The Kolda House

I’ve been putting off writing about Kolda’s Peace Corps house for a long time, not for lack of things to say about it but because I knew it would be hard to put into words the many conflicting feelings I’ve had about it over the last couple of years.

The house is in a residential part of Kolda, uphill from downtown and about a block off the paved road. When you step inside the front gate you are first greeted by one of our three guards. They have a little gatehouse built against the front wall where they listen to the radio, make tea or work on puzzles. We have a small front yard with a few trees and bike racks and a narrow front porch. The house is a tall one-story with rooms around a central hallway and a roof. Our little American haven has everything you need in a house: kitchen, multiple bedrooms, bathrooms, a library, an office, a patio. We are lucky to have a big space but it rarely seems big enough. There are over forty volunteers in Kolda now and with so many people coming and going it can be difficult to keep our house clean and orderly. Its got all the grime of a frat house without the testosterone; the inconsistent amenities of a run-down budget youth hostel without the excitement of meeting strangers from all over; the good intentions of a hippy co-op without the consistent community.

For us volunteers the regional house is many things – it is a gathering place, a work space, a home away from home, a refuge when you need a break from village. But it really struggles to be all of these things at once, especially in a region as big as Kolda. I always think that I’m going to get more work done than I do (I have some very ambitious Kolda-house-to-do lists to prove it), but conditions are often less than ideal. How much work could you get done when it’s over 100 degrees out and there’s no AC, just junky fans? Or when there are half a dozen or more other volunteers around, most of them not doing work, when you’ve got someone else’s movie, TV show, music playing? Or when you’ve got a slow (read “third world”) internet connection made slower by volunteer x trying to skype, volunteer y downloading the latest episode of The New Girl, and volunteer z watching something on YouTube? All of this compounded with the fact that I am generally out of practice when it comes to sitting down at a computer and being productive and you can see why my to-do’s never get to-done.

But I’m making it sound like a bad place to be or that it’s impossible to get things done here. Like anything else it just takes practice, and after two years I’ve finally become well versed in the art of being at the Kolda house. And now that I have begun my extension (yes, I’m here until October, in part to continue working on a medicinal plant manual for my fellow volunteers) I am spending more time at the house and getting more practice in. Part of it is just the simple fact of duration and its accompanying sense of ownership or familiarity; that is, being a super-senior as opposed to a freshman. When I first got to Kolda I hardly knew how to fend for myself. Even just to make a simple meal required a new set of skills: I had to learn how to navigate the market, become familiar with what kinds of ingredients were available and where to find them, how to buy them in Mandinka and Pulaar. Now these things are second nature and I am the upper classman making a quiche from scratch while the newbie bowls ramen. Being able to cook delicious meals is a joy and comfort and one of the main reasons I come to the Kolda house, so the how and when and where of grocery shopping is an essential part of my Kolda routine. The house for me is about these meals, about my cache of American food (thanks Mom!), about a separate house wardrobe that shows a little more skin, and about the computer.

The order of operations is as follows:

1.     Weed through the 50 or so new emails

2.     Weed through the dozens of facebook notifications

3.     Catch up on news and friends and family

4.     Work. Maybe.

5.     Blog or post pictures

Steps 1 and 2 can take a while and if I try to sate my appetite for number 3 it may take up the rest of that first day at the house. I have a much better, more realistic sense now of how much work I can get done in one go. So I use downtime in village to write out blog posts so that it’s just a matter of typing them up. And if I come in more often I’m less likely to have 70 emails in my inbox.  

More importantly, I’ve learned how to avoid the crowds. It’s hard for me to feel completely at ease in a place where all I can truly claim as mine is a trunk and a suitcase and where most of the people around me are little more than acquaintances. Sometimes I would come in to escape from village and the house would get so crowded and I’d get the most panicky, claustrophobic feeling and start to wonder how I could escape the escape. So now I generally stay away when I know there’s a party or a meeting and I time my visits to Kolda when I can reasonably expect the house to be quiet. I hit the jackpot this time. Three days of near solitude, some solid progress on my reports, new pictures posted (click here) and a blog post! Check, check, check.

