I apologize for my long absence.
My father told me recently that some of you avid followers were sending him emails wondering why I hadn’t write since December 11th? Not only did that make me smile, it also motivated me to get writing again. The reason for the hiatus though is because I went on vacation. Yep, I spent the holidays in Rome and Sicily with family friends. Lucky girl huh? The trip was just wonderful (see “Italy” album), and I didn’t freak out about being in the “1st World” nearly as much as I thought I would. I mean, within my first day or two I had a moment of panic and disgust at my return to materialism. I mean you could say that I sort of binged on luxury. I went out in Rome, had my hair done (by a hilariously flamboyant Italian man), ate delicious fresh meals and tons of gelato, bought jeans, took long hot showers, and watched CNN in English. But as my good friend said “Cait, you’ve only been in Senegal for 9 months, that’s not enough time to undo 24 years of cultural learning.” And he’s right. It was great to be back in a city I knew and wander the streets with no agenda. In Sicily it was so nice to just be locked up with friends and have no agenda except to feed ourselves and occupy the kids.
Though I know it was disappointing to my family at home that I didn’t come home, I realize that I just was not ready. I did not want to have to say my goodbyes all over again. What a treat it was too to be with a family of people that grew up in West Africa. One of the things I was probably the most anxious about going home to was the “celebrity” status. You know, running into people all over town who expect soundbyte responses to “How is Africa?” “What’s it like” and waiting for a 30 second or less response. I know that I’ll have to deal with all that eventually when I’m home over the summer, but I think that by then I’ll be able to handle it much more graciously. The idea of telling the story over and over again is exhausting though. This is why I love having a blog so much! I feel like those of you who really care will follow along and then I won’t have nearly as much story-telling ground to cover when I come back.
Coming back to Senegal has been an unexpected piece of cake. I spent a few days in Dakar with other volunteers who were coming back in from vacations, so that we could hit “critical mass” for the long voyage back to the desert. I was so thrilled to come back to site and to my family, and my work. I feel rested, restored, re-motivated, and ready to put in some serious work time before the hot season smothers all good intentions to get anything done. Since I’ve been back I’ve just been on cloud nine. I mean, so little bothers me anymore! I’m not sure if that’s a product of my own adaptation to life here, or the cool season. Probably some of both. Truly though, the cool season is like 5 zillion times more tolerable than the rest of the year. Too bad it’s mostly over by March. I actually fear the hot season. Even thinking about it makes me anxious and miserable.
But for now, I’m thrilled to be back, work has taken off again, I’m the perfect level of busy, my Pulaar rocks, and life is wonderful!
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Ode to a Bucket
Ode to a Bucket
(aka. the most amazingly versatile piece of furniture ever invented)
Oh Bucket,
You are not just an empty container with which to carry and hold water
You are so many things:
A chair to offer guests a place to sit
A desk on which to work on my computer
A kitchen counter on which to prepare my breakfast
A footbath to soak my dirty callused feet
A varying dumbell to lift so that my muscles do not atrophy
A stepping stool to reach those high up spider webs
A trunk to hold my ever-expanding wardrobe
A kitchen cabinet to keep my treasured food sealed off from mice and lizards
A washing machine in which to scrub the dirt off my clothes
A door stop to keep my screen door shut
Oh Bucket,
How will I ever thank you for all you do for me?
(aka. the most amazingly versatile piece of furniture ever invented)
Oh Bucket,
You are not just an empty container with which to carry and hold water
You are so many things:
A chair to offer guests a place to sit
A desk on which to work on my computer
A kitchen counter on which to prepare my breakfast
A footbath to soak my dirty callused feet
A varying dumbell to lift so that my muscles do not atrophy
A stepping stool to reach those high up spider webs
A trunk to hold my ever-expanding wardrobe
A kitchen cabinet to keep my treasured food sealed off from mice and lizards
A washing machine in which to scrub the dirt off my clothes
A door stop to keep my screen door shut
Oh Bucket,
How will I ever thank you for all you do for me?
Work and first health class
I taught my very first health class today!
It was a 2-hour class at the junior high for 50 teenagers, in the elective health class called “EcoFam.” The class covers all health related things for economy/family/society. They learn about STIs, Family Planning, pregnancy, the menstrual cycle, reproductive systems, you name it. It’s all the same stuff we learn in our health classes pretty much. My class was on the diagnostics of pregnancy and the importance of diagnosing pregnancy early on, to ensure the health of the mother and the baby. So in French, for two hours, I rattled on about the primary and secondary signs of pregnancy, the different tests we can do confirm a pregnancy, how to estimate the birthdates, and of course the importance of early testing.
