, I had an older sister’s relish for finding out exactly what my little brother was made of.

So while of course I was still somewhat daunted by questions of where to take him and would he like it, I also didn’t have to worry about him like I did for my parents. No rented out cars, no consideration about where he would be forced to sleep on our next week of dubious adventure, no consideration as to if he felt comfortable or if it was possible for him to get approximately 1 and half hours of sleep and then get into the back seat of broken-down station wagon and crouch for 8 hours in a somewhat fetal position all the way to my village.

We just went for it. And we had a marvelous time. I will say, that the most memorable and overarching feeling that all the airport pick-ups have had in common (my parents, my cousin Kimberly, and my brother Peter) is the miraculousness of seeing them and then feeling like you just saw each other yesterday. With all of them, I slipped back into conversation and familiarity with no trouble at all. And for that I am most grateful.

There was no preamble, no “settling in” for Peter Jenkins. The moment I had him in the taxi at 10:00 at night after a long flight I handed him a kola nut, most often seen being chewed by respected elders in order for them to get their caffeine kick for the day. This little purple nugget is chalk full of caffeine and can keep you going for hours on end. If only I would have had those to get me through the late nights of studying in college!

“Eat this,” I said, handing over half the nut and popping the other half into my own mouth. “You’re going to need it.”

Peter did I as I said, but around a mouthful of kola nut he said, “This is disgusting!”

“Just eat it.”

“For how long?”

“Just keep chewing.”

After 5 minutes we both spit our kola nuts out the window. As we wove our way along the dark freeways of Dakar and rounded the backside of the Corniche, the waves crashing in the night, we talked about our past year and a half.

When we got to the Peace Corps house, Peter was greeted by a raucous bunch of volunteers, ready to go out on the town. By that time the kola nut was working its magic and we were ready to dance! We took him to our favorite night club and even though we knew we needed to get up early the next morning we danced until dawn, fell asleep for about an hour, and then I roused Peter from his brief slumber and we headed for the garage at 5:30 in the morning to catch the early car out to my village.

Luckily, I don’t think he was awake enough to know what was happening to him when we were both jammed into the tight back seat of the station wagon and forced to sit with our heads tilted to make room for the ceiling. Our legs twisted into human origami fitting like tetris cubes next to each other’s legs and the legs of our third unlucky fellow back-seater to make room for the middle seat which the garage apprentice disharmoniously slammed down as soon as we had taken our own seats.

It was in this state of discomfort that we traveled for eight hours until we got off in the Tamba garage and changed to a mini bus. So close to my village, but still so far. After waiting in the broiling heat for over 2 hours, the mini bus finally rumbled to a start and we made our last leg of the journey to my village. I don’t think I have ever done the journey between Dakar and my village in one day, but because of my brother’s tight week long schedule, I had him on the fast track. Finally, we made it to my village, after dark and exhausted, greeted warmly by my family.

As we lay there under the stars in my backyard, cooled from our bucket baths, and able to stretch our limbs out completely for the first time all day, Peter sighed.

“This is awesome,” he said, “but that may have been the worse trip of my life.”

I laughed. He hadn’t complained the whole hellish ordeal. He had put up with the sept place, the heat, and the people harassing us better than I ever would have expected. And finally we were at our destination. We could relax in village in peace.

The next morning, we woke up and did real introductions, since the night before we hadn’t really been able to see anything. My favorite brother, Caba, who I often talk about in my blog got the honor of giving Peter his village name. He gave him the name Malicke, the name of his older brother.

Properly named and newly welcomed to the village Malicke Camara was a huge hit, especially with my younger siblings. He taught my younger brothers some jujitsu moves, which they continue to practice on each other to this day. Kumba, my 4 year old sister, was also quite taken with him and let him pick her up and even bench press her.

We went on a tour of the village and I introduced Peter to some of my favorite families. My best friend Mamoudou from Manda Village came to greet my brother, as did Kumba Diallo (Ruth Nervig). We spent a fairly laid back day mostly hanging out with the kids in my family and talking in my compound. Although we weren’t able to stay in village for long, Peter made enough of an impression that when it came time for him to leave, I thought my little brothers were close to tears.

Malicke (Peter) Camara, Mamoudou, and Malicke Camara (Peter’s namesake) hanging out in my hut

“He’s never coming back is he, Mari,” said Boye, my youngest host brother.

While I wanted to tell him so badly that he might see him again, I couldn’t lie to him. “No, Boye,” I said. “You probably won’t see him again, so tell a nice goodbye now, and we’ll call him when he gets back to America.”

He nodded solemnly and gave my brother his most sincere handshake. They couldn’t understand each other, but I loved that my real brother and the boys who have become my brothers here in Senegal were able to meet each other.

Kumba was also sad to see him leave. The two of them had formed quite the friendship, even in his short amount of time in village.

Peter and his new best friend

Even today after Peter has left, I find Boye scribbling his name in chalk all over my walls and Kumba searching through my photo album to locate his face. We called him to talk to him in America and all 5 of the kids were very eager to greet him. Thanks to Peter, I often now come home to my brothers scuffling on the ground, putting each other in head locks and attempting to trip each other with the moves he has showed them.

It was a great trip and I’m happy that I was able to see my little brother even if it was only for just a week. It’s certainly not a vacation and I was so happy he chose to come see me when he very well could have chosen to travel more of Europe with his friends. I hope that he enjoyed his time with me as much as I did with him.

Like Brother Like Sister
Thanks For Visiting me Brother!

Living and Working: My life in Pictures

As I thought to myself about what to write for this blog, I came to the conclusion that this time I wouldn’t write. I will show. Well I guess I always try to “show” through writing.I hope that you enjoy this blog that is comprised mostly in pictures. It is just a glimpse of what I have been doing this past month in Sinchurio Samba Foula and the Sithian Koundaro region. Enjoy!

The cool thing about my work this year is that I have work counterparts that introduce me to new communities who are interested in learning agroforestry techniques. Here I am explaining to some farmers in the village Gambisarah why composting can be a great suppliment to processed fertilizer.

Me and Viay hanging out in the emptied compost pits. What would I do without this man? He is such a hard worker and always eager to try new techniques on his land. I LOVE VIAY!

See how hard I work…

This is the women’s group of Bolibana. I love working with these women because they do everything themselves. So much so, that they’ve managed to piss off the men in their village by being more successful. You go girls!

Mamoudou is my best friend in village and like an apprentice to Viay. He is not only an outlet to me when I want to complain about Ibrahima Camara, but he also helps me patiently with my Pulaar and is my most loyal defender against toubab-ers and nasty old men.

Let’s take a break from work for this…

My heart. My baby girl. She has me wrapped around her little finger. Kumba.

And we are back to work… 

This is the tree nursery in Viay’s field where we will seed everything from cashews, to mangoes, to thorny species for the live fence, to citrus trees, and much more.

Viay and Mamoudou hard at work! It takes patience and some back strength to line up the tree sacks so that they don’t tip over and so that they line up properly. Not as easy as it looks.

This week we also thatched my hut so that when the rains come I will be safe and dry. Not to mention it’s way prettier now. My friend Alfa Omar did the thatching, along with his brother and friend. My brothers also helped haul away the old grass and Mari Dufe, my host mother, cooked up a chicken for all the workers.

 

Off with the old, on with the new. Taking down the old thatch.

View from inside the hut after the thatch was taken off. That’s my starry night painting and the mango tree in my compound that you can see through the framework of the roof.

Caba, who proudly caught the chicken, posing before lunch.

Issaga and Aliou on the unstable ladder that used to climb up onto the roof with.

And even with all the filling of tree sacks, seeding, and thatching, I still make time to hang out with my younger siblings. Here are a few pictures of us hanging out, taking picture, and putting together a dinosaur puzzle my mom sent us, which Boye and Caba particularly love.

Me and Kumba clutching a cashew apple.

Me, Caba, Boye, and Kumba goofing around.

 

All 5 siblings and an almost completed puzzle.
Going clockwise from Sidou (17) laying on the floor, Caba (13), Malicke (16), Kumba (3), and Boye (10).

Thanks for sharing my life with me!

I have another blog in the making, but I’m not sure it is going to make it up before my younger brother Peter gets here tonight. Look forward to our adventures in next edition’s blog!

America, where are we going?

Today, through the mass text message that Peace Corps is able to send out to volunteers I learned about the Boston Marathon tragedy. I am shocked, horrified, and disappointed that such a seemingly senseless act could take place at an event meant to celebrate hard work and dedication, two characteristics I consider to be integrally American. It was particularly sad to me, because the American culture and the American people are the very things I am so confidently and proudly championing on a daily basis here in Senegal.