Mamadou

Of all the members of my host family it has taken me the longest to feel I really know Mamadou. In previous posts I have mentioned him only in relation to others – my host brother; Bouley’s nephew; husband of Taani, Filijee and Seyni; father of fifteen! For better or worse, he is the center of this household in which I live, and while there have been times over the last two years that I’ve felt it was for the worse, I’ve come to realize his many admirable qualities and to truly care for him as I never thought I would.

In my first weeks here he made me very nervous; nobody was quite as impatient with my inablility to speak Mandinka as was Mamadou. He would come to my room to ask me something that I couldn’t understand, repeat it in exactly the same way and then get so frustrated when I still didn’t understand. Finally, tired of feeling stupid I would just reply in English. He’d give me a puzzled look and say, “Nafi, you know I don’t speak English. I can’t understand you.” Oh, I know. It didn't take long for him to get the picture.

When I decided I wanted a dog it was Mamadou who made it happen. Early one morning he biked to Sinthian Kaba, a Pulaar village up the road. I don’t think I even knew he had gone until I heard him calling my name and peeked through my door just as he was biking up, pup in hand. “Bonzoor!” he called, grinning and holding this tiny squirming thing up for me. That was Tanko.

Every month I give my family a monetary contribution to offset the cost of feeding me and to show my gratitude at having been welcomed into this family. All volunteers do this in one form or another, although many contribute food or a combination of food and cash. I decided early on that it was easier to just give cash and so at the beginning of every month I would call Mamadou aside and give him the equivalent of $40 and ask him to put it towards food or whatever else the family might need. Senegalese people are funny about money practically obligated to give it if a family member asks, they tend to hide it when they do get their hands on some. So, I obliged his desire to keep this transaction secret, not wanting to create problems for him and trusting that he would know best how to spend it. I did feel strange about the women not being involved because I know that often they are more likely to spend money on the family than themselves, but the fact that Mamadou has three wives made the decision much more complicated and the last thing I wanted to do was get in the middle of this four person marriage. I was naïve to think it could be avoided for very long.

One morning, sometime around my fifth month at site, Filijee came to me asking for money. I can’t remember now exactly what I was for, but I told her to ask Mamadou for the money. “He doesn’t have any money,” she said. “Sure he does, I just gave him the monthly contribution yesterday.” Then in front of his other two wives I explained how every month I give Mamadou money to help with the household expenses. They wanted to know how much, so I told them. They were floored. They went on to tell me that he just hoards it, that they never see a penny of that money and that he can’t be trusted. I felt terrible – angry and betrayed and not at all looking forward to confronting him about it. I tried to think of some way to remedy the situation – maybe giving $10 to him and each of his wives, but the women were uncomfortable with this plan. Then I thought, so what if he is hoarding it? Is that such a bad thing? People here are generally horrible about saving money which makes everything that much more stressful when they get in a tight spot. Maybe he has a plan for it. Sure enough, he came home the next day with new school supplies for all the kids, a possibility the women hadn’t considered since they never have the responsibility of buying such things. The rest of the money for that month (and some he had saved) went towards paying the school fees for the ten or so kids of school going age. 

It was incidents like this that made me realize there was a lot more to the man than what I saw at first. He can be grumpy and short-tempered much of the time, but I would be too if I had to work as hard as he does and provide for as many people. You could argue that he brought it on himself, that he deserves the stress, that no one forced him to marry three women and have fifteen kids, but that’s not entirely fair. He grew up in this little village without much education, without seeing much of the outside world. My being here is probably the most exposure he’s ever had to ideas other than what the conservative, traditional village elders have taught him. And to his credit (and mine for that matter) I have seen a change in him.

After kid number fifteen he came to me asking about how to get his youngest wife on birth control, virtually unheard of in this culture where many wives and children are considered a measure of your manhood and where husbands are generally very jealous and suspicious when their wives want to practice family planning. But he finally realized he was stretched way too thin and that he couldn’t possibly afford more; he can barely afford to take care of them as it is. I can tell he wants to be the best father he can be. All of his children are fed, clothed and sent to school, which is more than can be said for many in this country. He knows the birthdays of all of his fifteen kids, again, unheard of around here. And what gets me the most is watching him with the babies – bouncing them, talking to them, making funny noises and faces. One of his younger boys has been sick lately and he lets him eat with us at our bowl instead of the crowded little kid bowl where he’s likely to get jostled and bullied by the others. It's watching these quiet interactions, Mamadou one-on-one with Kampou or Fili or Wiye that are the most touching and make me sad that it took me so long to notice his gentler side; it's so much more of who he is than the impatient and stressed-out version. He can be strict and demanding, but also funny and candid. He’s by no means perfect, but he does his best to take care of his family and look out for us. I feel lucky to have him around and to have finally come to know him so well.