If it makes you nervous and anxious just thinking about teaching a technical health class, in a foreign language, in front of an audience of 50 hormonal teenagers, then just imagine how nervous I was. But I did it! And you know what? It wasn’t all that bad. Most importantly, now I know that I CAN do it, and I enjoyed myself to boot. I made them laugh, I got the information across, and they were actively participating. Now I’ve never in my life taught a proper class, on anything really, except to 4-year-old Peruvian kids about nutrition, so this was definitely a massive plunge. I think that they enjoyed it. Granted I stumbled through some of the pronunciation, and had to double-check my spelling and accent placement on the board a few times, but they all understood. Funny enough, I think that when they did have problems understanding me, it wasn’t because my pronunciation was wrong necessarily, but because my France-French accent and the Senegalese-French accent are very different. The teacher, Mr. Tall, sat and watched the whole thing and nodded his approval throughout and laughed along with us. At the end he congratulated the class in front of me, explaining to them how brave I was to teach in a foreign language, and that they should remember to use me as a resource for health class, or English class, or just for cultural exchange, and not to let my time here go to waste. I was so honored. I received thunderous applause, and lots of nods of approval. Afterwards he and I had a meeting and he told me that he thought it went even better than he had anticipated, and of course the areas in which I need to improve, and he invited me to continue to collaborate with him on classes about STIs, HIV, pregnancy, nutrition etc. for the rest of the school year!
It’s a bit redundant to be teaching a class that already exists and runs well, and ultimately sustains itself, but he sought me out to collaborate with. He teaches all of the EcoFam classes in town as well as runs the library so is an incredibly busy man. If anything, I am satisfied with the idea that I am exposing him and the students to different ways of learning, and teaching. I also noticed that during my class today (possibly because of the subject matter) that the girls were much more participative this week than they had been last week in his class. For the sake of my ego, I’m going to tell myself that it was because they felt more comfortable speaking with a woman. After all, when I was in school I remember them separating boys and girls to learn about this kind of stuff. I definitely saw some snickers (though surprisingly few) when I had to explain to them what a speculum is, and how a gynecological exam is performed. But Mr. Tall doesn’t even shake women’s hands (strict follower of a specific sect of Islam I think). I can’t imagine trying to approach a man who won’t even shake my hand and asking him my most private and embarrassing questions on sex, health, and menstruation. No way.
Ultimately I’m hoping that this class will be a jumping off point for teaching at the other schools. In fact it already looks to be. I stopped by the mayor’s office on my way back from the class and the mayor (who is also the headmaster of the private school) invited me to teach at his school occasionally (in collaboration with the same teacher) and also to perhaps plan health-related events like a health club, or AIDS or Malaria Awareness days. Once word spreads that I am teaching these classes, I hope that the elementary schools, and the pre-school will take notice and invite me there as well. They have a much less dynamic health curriculum and I’ve noticed that a lot of their students could really use some clearer health information delivered in a much more dynamic way, rather than just through hours of the dreaded “Dictée.” And although I am not a teacher myself, I think that the teachers could benefit from seeing some alternative learning tools.
Soon I’m scheduled to start “guest starring” in some of the English classes so that the students can hear a native speaker. One of them even wants me to teach a class on AIDS in English as a sort of listening comprehension test. I’m already helping to run the weekly English club with another teacher, so my involvement at the junior high has literally exploded in the two weeks since I got back from Thanksgiving. One of the previous volunteers in Kanel worked closely with the English club and consequently, several of those students went on to University as English majors! I guess you just never know who you might be inspiring and motivating.
I’m also organizing a hugely formal meeting at the mayor’s office with all of the presidents of Kanel’s community associations. The mayor has graciously agreed to let me use the conference room free of charge and I’m going to send out a formal letter of invitation to all 40 Presidents so that they can all come together and I can let them know that my Pulaar is better, give them a better idea of what my work is, and that I am available and eager to work with them.