And I started thinking. Every day, I am frustrated in some way by the culture here in Senegal. There is always someone asking me for money, someone screaming Toubaco at me, or someone asking me to take them to America. In general, I have learned right away not to bother talking to men here that I don’t know because eight times out of ten they are going to sexually harass me in some way. The transport is inefficient and the authorities are unprofessional. A small part of me daily yearns for my own country of equal rights for all, policeman I can trust aren’t going to hit on me, and a societal respect for punctuality. But…
But… right now, in this culture, I cannot imagine something happening like what happened in Boston this week. When I told my host family here what happened, they could not wrap their minds around what I was saying. I want to put it down to the fact that no matter what the faults of Senegalese society are, they are a peaceful people. They would never take something meant to respect and honor people who have worked hard and turn it into a nightmare. They don’t go into movie theatres and gun people down. They don’t make homemade bombs and put them in trash cans next to where an eight year child wanted to see his father cross the finish line. Maybe you think I don’t know, but these are not things that would happen in a Senegalese society.
Often I find myself not understanding the people here. I ask myself, why are they this way? Or can’t they see that there is a better way to do this? But maybe it’s like the story in the bible about seeing the plank in my own eye before picking the sawdust out of another’s. The parallel between what can or would happen in Senegal versus what can or would happen in United States is stark to me right now, but what is the clearest of all is that no culture, no society, no place on earth is without major problems. It is not Senegal as a third world country who needs to “catch up”. Perhaps it is us who needs to step back. Either way, people will people in all our inexplicable atrocities, quirks, and spontaneous compassion.
My heart goes out to the victims and families of the victims in Boston.
America, I love you, but where are we going?

A particularly hot and bothered Peace Corps Volunteer

Dear Banana Boat,

I would like to address the issue, first and foremost, of the falsity you have printed on your sunscreen bottle: “Sweat Resistant”.

“Sweat Resistant” my ass! Pardon my French, but as I sit here writing this to you in the sweltering sauna box they call a mud hut here in Africa, I am quick to find fault with your claims and not in the mood for mincing words. I’m not sure if you tested your product at all in this part of the world Banana Boat, but your “Won’t Run Into Eyes” sunscreen runs into my eyes faster than Usain Bolt in 100m dash!

I find your assertions particularly enraging during my daily bike trips when a sweaty sunscreen medley streams into my eyes so that I am not only unprotected from the sun on my bike ride, but am also blinded! As you can imagine, a white girl weaving to and fro on the village path screaming obscenities no one can understand does nothing to strengthen the reputation of foreigners nor does it help to keep the donkeys pulling carts from veering off the road in fear.

At first, I thought it was some fault of my own, but the instructions clearly state, “Apply generously and evenly to all areas 15 minutes before sun exposure” and I do this on a daily basis. Then I realized something.

Perhaps it is impossible to apply sunscreen while one is still sweating. Aha! I seemed to have found the problem. But unfortunately, Banana Boat, the solution still evades me, since I never. stop. sweating.

Furthermore, I already stick out like a… well, like a white girl in Africa. After being called Toubaco again and again based on the fact that I am the only Caucasian person within a 20 km radius, I really would appreciate if you could develop a sunscreen that at least rubs in, instead of making me even whiter.

I’m already hot and my eyes are stinging due to your “sweat resistant” sunscreen. A child shrieking at me as if I’m the ghost of Christmas Past just adds insult to injury. It’s not like I have a full length mirror hanging in my hut, you know!

I guess that’s all I needed to get off my chest. And now that the iceman has arrived on his bicycle, I feel much calmer. The Senegalese heat can do crazy things to you. But I’m not crazy… just hot and in need of some effective sunscreen.

Sincerely,

A Peace Corps Volunteer in the middle of hot season, Rural Africa

Peace Corps Pamphlet Perfect

Yesterday was one of those Peace Corps pamphlet days as I like to call them. Before I got to Peace Corps, I dreamed that most of my days would be like these ones. While my village is certainly about as ascetically romantic Peace Corps as you can get with its no electricity/no running water, mango tree, small African village vibe, I have to work so much harder to find work that lives up.

Yesterday, was my second meeting with the women of Bolibana and I’m going to be honest, my second year, slightly jaded heart didn’t have very high expectations for a women’s group. As I bike in to town, I was skeptical that anyone would show up, that was what I was used to after all. But when I got there, Binta Diallo was smiling and waving to me. The women were ready she told me. They were bringing their composting material as we spoke. While I ate a small breakfast of pounded bissap sauce and rice in her room, the women were gathering outside.

The Bolibana women assembled around their compost pile

I usually dread working with women groups for many reasons, one of which is that they are poorly organized and it seems to be impossible for them to interact without screaming at the top of their lungs at one another. While this was still true about the Bolibana group, there were enough strong leader-like personalities in the group to keep me there. I was also happily shocked when I heard one woman get severely reprimanded when she said if the late women didn’t show up soon, she was just going to go home. The other women were like chickens on a piece of meat.

“Oh no you’re not! You are not going anywhere!”

“Mariama came all this way, don’t even think of moving!”

“What do you need to do, get back and take a bath, lazy?”

They also only have 25 women, which is a reasonably sized. Although I still had to take the lead and jump into the fray, shouting orders just as loudly so that I could be heard over the shrill voices of the women talking about everything from the price of a bushel of bantara to the dirt on their husbands trousers, we got stuff done and they were keen to begin the composting training.

An hour and a half later I had gained the respect of the Bolibano women, by not only leading them through a successful composting formation where they were building it themselves by end and also asking pertinent questions, but also by scampering up a tree, machete in hand, to cut down more green leaves when we ran out of them for the compost pile.

As I’ve written before, I have switched up the game plan, and now most of my work is found about 10 km outside of my village. This is good and bad for a couple of reasons. On the good side, I get a regular break from eating rice three meals a day because one of my friends in the road town (called Sithian Koundaro) is the best bean lady in Senegal. I can also get cold water and ice there which is increasingly important as we head into the hot season’s soaring temperatures of up to 120 F during the day! The heat has also forced me to leave my village at dawn to escape the blazing death rays on the bike ride over, as well as have enough time to work in the field before I can’t take it anymore and have to take shelter under a mango tree until the sun goes back down. For better or for worse, I am also biking over 20 km a day in order to get to my work and then get back home again. While I am in fairly decent shape at this point, there are moments on the road when even a fast paced Rihanna song has been hard pressed to keep me from keeling over on my bike from the heat.

I am now a year and a half into my service with just one more hot season and one more rainy season of work to go. For an ag volunteer, this means I have one more go at a having a great work season and that work starts now. Good bye trips to Cape Verde, hello blisters!

Gettin’ my hands dirty!

And I couldn’t be happier about it. They always told us in training that the first year is hard to really get good work and sometimes you don’t accomplish anything during your first year at all. The second year, they said, now that’s when work literally starts falling into your lap! My competitive and over-achiever self was quick to argue with this idea and horrified at the prospect that this could be me. Not I, certainly, I thought to myself.

And so with fear and determination I began on a plan to make Sinchurio the best village ever and defy the first year failure rule. Well here I am, on the second year, with nothing to show for my first year except for a tree nursery full of dead mango trees, a decent live fence, and a couple of dried up livestock testicles.

I guess they were right. But the great thing is that if they were right about the first year, they were also right about the second year! Work is not only falling into my lap, it is flying into my lap and then hitting me in the stomach. I have an entire notebook full of villages and farmers who have requested my help with tree or banding projects and I’m struggling to go visit all of them. After last year’s failure, I also now have the luxury of prioritizing and turning down work when I think the people are full of hot air (which unfortunately is often the case). Instead I apply a tried and true method to my farmers and villages before I start any sort of work program with them:

Whitney’s Work Partner Test

1. I agree to an initial meeting where I go to the village, meet with any possible work partners and make them show me exactly where they want to put the tree nursery and exactly where they want to plant the trees when the rainy season comes around. If they don’t have a safe place to put the tree nursery (goats, chickens, and sheep are a seedlings worst nightmare and they are rampant in this country) then I tell them I’m sorry, but I won’t start a program unless they have a fence and a water source. This gives them the option to make a fence and call me back. If I decide the space looks good and the work partner is reliable, we move into phase 2.
2. I set up a second meeting where I ask them to gather the material to make a compost pile: green leaves, dry leaves, ash, and manure. I am very clear to them that if the material is not gathered and ready for the time when I set the meeting, then I will not be returning to their village to work. Although compost is great, the more important thing for me is to see how serious the person or village is and if they can follow through. One of the biggest problems I’ve had with work in this country, is that people are Big Bark, Small Bite. They all want trees, but always have an excuse as to why they didn’t do this or that. I don’t have time to waste with barkers at this point. I’m looking for the biters. Scheduling a composting session helps me find them.
   

   Compost: Separating the Barkers from the Biters

3. If they have the material ready and the composting session goes successfully, Congratulations to me and the new work partner! We now have a new tree program up and running. From there on out, I schedule regular visits for each part of the tree nursery process and will return until the trees are out planted around August.

At this point, I have seven working “programs” which basically puts me at the maximum limit if I am to return to each one every week, yet I am still adding because people still want to work! At this time my work schedule is as follows with the names of the farmers, their towns, and the distance it takes me to get there, as well as a little bio on the farmers I am working with. Look forward to news and pictures on these people and developing projects:

Bacari Yatta Badde, Sinthian Koundaro (10km): Bacari’s heart matches his 6 foot 5 inch frame! He has not only taken the role as my favorite work partner, but also as a much loved father figure. Bacari is quick to laugh and slow to anger. He is Sarancolde which means his family is giant, he works harder than anyone else I’ve ever met in Senegal (except for maybe Viay), and Pulaar is also his second language. He gives me salad and black coffee every day that I work with him.