Mamadou and Baby Mom, Korite 2012

"If your head dey hot, na water go cool am"

What does Nafi do in between hosting American visitors? Collaborates with teachers, villagers and a local NGO to dig a MUCH needed well at the middle school! Check out my project by clicking HERE. There is an option at the bottom of the page to donate to the cause if you feel so inclined. Let's get this well dug before hot season is in full swing (highs over 100 every day this week already)!

To the village on the back of the donkey cart, by Chaney (Mom of Nafi)

My husband and I traveled to Senegal from December 24, 2012 through January 8, 2013 to visit our daughter during her second year in the Peace Corps. The highlight of our travels was the time we spent with Cibyl in her village.

We arrive by “Sept-Place”( a 7 passenger Peugeot diesel wagon) at the little town of Mampatim at dusk. Cibyl has called ahead to her village to send for the donkey cart. Backary, a teenager from Cibyl’s compound hails us from the other side of the road leading a donkey attached to a small flatbed cart with two car wheels. Stephen and Cibyl ride bikes the 7 km to Saré Pate Bouya and I, with our luggage tied on, ride on the back of the donkey cart.

Who would ever have imagined me,at age 62, riding on the back of the donkey cart, my legs swinging out the back over the dusty dirt road to a small Senegalese village?

As we near the village I can hear many voices and the rhythm of drums. Backary turns into Cibyl’s compound and 30 or more children surround the cart singing a song of welcome. I see many little hands reaching out to touch mine and I start to cry. It is such an emotional yet joyous way to be welcomed to village !

 In front of Cibyl’s hut we are introduced to the chief’s wife and Mamadou the chief’s son or nephew (family connections are a bit vague in this part of the world). Women and children form 2 lines in front of us and while two women work the drums, other women take turns dancing vigorously. They are singing, “Nafi’s Mama has arrived!”. Nafi is Cibyl’s Mandinka name.

Fetching water

The well is several hundred yards from Cibyl’s compound. She takes two large buckets and long cloths to twist on top of the head for carrying buckets back to the hut. Several women are at the well filling containers. There are two pulleys with buckets attached. It’s a cooperative effort to fill the buckets from the 80+ foot well.

Like a dance, Cibyl and another woman work hand over hand hauling the bucket. We put a cloth on Steve’s head and hoist the bucket up. Cibyl carries the other bucket. Clothes and dishes are washed and, there is small amount of water left to warm in the sun for an evening bucket bath.

To the health hut

On the way to the health hut, we greet the families in several compounds. Cibyl’s namesake, ‘Nafi’, is ill. She gets up from her bed to greet us gives us warm hugs and kisses. She has a cough and chest pain with severe headache. Someone has constricted her chest by tying a cloth tight around it. Cibyl tells her to take the constricting cloth off and to steam eucalyptus leaves with head covered over the steaming bowl.

At the health hut, Cibyl looks up other medicinal plant recipes. She decides to make an infusion of eucalyptus oil. Back in her hut Cibyl sends some flowers and leaves from the Madagascar Primrose to Nafi for throat-soothing tea.

The Concoran on his back !

“Quick everyone, hide in your huts. The Concoran is here!” Part yeti, part boogey man, the Concoran dresses in bark and bangs machetes around the compounds. This is part of the boys’ circumcision ceremony. Cibyl has written a full description (see below). We feel lucky to have witnessed the arrival of the Concoran. The banging of machetes goes on throughout the night intermingled with the braying of donkeys.

Mandinka

Cibyl takes us to greet residents of each compound of the village. There are over 27 compounds ranging in size from a few family members to 30 or more in an extended family. The villagers call out Cibyl’s Mandinka name “Nafi”. There’s an elaborate exchange greetings:

            Kor Tanante- [Villager]

            Tanante [our response]

            Sumooley [Villager]

            Eebeejay- [our response]

            Jemool Dung [Villager]

            Eebeejay- [our response]

Cibyl enters into a full conversation. We look on in awe. Nafi is fluent in Mandinka!