My New Mother’s group is continuing smoothly. At our last meeting all but one of them showed up (11 in all). I talked to them about the Oral Fecal Cycle and germs and how they are transmitted and the importance of thorough hand washing with soap. They seemed surprised at the news that soap was the only way to kill germs (though I know they’ve heard that information before). They were interested, participative, and eager to plan the next meeting. For the lesson, I drew a bunch of silly drawings of children pooping, not washing their hands, and then greeting their friends, and then both of them having diarrhea. They got a lot of laughs, but also got the point across. I also showed them another comic strip of germ transmission in my health book, which they seem to take very seriously because they know it’s an “official” lesson, and not just my pathetic sketches. It feels wonderful to be able to teach a group of women who have never been to school, are totally illiterate and have absolutely no other place to learn.
(When I was preparing for that meeting though, I couldn’t help but sigh to myself and think “Gee I’m glad I have a master’s degree…it comes so in handy when I’m drawing stick figures of children pooping.”)
Sometimes I think to myself that what Peace Corps really needs is an army of art teachers instead of college grads and professionals. Because most of the information I give out is so simple: “Wash your hands with soap,” “Eat a variety of foods,” “Sleep under a mosquito net…all year round” etc. The thing is that yeah, it’s simple, but when I’m told that we could reduce global child deaths by 43% just by getting people to wash their hands…I am always re-inspired to continue my monotonous mantra.
Also, some very exciting news from home. A teacher and her class from PA have taken an interest in my New Mother’s Group and have not only held a bake sale to raise funds, but asked local stores, and advertised on their local television station asking for donations of products (lotions, creams, vitamins, clothing) for my mothers’ children. It’s funny how my notion of what is “sustainable” has changed as I live and work here. I know that technically, unless this class continues to do this, that it is not by definition “sustainable.” But I think that this project of theirs will certainly make a lasting impression on the students. Who knows? Maybe one of them will join the Peace Corps someday? And of course it means the world to my new moms and their children will certainly benefit.
I have had trouble getting my girls’ group up and running. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about things that are universal, and one of them is that teenage girls are difficult to organize. (Duh right?) They tend to talk a lot about the kinds of club meetings they want to have and the things they want to learn and accomplish, but when it comes down to getting them to commit to a date and actually (gasp) attend the meetings they beg me for…its pretty hopeless. But no matter, I’d much rather focus my attention on people who will follow through. One of the things I’ve learned over the past 7 months at site is that it just isn’t worth trying to motivate uninterested individuals. My energy is much more efficiently spent on people who already want my participation and are willing to commit to it.
I am also beginning to take over our bi-monthly health radio show (in Pulaar!) from the soon to leave volunteers. Myself and the other newest health volunteers in the region are now going to have to start writing the scripts and make the bi-monthly treks to the regional capital to deliver health messages and American music across the airwaves. Pretty cool huh? I’ll be like a Senegalese Pulaar B-list celebrity…sort of.
So there you have it. That is the work that has been taking up most of my time these days. I know it doesn’t sound like very much, but you’d be amazed at how long all of the planning, coordinating, greeting, and meeting take. It’s possible that I am also going to start to hold weekly health talks at the health post, but thus far I have not been able to have a sit down meeting with the interested mid-wife. I have more projects brewing in the back of my mind, and am hoping that the big meeting I’m holding in January with the community organizations will introduce me to new partners and open some doors.
For now though, I’m pretty proud of my very first health class and am pleased with the progress of my work.
It was a 2-hour class at the junior high for 50 teenagers, in the elective health class called “EcoFam.” The class covers all health related things for economy/family/society. They learn about STIs, Family Planning, pregnancy, the menstrual cycle, reproductive systems, you name it. It’s all the same stuff we learn in our health classes pretty much. My class was on the diagnostics of pregnancy and the importance of diagnosing pregnancy early on, to ensure the health of the mother and the baby. So in French, for two hours, I rattled on about the primary and secondary signs of pregnancy, the different tests we can do confirm a pregnancy, how to estimate the birthdates, and of course the importance of early testing.