Viay Kula Balde, Manda Village (7km): Viay is a rangy steely limbed man in his mid-40’s from the Bambara clan. He is quiet and thoughtful and would much rather have a discussion about religion under the shady boughs of his prized mango tree than be among the screaming milieu of his wily pack of innumerable children. He is a hard worker and humble. Watching him a ride a bike with the tails of his black bou-bou flying behind him will always fill my heart with joy.

Women’s group,Bolibana (11 km)- See story above.

Almandi Jappi, Gambi Sarah (17 km): When I first went to the village of Gambi Sarah, along with my trusty Sarancolde Baba, Bacari, I couldn’t quite believe my eyes. The village on the border of the Gambia was full of lush mango trees and well-made fences with you’ll never guess… Swinging Gates! The hard work of the villagers was evident, so when Bacari introduced me to his friend, Almandi and I saw his garden, I was quick to set up a future compositing formation with him. Bacari and Almandi go a ways back. Both Sarancolde, they worked together in Sierre Leone in the diamond mines when they were young men. I look forward to getting to know him better.

Sidou Dembalay, Mandang Moussa (15 km): Well if Bacari was going to show me his hard working friend in a far-away village, it would only be fair and to my benefit to agree to go see Viay’s friend Sidou in Mandang Moussa as well. When I first met Dembalay I was quick to notice the large gut so rare of the Pulaar man that only comes with money. Even better, money he himself had earned. Viay told me that ever since Dembalay was a child his father had seen the importance of trees and now he was reaping the benefits. With over several hectares of matures mango trees, he is now looking to extend his trees in grafted mangoes and ever more lucrative cashew tree. I look forward to working with and learning from this prominent mango boss in my region.

Mama John Diallo and Kumba Diallo (aka Ruth Nervig), Manda Doin (15 km): There wasn’t a chance I was getting away from helping the ever persuasive Kumba Diallo on her master farm in Manda Doin nor would I ever pass up such an opportunity, for the jokes are many and the ice readily available.

Ruth came to my rescue and diverted a very angry bee. Unfortunately, she took the sting as well… right to her lower lip! Sorry Kumba, I love you!

I love going to work with my big sister and fellow volunteer, Ruth, just as much as I appreciate the hard work of her amazing counterpart Mama John. Mama John and Ruth are part of the Peace Corps Master farm program where Peace Corps provides the funding for technology such as drip irrigation, griage fencing, and a hectare of land to a motivated local farmer. With Ruth’s help, Mama John is working on preparing a garden that with serve as a demonstration plot for other farmers hoping to learn new farming, and now, agroforestry techniques. I am running the tree program this year!

Mama John making the afternoon attaya

Ibrahima Camara, Sinchurio Samba Foula (0km): Unfortunately, this is my smallest work site, but at least I have something. I hope that by continuing to work with Ibrahima, I will demonstrate that if people in my village were willing to work, than I am available. All they have to do is ask. Hopefully in these next blogs, you will be able to see some kind of pay-off from this tactic.

So what changed between last year and this year?!?  How do I suddenly have bucket loads of work?

For one, having a work partner that does what he/she is supposed to do really makes the difference. Both Viay and Bacari are highly respected farmers in their communities and this means that people pay attention when they do something in their work. They are often the ones taking me to different villages because birds of a feather flock together. Hard workers stick with other hard workers, and they are keen to introduce me to them. This is how the Peace Corps program is supposed to work with counterparts fostering other work partnerships and helping the volunteer to gain legitimacy in the work we do together.

Secondly, my work has been able to change for the better because I actually know what is going on! I truly live here now. This is my community, I know who is who and I am in on the gossip at the bean stand. I can speak Pulaar well enough to have true friends and understand when someone is trying to take advantage of me, and even better yet, rip them a new one (if it comes to that). Ah, the freedom of language.

Well, I am using my limited internet time to send this update to everyone. I am now trying to get to internet at least once a week to turn in more writing on my In the Know Traveler site as well as keep my blog as updated as possible. Not only is this a year for tree work, but writing work as well. I think about home often, but only enough to hope everyone is doing well and to send my very best towards my home country.

For now, I’m over out. Hopefully I’ll have time to send the newest installment next week!

Yo Allah okku mon cellel e baldi!

Return to Sinchurio— A Saga Continues

Finally! I was in my beloved village of Sinchurio Samba Foula after almost a month away. As I pushed open the door of my hut with anticipation and the long awaited desire to stop living out of my backpack, I heard something scuffle from within. I peered inside and tried to see through the gloom and cobwebs that often form in mud huts after a long absence. The noise stopped. Still suspicious, because after living a year and a half among all kinds of small creatures, you can never be too careful and selective as to which small creatures you are co-habitating with, I entered the hut and unlocked my backdoor to shed some light on the situation.

More scuffling, but I could still see nothing. Then just when I relaxed, just as I let my guard down and figured it was just another friendly gecko, I reached to knock some dirt off the pillow on my cot and a giant rat leapt from behind, darted past me, and scurried out the door. I got one glance of its beady little eyes as I reeled backwards and threw myself screaming from the other door. All hell broke loose inside my hut as the rats came scrambling forth. One of their compatriots had been discovered and the clever little horrors had decided to run for it. It looked like the scene from Ratatouilli when the old lady blasts out the ceiling and all the rats swarm her house.

My brothers came running with large sticks, the village response to any kind of distressed scream and barreled into my room.

“Dombee! Dombee!” I screamed jumping up and down and pointing into my room. “Hirisinbe fof!”

“Rats! Rats!” I screamed, “Slaughter them all!”

This was war! They nodded grimly and began to lay waste to my room. My mattress was upturned, my cot thrown askew against the far wall and my bed frame knocked from its cinder block foundation as my brothers fought with valor and the rats careened up the log supports of my thatch roof and through the two doors of my room. Most escaped, but Sidou managed to brain one and Caba smashed another one as it tried to escape up another wall. I helped by shouting insults to the rats and encouragement to my brothers and leaping around at the entrance to the hut.

“Yah Mayu! Mi bobinaymon haa on yelti! (Go die! I will hit you on the head until you leave!)

“Bobinaybe! Hirisinbe fof!” (Hit them on the head! Slaughter them all!)

This is finally it, you might say. Whitney has finally gone off the deep end, but the truth of the matter is that I have been dealing with this little rat problem for a while now. Even before I went to Guinea the first sneaky rat had started to move in. I heard him scratching up in my thatch and before I knew it he was crawling down my decorative wall drapings. When I screamed, it startled him and he thunked onto the side of my mattress and onto the floor. Every night I could hear them running around and so I went about making my room less like a giant gerbil cage. I took down the wall hangings and swept my hut thoroughly. I locked every piece of food safely in a plastic bucket with a lid.

And still this did not deter them. Earlier, I figured since I was leaving all of February, I would deal with them when I returned. Now that time has come.

Last night, I slept with the giant rat stick next to my bed, vowing to stop their nocturnal rendezvous’ in the roof of my hut. This time I would be a warrior. I would not just be a passive victim of hut takeover. This morning I sent my counterpart with the directions to purchase four large rat traps. He has since returned and I have set them all in each of their favorite hangout places. Under my bed, near my trunk, under my cot, and I even snuck one cleverly onto their favorite running beam in my roof! Even as I type, I wait for the satisfying crack of trap as Mariama Camara takes back her kingdom from the rat siege.

Other than the rats, it gets better than ever returning to Sinchurio. I missed everybody and everybody missed me. Kumba was so excited that she followed me around all day and helped me to scream insults at the rats as we watched our much braver brothers. I missed the way that Caba and I sit next to each other at lunch and share a pile of hot pepper because we both eat more than the rest of the family. I missed the way Boye quietly comes into my room, grabs the drawing pad from my desk and the colored pencils and draws while I read or write. I missed Mari’s mafe gherti and the call to prayer, so peaceful and ethereal when accompanied by the glow of the full orange moon.

The saddest thing for me after coming home this time was that my grandmother in village died a week after I left. I will never forget her and am happy that I got to live a year of my life with her. She was so wise and kind and always the first one to praise my work for the day, even if all I’d done was go out into the village to greet people. She was around a hundred  years old and still her brain was sharp and lively. I will miss her very much, as will the rest of the village, but she has moved on. I’m just sad I wasn’t there to tell her goodbye. 

 Even when the village life is tough, as I soon as I am back in it, I remember why I love this life so much and the reason for me being here. The exploration and travel are great benefits to the Peace Corps life and new volunteer training is important and fun, but in the end the village life is why I came here, and I love to have that reiterated every time I go back.

 

Happy Birthday Mariama Camara and Carnival in Cape Verde

Hello everyone and sorry for the delay in another blog entry. I wanted to write a blog just about my birthday, but I had my newsletter deadlines and tree sack orders and no time before flying out to the beautiful islands of Cap Verde. So here is a little bit about what I’ve been doing these past few months…

Happy 24^th Birthday Mariama Camara!

In Senegal, it’s not a party unless a goat gets killed. While this is bad news for all the goats in Senegal, it was an honor for me as I looked over the fence and gazed at my birthday gift, which was tied up in Bacari’s backyard.

“Bacari!” I said. “You didn’t need to get me a goat!” While a goat might not seem like much, for Bacari to have gone out of his way to not only a buy a goat for my 24^th birthday, but also to throw the party in his own compound, is above and beyond anything anyone in Senegal has ever done for me. For those of you who don’t remember, Bacari Yatta Badde is my new counterpart who has begun to make my second year of service a lot more fun and more worthwhile as well. He is a hard worker and has also become something of a father figure to me in this country so far away from home.