Sometimes an elder showers us with blessings. “Bless your family, bless your health”. Cibyl taps her forehead with her hand and tells us to do the same. "Ameen" she says and we follow suit.

We learn a few more words:

            Herra- peace

            Abaraka- thank you

            Nam- I am here

I like Mandinka. They roll their R’s” just like you do in Spanish and so some of the words come easily to me.

A number of villagers have told us that Nafi is now Mandinka, a full-fledged member of this 500+ person village. She is Senegalese through and through they say. I try to tell them that I’m happy that Nafi now has a family in Sare Pate Bouya. I tell them we miss her very much and look forward to her home coming to America.

Our last night in Sare Pate

We have brought fruit candy with us. Each is cut in half. Cibyl walks from one fire to the next distributing the sweets. The children follow with hands outstretched for more! Dinner is meager. We have brought rice and lots of vegetables to the village but this is gone by the third night. This fourth night’s meal consists of rice with a few beans for the guests and rice with a rather slimy leaf sauce for Mamadou and his nephew who eat with us each night.

Food is served in a common bowl. There are several family units and each sits outside their hut around the common bowl. The sauce, meat, vegetables or some combination of these is heaped in the middle over the rice or millet. Each person scoops bits of these condiments into their area of the bowl. Some eat with their hands, others with spoons. There is a polite little rice bridge between each person’s area of the bowl. Leftovers are then brought to the women’s hut and finished by the children and women or saved for breakfast. We try our best to eat appreciatively while leaving as much as possible for the women and children.

Cibyl tells us about starving time which I think is coming soon. During this time only two meals are served per day for lack of food. This way of life is hard to fathom. Chickens run freely through village – no one keeps a coop to be able to collect eggs. Sheep and goats are everywhere and are very occasionally slaughtered but no one milks them. In mango season, there is so much fruit that is left to rot; no one is drying mango fruit for hungrier times. Cows are the family bank and are sold only under dire circumstances. Even a toddler suffering from malaria and needing a doctor’s care does not warrant the sale of a cow to pay for the medicine. Nafi generously covered this cost for one of the toddlers in her compound

It’s very hard for us Westerners to understand the culture. My brain keeps churning out solutions:

• Create a community garden
• build chicken coops
• milk the goats to give the children some much-needed protein
• make cheese or yogurt with the rest
• sun-dry the tomatoes and mangoes for future use

 Cibyl-Nafi wisely explains much of this has been tried and has failed. You remind yourself to appreciate small things. Nafi encourages use of the Moringa tree in the village, an amazing plant with nutritive medicinal qualities that grows easily in village. She grows medicinal plants next to the health hut. Hopefully when her service ends,  a villager or two will carry on where she left off.

  

And there are big things happening thanks to”Nafi”. She has written a grant and pit latrines are now installed in each compound. Mamadou’s youngest wife is now on birth control thanks to Nafi’s influence. Most recently, she’s been speaking with the middle school and elementary school staff about a well project and latrines at the middle school….

As we drift off to a fitful sleep in Nafi’s hut, we are awakened through the night by donkeys braying . Is it mating season? And in the early hours before dawn, we once more are awakened by the clanking of the Concoran’s machete.

Click here and here for Chaney and Steve's Senegal photo albums.

The Kankouran, a Casamance special

Of all the Senegalese festivities I've experienced - the religious holidays, the weddings, the baptisms - you want to know what the absolute most fun is? Circumcision.

Unlike in America, boys are not circumcised at birth but sometime around the age of 8 and simultaneously with other boys around the same age in a village-wide, multi-day celebration. After talking to other volunteers I've concluded that my village is particularly enthusiastic about their boys' transitions into manhood. This might be a Mandinka thing, especially since I'm told that the star of the show, the Kankouran, is originally a Mandinka tradition that has since been adopted by other ethnic groups in the Casamance region of Senegal (This includes the regions of Kolda, Sedhiou and Ziguenchor). Whatever the reason, I spent Thanksgiving running around with the women of my compound, buzzing with the energy of the festivities and being thankful that my Mandinka villagers are so wild for circumcision.