“Is he good?” he asked, smiling that huge smile I have grown so fond of. I nodded and tried to keep tears from coming to my eyes.

January 27, 2013, will be a day to remember for me in my life here as Mariama Camara. On that day, I turned 24, and I was surrounded by some of my closest Senegalese friends and newest family members and work partners, the Yatta-Badde family, not to mention my big sister here in Senegal, Kumba Diallo (known state-side as Ruth Nervig), and a couple of other volunteer friends.

It is interesting for me to think back on my birthday from last year, which I spent exclusively with Peace Corps Volunteer friends. While I can’t remember exactly where I was in my service and in my relationships with people last year at this time, I know from the people who showed up at my party this year that I am lucky enough to call many Senegalese, as well as Americans, friends.

In my birthday makeup with Mama Sallou, my friend Nara’s son

As you can see from this picture, I let the women dress me up in true Senegalese style. American beauty and Senegalese beauty are different concepts. Dark makeup and painted eyebrows are all the rage for any kind of big event, so I succumbed to tradition and let them do me up.

The day was filled with dancing and a huge feast for everyone. The women of the Yatta Badde family can take credit for almost everything, although my friend Nara took the lead as head chef and made sure that everyone had food on time and in the right amount. Senegalese women are amazing. I’m not quite sure how they orchestrate all of it.

After an exhausting day, Ruth and I said our thank yous and good byes to Sinthian Koundaro and rode the 9 km back to my village. We spent a peaceful evening talking and drinking hot chocolate by the light of candles against my starry night mural. I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect birthday.

Carnival in Cape Verde

We’re Here!

Just off the coast of Senegal, blipped into existence by volcanic activity in one of the deepest parts of the Atlantic ocean, there is an island chain so magical and beautiful that when I arrived I thought I had stepped forth onto the forgotten lands of Atlantis. It was a tropical paradise, a West African country  developmentally far ahead of many of its continental cousins, with people who swing their hips to the beat of an unheard drum on the street and are so beautiful they must have been created by the meeting of mermaids and adventures long ago. The streets are clean, the rum flows freely, and the party is always around the next corner. All you have to do is follow the music.

Followin’ the music

At the beginning of February, my three adventurous companions and I set off on the girls trip of a lifetime. We were headed to one of the biggest parties on earth, Carnival, which is celebrated widely throughout South America and other Spanish/Portuguese countries. Since Cape Verde was originally colonized by Portugal the culture of today’s Cape Verde is a vibrant mix of native islanders and European Portuguese. Coming from Senegal, we enjoyed a change from our fishbowl-like existence in Senegal. No one screamed toubab at us, the roads were smooth traveling, and the life was no stress (as the Cape Verdians loved to remind us).

Me and my lovely travel companions

I also found that traveling with four women is the best way to travel. Always. Everyone stops to help you and it’s still safe because there are 4 of you. We had nothing but good luck, starting in the airport in Dakar. We ended up making friends with a lovely man going back to Cape Verde where he and his partner work in the United States Embassy.  Madiek (our new airport friend) had friends staying, but he offered us the phone number of another new foreign service member serving his first tour in Cape Verde. Madiek’s friend Juan was in his late twenties and after meeting him for a drink, he invited us to stay with him in his apartment in downtown Praia, the capitol of Cap Verde. With our new friend Juan, and our free housing, we were ready to discover the islands! It just shows you how far some friendly small talk and a long delay at the aiport can really get you. The best part about meeting Juan and Madiek was that we then got introduced to the rest of the ex-patriot community in Cape Verde. This made sure that we knew where all the best restaurants and night clubs were in Praia and I even got to play some basketball on Saturday with the embassy workers.

We spent most of our time discovering the main island of Santiago. Great nightlight and a hyped up spirit of Carnival got us out every night, but also awake every morning in order to explore what the rest of the island had to offer. It took us only an hour and a half to cross the island by public transport.

Driving across Santiago

Taking public transport gave us a short tour of the island and also brought us to one of the most beautiful beaches at the other end of the island. Turquoise waters and white sand beaches is not a bad way to spend a day.

Cape Verde is an archipelago of 10 islands which makes the country diverse and interesting because every island has something different to offer. While we didn’t have time to go to all of them, we took a short plane ride to the island of Fogo, just to the west of Santiago. Fogo is famous for its active volcano and the wine and coffee that they make from the grapes and beans grown inside the volcano’s crater.

Fogo Volcano

We hired a guide and after about 3 hours and some massively sore calves, we were perched on the rim of the still smoking volcano. The last eruption was in 1995, but most of the previous village population at the base of the volcano came back to live and support themselves primarily on agriculture and the wine, coffee, and tourism generated from the volcano. The landscape was like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Because of the recent eruption, the land inside and around the crater was rich and black and extremely rocky.

Mars-like Landscape

It kind of looked like what I imagine Mars to look like, although obviously I haven’t been to Mars (yet). I could see where rivers of lava flowed down the volcano and hardened when it cooled. Chunks of lava rock formed bizarre formations and the land just between the crater and the sea was so misty is seemed like from the top of the volcano that if you walked into the mist you would fall off the end of the world.

In the midst of the crowd with some cuties from the parade

After Fogo, we returned to Praia, Santiago for one more big day of Carnival festivities. We made it back just in time to get our Carnival costumes on, consisting of bejeweled faces and feather boas, before hitting the parade down Main Street. The parade was amazing with people singing and dancing in the streets and the giant floats that had been decorated with care the previous week glided through the crowds. Women in body glitter and almost nothing else, wowed the crowds on the platforms aboard the floats and all the school children were dressed in costume and danced in unison to routines they must have been practicing for weeks.

Carnival Float

Drums beat and music blared and older women who had given up their days of body glitter cheerfully sold meat sandwiches on the street to hungry partiers.

We stayed out until the sun came up and only stopped because we realized we had to make our plane back to Senegal. I was still scraping off face jewels as we entered the Praia airport at 7:30 in the morning. Exhausted from a week of barely any sleep, we climbed off the plane, back to our reality where the mystical islands of Cape Verde seemed to have been only a very good dream.

What’s happening now…

So after a week in Cape Verde, we went straight to the All Volunteer Conference in Thies where volunteers from across West Africa come to share their expertise and successful projects. After that we all went to Dakar for a three day softball tournament and more fun with the ex-patriots in Dakar, and now I am sitting at a café back in Thies where I am on a break from training the new agricultural volunteers. It’s work time again as yesterday I spent the day double digging demonstration garden beds for the newbies and spent this morning organizing and re-arranging tree sacks. I will spend 3 more days here training the new volunteers in agriculture techniques and agroforestry practices and then it’s back to Sinchurio.

I can hardly wait, although it’s hardly a break since tree sack season is here and I want to get started before the heat really hits and I am forced to lie on the concrete floor of my hut and pour water on my face.

Guinea Christmas New Year’s Adventure

Well, it didn’t start out as well as it could of, or maybe it did, and it’s just a matter of perspective.  My two traveling companions and I set out from Senegal with a light backpack apiece and an optimism that only the young Peace Corps Volunteer can possess. Certain that nothing would go wrong in our travels despite the cautionary tales of hellish roads and fickle border patrol, we rumbled out of Manda, Senegal headed for Labe, Guinea in the highest spirits, hopeful that we would reach Labe by nightfall.

Perhaps you know where this is going. We were not there by night fall. We were not even there by morning.  Three broken down cars and hours of waiting as the chauffeur scratched his head at the horror beneath the hood of his car does not usually lend itself to fast travel. When we did get going, I opted to sit in the trunk of the vehicle since it was a more comfortable choice than any other.

In Guinea there are absolutely no safety laws for transport. Drivers blast around corners on the edges of mountains and hope that the shrill sound of their horns will give the other unseen car enough time to move out of the way. Everything from goats to old plastic containers and of course the passengers belongings are stacked higher the height of the actual car and oncoming vehicles can be seen teetering and weaving on the narrow dirt road, almost groaning under the mountainous burden of baggage.

The same exact model used for transport in Senegal, the Renault station wagon, is called a sept place in Senegal, so named because of its capacity to seat seven passengers plus the driver. Without road laws though, why stop at seven passengers, Guinea asks. Obviously the front seat can comfortably seat two, and who really needs the emergency brake on winding mountain roads anyway? Let’s put a third passenger on top of it. And as for that middle seat? Well three is just luxurious! The doors close without any effort at all. Surely a fourth must fit somewhere. Children? No problem. Children aren’t actually people yet anyway and they fit in the smallest crevices. Whether standing between their mothers knees for the eight hour trip or jammed in the space between the ceiling and armrest in the back, children fit anywhere like tetris cubes and they don’t have to pay! Of course we’re going to need some boys to get the car started by rolling it. Start by ignition you say? What’s an ignition? No more place in the car after fourteen people? Don’t worry about a thing. These boys are experts at hanging on the 5 foot high pile of luggage on top of the vehicle. The seats are cheap, and only about one in ten boys falls off.

The craziest part, is that you might think I’m joking or at least exaggerating. I am absolutely not. And there wasn’t a bush taxi I got into that didn’t stop at least somewhere along the road to pour water on the smoking engine. For some reason, whenever I was traveling by bush taxi or neuf place as they call them in Guinea, I couldn’t help but imagine Dallas Rigler’s reaction if he were to ever to set sight on one of these cars or the conditions I was traveling in. For those of you who don’t know Dallas, and I know many of my readers do, he is an expert auto mechanic, and someone who takes pride in making sure that all the machines on the ranch are running smoothly and problem free. At least these images gave me some much needed humor along the road, so thank you Dallas.

It turned out that good humor, and maybe more importantly, laughter, was the most important thing I brought with me to Guinea. I’m not saying that I never lost my temper, because certainly I did. I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t admit to violent thoughts against my driver, much like the scene in Mean Girls when Cady launches herself across the table to tackle Regina. But there were definitely times where I wanted to cry and I laughed instead. Times when I wanted to curse and I traded a joke with my travel companions, and those are the times that made this trip absolutely worth it. Without those, all hope for a good trip would be lost. And please don’t think I didn’t have a good trip. While I am only recounting the transport situation through fascination and quite honestly, grateful awe that I made it back to Senegal in one piece, my adventure to Guinea was one of the best trips of my life.

I knew I was in for something when after three breakdowns in the first leg of our journey and not nearly to our first destination, we had to stop in a little shanty town on the side of the mountain where a fifteen year old trucker had tried to get around the line to cross the river on the ferry, couldn’t brake, and drove his truck straight into the river. This stopped traffic across the river and the road to Labe until early the next morning. These events left us stranded with nowhere to sleep comfortably and nothing but some leaf sauce and rice for dinner. It was night by the time we got stranded and the mountain of baggage was so high I couldn’t get my backpack down to get my sleeping bag out. In a predicament, I was left to wander between trying to sleep in the trunk of the car with a cardboard box pulled over me for warmth (the mountains of Guinea are cold!) and sitting around the fire with ten young Pulaar guys who must have wondered who this strange white girl speaking Pulaar was who insisted on joining them to talk way into the wee hours of the morning.

Finally we did reach our destination, disheveled and in great need of a shower, but at least prepared for how it was to travel in Guinea. I have spent way too much time focused on this first part of the journey, but I feel that it encapsulates transport in Guinea to the fullest degree, something essential to understanding the nature of this trip. While that wasn’t even the most ridiculous travel story, it is the most telling. I will not revisit the adventure of transport much after this. I guess you’ll have to ask me in person when you see me again about the other stories.

The thing is, Jackie, Will, and I didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into when we agreed, quite spontaneously I might add, to join a group of Guinean Peace Corps Volunteers on their Christmas/New Year’s expedition to Mt. Nimba. For example, I didn’t think to look at where Mt. Nimba actually was on the map. It was in Guinea and that was enough for me. Turns out Guinea, especially with the minimum maintenance-esque roads, is expansive and Mt. Nimba was on the frontier of Liberia and Ivory Coast, past the entire country of Sierra Leone, at the very bottom of Guinea in the mysterious region known as The Forest. We didn’t know anyone on the trip besides ourselves and the person from Guinea who had invited us who I’d only met briefly. So you can see, there were a lot of places the trip could have gone wrong beyond transport.

In reality, the group we met up with was perfect. They are dynamic, fun, and enthusiastic people who I consider now to be close friends. Most of them are headed to Senegal in the next month for the West African Conference in Dakar, and we will happily return the favor of hosts. They accepted us immediately into their group as three of their own and never made us feel like Senegalese outsiders. The fifteen of us made the Mt. Nimba team and it was two weeks we spent together exploring the relatively unknown Forest region. Peace Corps volunteers have only been recently reintroduced to Guinea and there are no placements in the southern Forest region due to isolation and roads so bad, any kind of serious injury or illness could be fatal to a Peace Corps volunteer placed there. Due to these circumstances, we were all new to The Forest and this gave the whole trip a kind of mysterious and magical foundation on which we based our explorations.

All of us were equally delighted by the beautiful scenery, from the banana trees that grew like weeds in the ditches along the roads to the abundant palm trees and tropical forests so thick that it was a shock to see the curious faces of grey beret monkeys peering through the foliage. The forest people themselves felt like a new kind of discovery. Their characteristics were different than the light and dainty Pulaars in the north or the broad and handsome Malinke people to the east. They were darker, with open somber faces and something that looked like carefully hidden pride behind their eyes. The forest people hold not only the respect and awe of foreigners such as ourselves, but also to the other Guineans. The forest people are said to know the mystical secrets of the trees and mountains. They also are said to be more educated because the diversity of languages in the area makes the learning of French essential to any kind of regional communication. To me, walking through the rocky narrow marketplaces, they seemed to glide with grace and dignity in their mud cloth fabric, a beautiful coarsely woven brown cloth, stained with dark brown mud in intricate and varying patterns.

Everything about the forest enchanted me and after a dinner and merrymaking with our new Guinea volunteer friends in N’Zerecore on that first night, the bad aftertaste of a less than comfortable travel experience prior was soon forgotten. The main reason we had all gathered at the very bottom of the country in the first place, was of course, to climb the great Mt. Nimba. Although it is the highest mountain in Guinea, it was only approximately 5,000 feet, a climbable height for a group of fifteen decently out-of-shape and malnourished Peace Corps volunteers with limited gear.

Hanging in the hotel room

View from the bridge in Lola

To begin our journey we packed into public transport to the small town of Lola, which we would use as our “base camp” about an hour outside of N’Zerecore. Lola was a fitting name to the town as it was picturesque in only the way country villages around the world can be. Palms swayed in the slight winter wind on the dusty red dirt road that led from the modest marketplace to our even more modest hotel. The hotel was perfect for poor Peace Corps Volunteers. It had rooms equipped with bathrooms for bucket baths and beds big enough for three people to squeeze. More importantly, it had a pleasant balcony to spend the evenings, a staff that was patient with rowdy Americans, and beer that was constant and plentiful, if not always quite cold.  Every day we crossed a crude cement bridge where the women of the village brought their children and laundry both to wash in the current of a small stream from the mountains.

We wanted to climb Nimba on Christmas, but as many in the forest region are Christians, we were told it would be best to wait until the next few days. We didn’t mind. We were content exploring Lola, from the bar made out of palm fronds where locals bought us rounds of sulfuric, cabbagey palm wine for sharing Christmas with them to the marketplace bustling with traffic even on Christmas Day. Some of the more ambitious members of our crew took it upon themselves to organize Christmas dinner so that in the evening we had chicken in sauce with vegetables over rice and a side of sweet potato fries. It was an American/Guinean Christmas and if I couldn’t be home, this was a good second option.

Within the next couple days and with all the expected obstacles of doing anything touristic in a place as unwelcoming to tourists as Guinea, we finally began our hike. We had left a little later than we hoped, but with four guides from the local village at the foot of Nimba we started up the mountain. It was a brisk 4 and half hour hike through woods that cut across mountain streams and finally broke into a savannah as we reached higher elevations. As far as I could tell we were basically going straight up and there were places where we actually had to free climb up ninety degree rock faces. I was exhilarated and felt a feeling of great anticipation as we reached the summit. When I grabbed my last handful of savannah grass and heaved myself over the crest of the last hill I lay there and looked around me. The dark green forest seemed to go on forever and it was both a blessing and a curse that the day was foggy. I couldn’t honestly see that much for scenery, but I didn’t want the clouds to clear off because I knew it had made the rigorous hike much easier. The African sun is a killer when it’s completely exposed. The guides pointed out that if the mist cleared we could see into both Liberia and the Ivory Coast.

After many Christmas pictures and a small nap in the grass, it was time to go back down and since we had started out late we were losing daylight fast. The way back down was almost harder than the way up because it was a constant struggle to slip down the steep incline on the loose red rocks that comprised most of the trail. We were very lucky to all arrive safely back at the village, even though we got down an hour after dark. Mission accomplished.

Even though our muscles were aching, we set out on another adventure the very next day. We were up and headed to a vine bridge we had heard was rumored to be in a village about an hour away. I was tired and the road as always was terrible, and I couldn’t help but secretly hope this “vine bridge” was worth all the hype. It was better.

The bridge was so intricately made that it was hard to believe that villagers who I’m assuming hadn’t taken an engineering class in their life managed to build such a strong and effective bridge and out of the vines that grew their jungle no less! It stretched a good 50 ft across the river and hung about 5 feet above the water at its lowest point. The locals did mention that during the rainy season and the river rose, it came above some parts of the bridge.

The bridge

The history and culture around the bridge was fascinating to learn, since it plays a huge role in the initiation of village men and is as the center of village lore. The villagers believe that every year when its time to re-strengthen the bridge, the river devil comes from the water and puts the first vine at the highest point of the tree on which it is hung. Only a privileged group of village men, chosen by the river devil are allowed to watch this event and all of them have a tattoo on their chest that marks them as one of the chosen. When village boys come of age they have to be chosen by the river devil to help with the bridge, anyone who is not called is not allowed to help.

It was a beautiful bridge like something about of a story book and as I walked across it, I almost couldn’t believe it was real and that real people had managed to build it and keep up its maintenance for well over 50 years. It swayed gently, but I felt that the vines intertwining and strengthening each other under my feet were sturdy and trustworthy enough to cross.