 I had seen the Kankouran before, in passing through Kolda and my road town, but never in SPB. It was all anyone could talk about for weeks. "We're going to circumcise some boys! The Kankouran is coming! Nafi, are you afraid of the Kankouran?" I told them I wasn't afraid, but this was a lie. Driving past the Kankouran is one thing, anticipating his arrival in the midst of all the excited, gleeful terror he inspires is quite another.

A man puts on a costume of bark and becomes the Kankouran. He dances, clanks machetes together, hits kids and animals with the flat sides of them and generally wreaks havoc. You can't see any part of his body under the bark and he moves in such prescribed ways that you forget there is a human in there, which is terrifying. Women are not supposed to see him and so the village divides along gender lines into a huge game of hide-and-seek with women and girls sneaking glances from behind fences and doors and boys running around in the Kankouran's entourage seeking the peekers. This was day one of the festivities - wild drumming and dancing all morning and then hiding from the Kankouran in the afternoon. When he showed up after lunch you could hear the drumming and yelling all across the village. Women congregated in compounds, trying to get an advantageous position for the best possible viewing and hiding combination. I stood on the edge of my neighbors compound, trying to watch the progress of the boys while Filijee yelled from the door of a hut for me to have some sense and hide. The fear was contagious and my heart started pounding as soon as the first boys rounded the corner. I huddled with the neighbors, peeking through chinks around the door of the hut until he moved on to the next compound and I could make a break for it. I hurried back to my own hut, boys hot on my tail and did the rest of my Kankouran viewing from my own backyard with Fili, Seyni and Sajo.

It felt very much like when you play hide-and-seek as a kid: you know, rationally, that you're safe from any real danger and yet your adrenaline kicks in and convinces you that you are hiding for you life, your heart rate picks up and you feel giddy with the fun of being afraid. But, this is the daytime Kankouran. When it was all over for the afternoon and Fili and I were debriefing she told me that when Mandinkas do the Kankouran you never see any part of his body, that he can dance and chase kids all day and never get tired, but the Kankouran that comes at night... he is not human! In hushed tones she told me about how he runs through the village at night and will attack anyone who tries to shine a light on him, that he can be in more than one place at once and will make scary growling, heavy-breathing noises. I still wasn't sure what to make of all this, but just as adrenaline in the daytime makes you giddy, there is something about not being able to see your opponent that increases the fear ten-fold.

The dancing went on late, how late I can't be sure because I must have fallen asleep not long after 10:30 or so. I woke up just before one to what I thought was a child screaming near Dumfaa kounda, but then a minute later I heard the same shrieks from behind Faty kounda, followed by the clang of machetes... the nighttime Kankouran! For at least an hour I could hear the Aaaaaa-aaaaaaaiii.... clang! first from one side and then at an improbable interval from the other. I thought, he couldn't be moving that fast, there must be two of them. But then it was the same shrill, womanly shriek whirling around the village. It wasn't until later that another voice joined in the screams. I stayed up thinking about what Fili said, about it not being human and trying to make sense of its progress around the village, but it was too haphazard. The whole village was quiet, doing the same as me, hiding in silence, hushed in place by this reckless animist spirit. Through bleary eyes I looked up at the stars, bright in a clear sky, the evening fog gone by this late at night and listened to the dogs barking in the intervals between screams. But every time I thought I had heard the last, another bang, shriek, clang! Eventually they became quieter as the Kankouran seemed to retreat towards the east, until finally I could barely hear him and slipped back into sleep. But even there the Kankouran haunted. I dreamed that he came right up next to the fence, just on the other side of my bed and knowing I was there huffed and puffed and pressed against the fence. It was so real that even now I'm not entirely sure if it was purely a dream or delirium combined with the late night activities of a cow or donkey. Either way I decided the best course of action was to lie still and be glad to have a dog, however small, sleeping in my room.

The next morning the dancing started early. Women put on their funky beaded, sashed cross-dressing outfits that are reserved for the most festive occasions. In each participating compound the boys to be circumcised sat on mats, all in a row to have their heads shaved by young men while drummers drummed and women danced and threw rice. Then they wrapped their heads in new cloth, pinned money to their foreheads, hoisted them on their shoulders and paraded the around the village, from one participating compound to the next, increasing their numbers as they went until everyone ended up in my compound. I've never seen so many Mandinkas all in one place!