Mt. Nimba hotel pool time

After the bridge day we splurged on a little nicer hotel so that we had access to a pool and the discotech next door which was promised to be the best party in town. Expecting that this would be our last big night out in Guinea, we went out big, clad in sparkling silver spandex and big hopes for a great 2013!

When it was time to finally go home, I couldn’t quite make myself leave Guinea yet. We had worked so hard to get there and the roads were so terrible that I was determined to make everything out of the trip because I am not probably going back. After an invitation to go see yet another region within Guinea this time on the Eastern side of the country, Jackie and I took a couple of our friends up on the offer and traveled with them to their sites while Will made his long way home.

It ended up being a relaxing week with our new Guinea Peace Corps friends and always a pleasure to see the way other Peace Corps volunteers live and work in their own communities. There’s nothing like having a Peace Corps host so if you ever get the chance (hint hint) take it while you can!

Me and Jackie playing on Indiana Jones rocks

Jackie and I finally made our slow way home and on the last stop a town called Douke, I did some of the best hiking I have ever done in my life. An eccentric little Pulaar man named Hassan Baa had set up a campement in his home with the help of a Peace Corps Volunteer about 10 years ago. Due to his education in English speaking Sierra Leone and his constant contact with American Peace Corps Volunteers over the years, his English was perfect and hilarious. He was the perfect end to the trip and took up on hikes that led us to unbelievable boulder formations dubbed the “Indian Jones Rocks” to a waterfall coming straight out of the mountainside where we were able to take a refreshing bath after many days of bone aching, dusty Guinea road travel. I am not nearly doing justice to this final piece of the trip, but if you ever make it to Guinea, it is worth stopping and taking Hassan up on his offer to show you a thing or two. I climbed vines and rock faces, hung upside down like a monkey and slid on my belly into caves. It was a natural jungle gym, a place to contemplate life, and a joy to hike. Thank you Hassan!

Now this blog is getting long and I’m sure my readers are getting as tired as I am of it. What I can say for sure, is that my last three weeks in Guinea was one of the wildest adventures I’ve ever had and while I wouldn’t recommend it in the least as a vacation per say, for those with the restless soul, those seeking out a place to test themselves and to find a bit of adventure, for those wanderers addicted to discovering unturned stones and un-tread trails, Guinea welcomes you with open arms.

I hope everyone had a wonderful restful holiday season with their family and friends. 2013 is sure to be one of our best years yet, Inshallah! I am back in Sinchurio working hard to prepare my farmers compost and tree sack orders before I head out on yet another adventure to Cap Verde, an island chain off the coast of West Africa, for the infamous Carnival festival! And before that, it can’t be true, but I will be turning 24 next Sunday. Bacari Yatta Badde, my new and most beloved counterpart, has promised to throw me a birthday party. He is calling in a drumming and singing troupe and will also slaughter a goat! The only thing that would make the party better would be the presence of one of my oldest and dearest friends from Callaway, the great Greg Spangler, who is actually turning 24 today! Happy Birthday Greg, I love you and can’t wait for our 24^th year together.

A Change of Pace

 

I have six new men in my life! I meet with each one on a different day of the week. Our dates consist of talking about the benefits of organic versus chemical fertilizer and whether Neem truly works to repel the ants that attack young mango trees. We often make compost piles together and by the time we are done with our date, we are both covered in manure and ash. Romantic, eh?

Okay, so I admit it. I don’t have six new boyfriends. But what could be the only thing better than six new boyfriends? Six new work partners! Bacari Yatta-Badde, Jam Boye Kula Balde, Mamadou Diallo, Mama John Sidoube, Thierno Sarah Diallo, and Tijane Diallo are all signed up as  Mariama Camara’s A Team line-up for this next year of agroforestry domination! It turns out this whole mango fiasco couldn’t have happened at a better time. In fact, it’s almost as if it’s what I needed to wake up and see that the community project I had planned was just not working out.

Here’s the thing. If Sinchurio really really wanted a mango orchard deep down in all their hearts, you’d think it would be a pretty easy thing to send one of the 300 people living in the village out to water them wouldn’t you? Or if you really thought a well was important to add to the land, you’d think if free money was offered to you and all you had to do was find the guy to dig the well and name his price, you would jump right on your part of the deal and find a well digger, right? 4 months later… after I have completely finished the grant and repeatedly asked Ibrahima to find a well digger in a region full of people with this specific job, he still can’t seem to find one.

It’s unfortunate, but after a year of being here, I have learned that people love to talk, but very few people really have the gumption to get off their butts and do. It is easy to sit around under the mango tree and complain about how hard your life is, and I am sympathetic. What do I know about poverty? I grew up in the heart of the most powerful nation in the world. What should I know about living hand to mouth, I’ve never had to do that. While all of these things are true, I still believe that no matter where you are in the world you still have to actually DO something to have something. But after literally begging my village to take the offered help, money, and knowledge and watched them pass it up for no apparent reason except for that they just didn’t really feel like getting around to it, I don’t want to hear it anymore. Conclusion: It is difficult to help those who refuse to help themselves.

This is the hard cold reality of development and believe me, my optimistic self had to take a few hits to understand that it was time to change the game plan. #1: I am done working with a community. There is no responsibility taken. Everyone thinks someone else is watering the field and in the end no one actually goes to the field. Also, as far as I can tell, the men all want the mangoes, but they force their wives to go and plant the seeds, fill the sacks, and water the trees. The women complain the entire time and don’t do a good job. This past year, after every community workday, I practically had to lock myself in my room afterwards and take the rest of the day off. Individual farmers are much better because they are the only ones responsible for the work. #2: Ibrahima Camara is just not working out. I understand that I do not speak perfect pulaar, Ibrahima Camara. Yes, it is unfortunate that I had not even heard about your language until last year when I started learning it, but I speak it pretty well after a year, and you continuing to scream that I don’t understand every word you’re saying two inches away from my face has gotten
really old after a year. I’m done. #3: Note to self: Look at the farmer’s field. Has he actually done anything? Does he have a well-built fence? Does it look like he’s done more than order his wife around and make attaya under the mango tree? If the answer is yes, I consider him for a work partner.

So now, after a year of mostly failed projects, I feel like I am actually starting to get somewhere. It took a change of mind and a change of projected goals, before I began searching for new people to work with. Now, with language and experience under by belt, I feel like I have finally stumbled upon some great farmers with ambition, drive, and above all, are extremely enjoyable to work with.

Bacari Yatta-Badde is big man with a huge smile. He has the characteristic darker skin of the Sarancolde, a different minority ethnic group found within the Pulaar region. Sarancolde are known for their work ethic, their tendency to explore the world, and their huge families. In his youth, Bacari traversed most of West Africa and worked in the diamond mines of Sierra Leone for over 30 years. Now, in his late 50’s, he has settle back in his hometown to take care of his elderly mother, his three wives, and his countless children.

The first day I met him, he was bent over his tomatoes, bare foot in the dirt, wearing a bright orange bou bou. He looked like a miniature sun orbiting around his impressive garden all enclosed within a fence he made by himself, without the help of NGO aid. After we talked a bit in Pulaar, he surprised me by shyly breaking into extremely understandable English. Do you know rare it is to hear English in this country?

“Yea, I got about ‘doo hectares ‘ere. Any-ting you want to help, you are most welcome. I am happy Allah brought you ‘ere, Mariama. My heart is gladest!” he said in creole-like English spoken in the old English West African colonies.

“You speak English!” I said, sounding surprised.

“Small, small,” he said modestly, hand over his heart. “I try, but I forget most, now I live in Senegal.”

So he speaks English and Pulaar, not to mention, French, Mandinka, Wolof, and don’t forget his actual native tongue, which is Sarancolde. Our conversations are well-matched because Pulaar is a second language for both of us, but sometimes we break into English as well.

The first day we agreed to work together, I was testing him to see if he would follow the pattern of most farmers I have worked with during the last year. All talk. No action. So I asked him to bring all the materials that would be needed for a compost pile. I told him that if we were going to do a mango program next year, we would need a lot of compost and it was best to start this in the cold, dry season. I also told him that usually it was better for the compost to be put in a hole. The compost is a meter by a meter by a meter, but usually I advise the farmers to only a dig down a little way, because digging through a meter of hard clay soil is not easy.

When I got to his field the next morning, I scanned the field with trepidation, sure that he had not followed through. Not only had he followed through, he had dug a hole over a meter deep and over a meter wide into the ground! He had extra sacks of manure and more ash than I have ever seen collected in one place. And I’m not finished bragging on this guy yet. When I finally managed to close my dropped jaw and plug my eyes back into their sockets, he greeted me with a wave and in English said,

“Mariama, do you take-a the black coffee? I drink black coffee only. I don’t like, this,” he wrinkled his nose, “this attaya.”

All I could do was grin. Do I take black coffee? Do I take black coffee? For those of you who know me, you are probably smiling at this. It was like a dream come true. I had finally found a farmer who wanted to work and he was going to serve me black coffee out of his thermos that he had brought along with him to the field.

We worked side by side, layering and pouring the different elements for the compost, while I explained to him how compost worked and why it was important to have it prepared before the rainy season. Bacari is a very respected man in Sithian Koundaro and this respect has led to many other farmers being curious about the work he is doing in his own field. Before long, we had a community of neighbors and curious by-passers helping make the compost and asking questions the whole time. We had accidentally turned it into a miniature compost training as well! Bingo.

A couple of hours later we finished the compost, and as I drove the stick needed to gauge the temperature into the middle of the pile, I noticed Bacari making a transaction with another farmer off to the side. Yes, this day continues to get better. Bacari was buying beef in order to have a barbecue under the tree in his field for lunch, after the work was over.

So there we were, a bunch of grizzled old Senegalese farmers and me, lounging around under the tree, drinking black coffee and snacking on the best barbecued beef I’ve yet had in this country.

We talked about politics and farming and the differences between America and Senegal. We talked about the problem with a lack of education and the land tenure system. And the best part was, not one of those guys told me I couldn’t understand.

I leaned back against the trunk of the tree and closed my eyes. I could get used to this, I thought.

Teak giraffes, Transport, and Tons of Fun with my Parents in Senegal

“Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs even though checkered by failure, than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat.”

-Theodore Roosevelt

Over a year ago, on a plane between Nebraska and D.C., this is the quote I read, photocopied and folded into the middle of my Dad’s last letter of advice before I left on my journey as a Peace Corps volunteer in Senegal. My father, a great admirer of Theodore Roosevelt, couldn’t have known how perfectly those words spoke to me, as I sat there gazing over the clouds out the small porthole window, and for the first time since I set my heart on Peace Corps as a junior in college, feeling afraid. The quote calmed me, and even in my doubt that finally my adventurous soul had overstepped itself, I lifted my chin and folded the quote into my pocket. Over this past year, I have unfolded and re-read that quote often, as a sustaining verse to the life I lead here, but also a reminder of the people who love me and are back at home rooting for me every day.

Over a year after that first plane ride, my #1 fans, the people who raised me to be the person who decided Peace Corps was the life for me, arrived. My parents, Jim and Julianna Jenkins, stepped off the plane in Dakar to sounds, smells, and sights very different from those they left behind in the airport at Denver. They managed get out the door before I arrived, even as I urged my taxi driver faster as he zipped along the main parallel to the ocean. The crash of waves in the darkness of the 5 o’clock am morning seemed to match my heart, as I raced towards my parents who I hadn’t seen for over a year. Before I got there, Dad decided to use one of the airport guys’ phones to call me because I was late.

“Hello?”

“Whitney!” said my Dad’s voice from the unknown number. “Where are you? We’ve landed and one of these nice men gave me his phone to call you.”

I groaned. “Great,” I thought. “I’ll now be getting marriage proposals from this guy until I block his phone number.” Either way, I assured them I was on my way and told Dad not to talk to any more seemingly friendly airport hawkers.

Before the cab even stopped, I was opening the door and running towards ARRIVALS. There they were, Mom with arms thrown open and Dad surrounded by a bunch of Senegalese guys, who he now seemed quite buddy, buddy with.

“MOM!” I shrieked and took off running. As soon as I hugged her it was if we had never been apart. It surely hadn’t been a year. I untangled my father from the hawkers and gave them a good scolding in Pulaar for trying to harang my father into their schemes and as soon as we finagled a taxi for a third of the asking price, we took off for the hotel.

It will be hard to fit everything that we experienced together into one small blog, especially since I’m sure my parents have an even different perspective on our trip. I will say though, that even after horrible transportation, an unending string of confusing and disorganized events which is Senegal, both of my parents remained (for the most part) patient and with their humor intact. Not only did they sit through all day transport without complaint, but they managed a rigorous hike in Kedougou that most volunteers wouldn’t dream of having their parents attempt. I felt lucky. Even after two weeks, I wasn’t sick of them. Now how many kids can say that?? J

Dakar

Dakar, the bustling metropolis capitol city of Senegal, greeted my parents with the frantic un-muffled rush of too many taxis and the sharp smell of fish that always seems prevalent in the city. Mom had reserved a room at The Farid, a hotel that made you feel like you were back in Europe until you looked out the window into the sparsely furnished apartment rooms across the street with children’s clothing like rags blowing on twine lines above the chipped balcony walls.

There was really no time for them to rest, I whisked them off right away to my favorite breakfast place in Dakar. Over the three days we were there, I took them to all my favorite breakfast places, as well as my favorite ocean side restaurant for dinner one night. I think they might not be feeling so sorry for me anymore. Living in Africa isn’t as hard as it seems sometimes!

After breakfast, we headed to Goree Island, the most historical and touristy site in Dakar, which I had waited to go to until my parents came. The nature of the island lends to a dark feeling, one that needs to be felt, but not more than once, which is why now that I’ve done Goree, I probably won’t go back again. Goree Island shipped out the most slaves in all of West Africa.

This is Goree Island as we came in on the boat

We stood in the doorway where millions of Africans stepped through, never to return home again. It was chilling, with its dark concrete holding cells and plush balcony above the slave door, where the overseer must have stood with drink in hand as he watched his business transaction completed. The rest of the island was charming and reminiscent of Europe. It was home to many artists and I helped my parents bargain for two paintings. My Dad quickly learned about the exhausting art of resisting and repelling hawkers as we sat along the beach to enjoy lunch. Unfortunately, the seats closest to the beach were also the easiest access to hawkers. Dad, in an effort of goodwill and humor, finally succumbed to the request of one persistent man to feel the unique and superior texture of his teak giraffe.

“Dad! Don’t touch it, he doesn’t think it’s a joke!” I tried to warn Dad, but in good humor he reached out and held the ugly mass-manufactured looking giraffe.

“I give special price to you, my friend. 20,000 cfa. Only 20,000 cfa.”

After many no’s by me, Mom, and Dad, I finally had to bust out mean-Pulaar Whitney and tell him to leave in a much harsher way. He cursed me and told Dad that he had an ill-raised child, but at least he left.

That was the biggest thing we did in Dakar, although I also took Mom into the depths of the Dakar market, where we inspected everything from feather earrings to dried fish to kola nuts. Mom was a good sport and we weaved and ducked through alleys and people trying to drag us to their specific shops, each promising that we would find something wonderful and only offered in HIS particular shop. On the last day, we went to Ngor Island which is a different kind island to Goree and is mostly just a place to hang out on the beach and swim.

Mom and Dad on the cliffs of Ngor Island

Mom got a little nervous as she hopped into the slender canoe-like fishing boat characteristic to the coasts of Senegal. They had rigged up an engine on the back to transport people quickly between the mainland and the island. Mom didn’t really hesitate and jumped aboard like a champ.

 

 

 

 

Mbour

Mbour Beachside, outside the hotel

After Dakar, we headed south down the coast towards the town where I lived for two months during training. I wanted to introduce my parents to my first host family and the people who helped most with my language and cultural training and made me feel most comfortable in my new country. Not only that, but because of the location of Mbour, we were able to stay in a hotel right on the beach. It was the perfect mix, because after four hours of small talking in Pulaar with my family and drinking attaya (the staple tea and afternoon drink of every Senegalese household), we were able to retire to the white sandy beaches not five feet from the door to our tiki hut hotel room. Mbour was nice because it got Dad out of the crazy restlessness of the city and I got to introduce my parents to my family.

My Senegalese parents and my American parents (left to right: Bocar, Jenaba, Julianna, Jim)

The first plan was to stay for lunch, where Fatu served her delicious cebojen, the most Senegalese meal you can have. We ended up having such a fun time with my family that we promised them we would come back for dinner. That gave us time to take an ocean dip and a nap before heading back for dinner. For dinner, I couldn’t believe my family’s generosity, as they had prepared a Tobaski scale dinner with meat and noodles and bread, something very rare. Both parents were good sports as they dug in with their hands in true Senegalese fashion. Mom watched me closely as I squished up my food and licked it off my hand. She managed something similar, although I did witness her clandestinely toss a suspicious looking piece of meat into my Dad’s side of the bowl. My host family was so delighted with my parents, that Jenaba, my host mother, gave Mom a true Senegalese complet as a present. It was also fun for me because my host family is my only gauge to how well my language is coming along. Although it was tiring, it was fun to translate between English and Pulaar so that my two families could talk to one another.

After one more day relaxing on the beach, we did the longest journey of the trip between Mbour and Kedougou.

 Kedougou

After approximately 13 hours in the car, a two hour breakdown in the nastiest city in Senegal, and an annoying taxi driver who only spoke Wolof and French making it impossible to communicate, we arrived in the dark and somewhat scary garage in Kedougou. I hopped out of the car and began immediately talking to a couple of guys on a motorcycle, trying to figure out a taxi who could take us to the hotel. Mom and Dad, who had never been in sketchy dark garages before with loads of young swaggy looking Senegalese dudes, were more than a little uncomfortable with the situation, but I managed to get them to the hotel, with un-orphaned younger siblings and all of our baggage intact.

In the morning we woke refreshed and went to eat breakfast in the lodge-like dining hall. My parents could finally see why I had decided to drag them 8 hours out of our way to my village to see this beautiful region of Senegal. We looked out over the river and the mountains rising behind them. I finally felt comfortable again, because much to my relief, we were back in the land of the Pulaars, where I could comfortably communicate with everyone there.