That's my hut on the right and I'm pretty sure the entire population of Sare Pathe in front of it.

They lined up the boys on mats again - 27 of them in all - and the old men of the village circled around them, chanting prayers. Then everyone joined in the blessing and once again hoisted the boys on their shoulders, this time to be carried to the woods to the beating of drums. The whole village followed in parade, but when they reached the edge of town the women turned and ran home out of fear of the Kankouran. The dancing and drumming continued until around 11 a.m. and then resumed in the afternoon. At least the Kankouran respects meal times... I wonder what he eats...

A glimpse of the Kankouran from the first day

The Kankouran didn't come back that night, as far as I know; I was told he was in the woods too, but he made some brief appearances the next afternoon and then resumed his nighttime haunting. The second haunting was different from the first - it started earlier, lasted longer and was far more energetic. There were definitely two people shrieking and probably a few others clanking and banging things, giving the impression of the Kankouran being everywhere at once. Multiple times I heard him running through the middle of my compound and once again the village was silent but for the barking dogs that punctuated his screams.

After three days of fun and hauntings SPB was exhausted. Taani had lost her voice, the drumming had slowed, guests started heading back to their villages and I started looking forward to a belated Thanksgiving and much-needed sleep. But, when all was said and done the Kankouran had showed me a good time and left me wishing that boys were circumcised more often around here.

Nafi hosts

A few weeks ago I had the immense pleasure of hosting two CIEE students (the same program I did when I studied abroad in Dakar) on their rural visit. The idea is to give them a chance to see Senegal beyond Dakar, in at least one of its many vibrant shades, and in this case to give them a taste of what it's like to be a Peace Corps volunteer. I had a great time playing host as it gave me a chance to see my life in SPB from a new perspective and remind my host family, and the rest of the village for that matter, that Nafi was not built in a day. Imagine! a Toubab that doesn't speak Mandinka or Pulaar! Plus, they were wonderful guests - as easy-going and engaged as I could have ever hoped for. AND, added bonus, one of them was a fellow Barnard woman! Read what she had to say about the experience by clicking here and then here.

Abe said, "Man you must be puttin' me on"

I wonder what my host family would think about these irreverent lyrics. Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son is no joke to devotees of the religions that claim him as a founding prophet. And yet, in Senegal, as in other Muslim countries I'm sure, the solemnity of the sacrifice is far overshadowed by merriment, mirth and feasting. Tabaski is Senegalese Christmas, the most anticipated holiday of the year and certainly the most expensive. Every family must sacrifice at least one ram to prove their faith, the largest and fanciest (the ones with necklaces and decked out horns) costing hundreds even thousands of dollars. In the weeks leading up to the holiday seasonal ram markets pop up around the cities like Christmas tree lots and you can't travel anywhere without sharing your ride with sheep in rice sacks, hog-tied and hanging over the side of the mini-bus. There's nothing quite like livestock on public transportation to remind me that I live in the third world. The key is to get a seat away from the open windows, unless you prefer a shower of sheep pee to your own sweat.

For most families the ram is just a fraction of the holiday expenditures. Most other expenses have to do with looking good: new clothes, new shoes, new hair! I finally relented. Here is what $12, at least 10 hours of braiding and a year and a half of Mandinka pestering get you:

  This is a favored Senegalese photo pose, but also I am not terribly happy about how heavy and hot all this fake hair is. I took it all out the day after the holiday. Looking this fly comes at a high price.

It was a pretty lean Tabaski this year though, my hair being one of the biggest extravagances. A compound my size should have probably slaughtered 3 or 4 rams; we only had one little one, which was great news for me since I generally hate holiday food... so many good ingredients ruined by bad cuts of badly prepared bad meat. My family thinks I'm crazy, but I'll take leaf sauce over sheep intestines any day of the week. Considering the family financial situation everyone looked really good and seemed to have fun. Here is the highlight of the day (ram gore!):

 Happy Holidays! Or as we say in SPB "Allah maa saloo diyala!"


Click here for some new pictures.