We went back to the garage and got aboard an alhum, a brightly painted and rickety van most common for navigated large groups of people down the back roads of Senegal. The three of us packed in with a bunch of women who were holding their husbands places. After about an hour of waiting, Dad finally asked how much it would cost to pay the driver to leave. I hopped out and found out it would only cost us the equivalent of $8 to get the show on the road. Dad gladly handed over the cash and after 10 boys pushed in the back and the driver jammed the car into gear, it rumbled to life and we were chugging towards to Dindifello, a mountain town about 20 km into the bush. As we bumped along at a snail like pace, and the monstrous van rocked precariously into potholes, I worried if I should have taken my parents in a personal jeep instead of straight-up public transport. They didn’t seem to mind though and after more than hour dodging bamboo branches and making Pulaar small talk with the other villages we arrived in Dindifello.

Dad and I looking a little tired, but happy to finally be in Dindifello

We checked into the lodge, which would be Mom’s first time staying without running water and electricity. Because of its location to one of the most beautiful waterfalls in Senegal, the tiny village actually attracts many tourists and the small hostel/lodge was used to traffic from all over Europe, as well as the odd American as well.

After hiking to the waterfall we went back and had another delicious Senegalese meal by the light of the candle. I chatted in Pulaar with the friendly staff and Mom and Dad and I stayed at our table long past dinner talking about everything that was limited to the hour phone conversations we’d been having once a week for the past year.

The next day the plan was to go to Segou, a town about 8 km away from Dindifello, where my friend Kyle is stationed and where there was another beautiful waterfall to be seen. Instead of waiting for the untrustworthy public transport, we decided to get an early start and hike to Segou instead. With packs on our backs, we said goodbye to Dindifello and started towards Segou. Kyle met us at the local boutique in the center of his village and after we dumped our packs we set out immediately for the Segou waterfall. This was a much longer, much more treacherous, and much more exhilarating hike!

Hiking in an African jungle—no big deal!

While the Dindifello waterfall took us about 20 minutes to reach on a well-kept trail, the Segou waterfall was two hours out along slippery rocks and narrow granites ledges we had to slide along to move forward along the path. Chimpanzees had been spotted in this part of the forest and Kyle shushed us and had us listen to some baboons shrieking in some nearby trees. Thank God we had Kyle along because I would have had us completely lost in the jungle and three years later you would have heard about a family of Americans found living among the chimpanzees in the mountains of Southeast Senegal. We climbed vines and crossed streams. We stood against trees so big, they seemed to disappear into the sky. As Kyle and I turned towards the bank of the winding stream, I let out a shriek of disbelief.

“Anaconda!” I screamed. The snake must have been 5 to 6 ft long and I bet I couldn’t have encircled its body with my hands. It was black and it was moving.

“It must have heard us. Or at least it heard Whitney,” said Kyle. “It’s actually called an African rock python. They are very afraid of humans and they are now endangered because the locals are scared of them and keep killing them.”

Kyle and me post African python spotting

“I’m more worried about the fact that its headed towards that lovely little swimming pool we were just in,” said Dad. And it was true, not minutes before we had been swimming in a beautiful natural pool, formed by the stream from the waterfall. The same stream the python was swimming in.

We continued on our way and finally made it to the waterfall. It was breathtaking and we all sat there for some time looking at where the granite wall of rock seemed to open and break and the water seemed to fall straight from the sky. At last we stood up and made the two hour trek back to Segou. We wanted to make it back to Kedougou that evening as we wanted to leave for my village early the next morning, so I tried to figure out the transport situation.

The guys at the bitik told me they thought that last car had left Dindifello, and just as I was about to put my parents on the back of a couple of motorcyles, a truck with a bunch of French tourists drove by. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mom move so fast. She was flagging them down and explaining to them in English her predicament before they had time to think of resisting her plee. They were actually very nice and went slowly so that we didn’t bounce completely out of the back of the pickup. Good thing we are used to riding in the back of pickups on the ranch. As we sat there the three of us in the back of the pickup, hair whipping in the wind, watching the mountains disappear into the distance, I felt completely content. On to my village the next day.

Sinchurio Samba Foula

Finally, the day everyone had been waiting for, where my village would get to meet nay-nay e baba Mariama, arrived. Thankfully, I had refused to hire a driver in Kedougou if he didn’t speak Pulaar based on the last driver catastrophe. This time, Suliman Baa, our sweet Pulaar driver took us all the way to my village without complaint.

Outside the septplace with Suliman Ba, our driver, and Dad

As the car pulled into the village, I could hear the shrieks of “Oto! Oto!” change to “Mariama jai! Mariama jai!” as the children realized who was inside the car. I could barely open my door as people surrounded the car as they tried to hug me and grab my hands. It was if the entire village had turned out to help unload my bags and greet my parents. It was a bit overwhelming, but everyone was so excited to meet Mom and Dad that it didn’t really matter. We also got in later that night which made it less stressful because it got dark soon after arriving and so after making the proper greetings, we went into my hut to sleep.

The next morning the party began. We started by the chief presenting Dad with the goat we had bought for the party. They asked him if he wanted to slit its throat, but he declined and stood a few paces back as the chief did him the honor. The whole morning was filled with cooking preparations. Mom and I small talked with the women and helped to cut up the vegetables and Dad held his own with the men, somehow managing to communicate a bit with the chief. Finally the meal was prepared and everyone from the village came to greet my parents and also eat some of the delicious lunch the women had prepared.

Me and my lady-friends in village

 

After lunch, all of the women showed up to do a traditional singing and dancing ceremony for my parents. They were all in their holiday complets and they brought a metal pan and a tub of water with an overturned gourd bowl in as drums. The rest of the music was made by clapping and singing that they had known since they were babies. I always love the singing and dancing because it is their best form of appreciation.

The whole fam! No one is missing this time.

I was pulled into the circle multiple times to dance and I even ended up singing a speech to the women telling them how much I appreciated them coming to greet my parents and welcoming me into their village. After much booty-shaking and clapping, the women went back to their homes and we decided to present the chief with his gifts.

We gave him some soccer balls for the village and a belt buckle from the ranch. Grampy sent him a knife, which he loved and Mom presented Mari with some new knives and cooking utensils. Finally it was time to show my parents the village and my project.

This is where shit hit the fan. Before I left for Dakar two weeks ago, I told the chief and Ibrahima that I had just transplanted the mangoes and they needed to be watered or they would die. I made sure they understood and they promised it would happen. When we went out to my field, all 600-700 mangoes that my village had worked on over the past year were dead or dying. I have never felt such a rage at my village and it wasn’t exactly the best timing since my parents were there. I flew back to my compound, absolutely seething, and for the first time since being in Sinchurio Samba Foula, I yelled at the chief and at Ibrahima. I couldn’t believe that they had let that happen. It was such a simple task and yet it just didn’t get done. After being so grateful about the community I had been lucky enough to get as a Peace Corps Volunteer, it seemed my village turned out to be like everyone else’s village—people incapable of sharing some of the responsibility for their own future. Why should I care about the mango trees? I’ll be gone in a year. It is not my community and my children that will benefit from this project. That’s what I told the chief anyway.

Needless to say, it was a disheartening and disappointing ending to a village stay I had been so proud to show my parents. This could be a completely separate blog post in itself because I have decided to re-focus my next year based on what happened with the mangoes. I’m sure though, if you are following along with the blog, you will see how this changes my service in the projects and people I engage with over this next year.

Anyway, we finished out the trip by loading up the donkey cart with all the baggage and taking that out of my village since there is limited transport options out of the bush. Can’t say my parents didn’t do the real Africa!

Kolda

Kolda was our last city in the two week tourney of Senegal. I wanted to show my parents Kolda, because out of everywhere in Senegal, even Kedougou which I love to visit, Kolda owns my heart. It is the perfect combination of city and village, with interesting marketplaces and hole in the wall bars and restaurants perfect for the Peace Corps Volunteers small income.

It helped also, that Kolda happens to have a very beautiful hotel, a mini paradise right on the edge of the main marketplace in Kolda. I am quite assured the Africa has some of the most beautiful fabric and patterns in all the world. It is usually pretty cheap as well. So after pulling out sheaths and sheaths of different fabrics we decided on two that would make a great tablecloth and napkins for our house. Dad was an integral part in this process, but afterwards he retired poolside, while Mom and I continued to the marketplace.

Kolda was a great place to take my parents as well, because although all the people are still Pulaar in this city, the lifestyle contrasts drastically to the Pulaar lifestyle within the village. In order to show this, we went to my good friend Jordan’s house to have lunch and chat with her family. Her host father is the regional representative for Kolda under the new Macky Salle administration and so her family is much wealthier and much more educated than most people in the area. Talking to her younger host brother was a ray of hope into a culture where education ambition is often low. It was the perfect mix of perspectives for Americans coming to see a place for only a couple of weeks.

Finally, it was time to head back to Dakar. I couldn’t believe how fast the time had gone. Before I knew it, I was putting them in a taxi and hugging them goodbye, not to see them again for another year. It was hard, but as I watched the back of my parents heads disappear into the night I thought once again about the quote Dad had given me. This life is difficult mostly because of how far away we are from our closest friends and family. But if I had given that up, if I hadn’t have made that leap, I wouldn’t know this life that is exhilarating, challenging, and beautiful in a way that I could never imagine.

Thank you Mom and Dad for an absolutely amazing trip and for raising me to be a person that strives for “triumphs, even when checkered by failure” (mangoes). “A gray twilight” doesn’t seem very pleasant to me, and also not possible under the kind of sun you experienced here in Senegal. I couldn’t have been here without you.

Love,

Whitney