If it makes you nervous and anxious just thinking about teaching a technical health class, in a foreign language, in front of an audience of 50 hormonal teenagers, then just imagine how nervous I was. But I did it! And you know what? It wasn’t all that bad. Most importantly, now I know that I CAN do it, and I enjoyed myself to boot. I made them laugh, I got the information across, and they were actively participating. Now I’ve never in my life taught a proper class, on anything really, except to 4-year-old Peruvian kids about nutrition, so this was definitely a massive plunge. I think that they enjoyed it. Granted I stumbled through some of the pronunciation, and had to double-check my spelling and accent placement on the board a few times, but they all understood. Funny enough, I think that when they did have problems understanding me, it wasn’t because my pronunciation was wrong necessarily, but because my France-French accent and the Senegalese-French accent are very different. The teacher, Mr. Tall, sat and watched the whole thing and nodded his approval throughout and laughed along with us. At the end he congratulated the class in front of me, explaining to them how brave I was to teach in a foreign language, and that they should remember to use me as a resource for health class, or English class, or just for cultural exchange, and not to let my time here go to waste. I was so honored. I received thunderous applause, and lots of nods of approval. Afterwards he and I had a meeting and he told me that he thought it went even better than he had anticipated, and of course the areas in which I need to improve, and he invited me to continue to collaborate with him on classes about STIs, HIV, pregnancy, nutrition etc. for the rest of the school year!
It’s a bit redundant to be teaching a class that already exists and runs well, and ultimately sustains itself, but he sought me out to collaborate with. He teaches all of the EcoFam classes in town as well as runs the library so is an incredibly busy man. If anything, I am satisfied with the idea that I am exposing him and the students to different ways of learning, and teaching. I also noticed that during my class today (possibly because of the subject matter) that the girls were much more participative this week than they had been last week in his class. For the sake of my ego, I’m going to tell myself that it was because they felt more comfortable speaking with a woman. After all, when I was in school I remember them separating boys and girls to learn about this kind of stuff. I definitely saw some snickers (though surprisingly few) when I had to explain to them what a speculum is, and how a gynecological exam is performed. But Mr. Tall doesn’t even shake women’s hands (strict follower of a specific sect of Islam I think). I can’t imagine trying to approach a man who won’t even shake my hand and asking him my most private and embarrassing questions on sex, health, and menstruation. No way.
Ultimately I’m hoping that this class will be a jumping off point for teaching at the other schools. In fact it already looks to be. I stopped by the mayor’s office on my way back from the class and the mayor (who is also the headmaster of the private school) invited me to teach at his school occasionally (in collaboration with the same teacher) and also to perhaps plan health-related events like a health club, or AIDS or Malaria Awareness days. Once word spreads that I am teaching these classes, I hope that the elementary schools, and the pre-school will take notice and invite me there as well. They have a much less dynamic health curriculum and I’ve noticed that a lot of their students could really use some clearer health information delivered in a much more dynamic way, rather than just through hours of the dreaded “Dictée.” And although I am not a teacher myself, I think that the teachers could benefit from seeing some alternative learning tools.
Soon I’m scheduled to start “guest starring” in some of the English classes so that the students can hear a native speaker. One of them even wants me to teach a class on AIDS in English as a sort of listening comprehension test. I’m already helping to run the weekly English club with another teacher, so my involvement at the junior high has literally exploded in the two weeks since I got back from Thanksgiving. One of the previous volunteers in Kanel worked closely with the English club and consequently, several of those students went on to University as English majors! I guess you just never know who you might be inspiring and motivating.
I’m also organizing a hugely formal meeting at the mayor’s office with all of the presidents of Kanel’s community associations. The mayor has graciously agreed to let me use the conference room free of charge and I’m going to send out a formal letter of invitation to all 40 Presidents so that they can all come together and I can let them know that my Pulaar is better, give them a better idea of what my work is, and that I am available and eager to work with them.
My New Mother’s group is continuing smoothly. At our last meeting all but one of them showed up (11 in all). I talked to them about the Oral Fecal Cycle and germs and how they are transmitted and the importance of thorough hand washing with soap. They seemed surprised at the news that soap was the only way to kill germs (though I know they’ve heard that information before). They were interested, participative, and eager to plan the next meeting. For the lesson, I drew a bunch of silly drawings of children pooping, not washing their hands, and then greeting their friends, and then both of them having diarrhea. They got a lot of laughs, but also got the point across. I also showed them another comic strip of germ transmission in my health book, which they seem to take very seriously because they know it’s an “official” lesson, and not just my pathetic sketches. It feels wonderful to be able to teach a group of women who have never been to school, are totally illiterate and have absolutely no other place to learn.
(When I was preparing for that meeting though, I couldn’t help but sigh to myself and think “Gee I’m glad I have a master’s degree…it comes so in handy when I’m drawing stick figures of children pooping.”)
Sometimes I think to myself that what Peace Corps really needs is an army of art teachers instead of college grads and professionals. Because most of the information I give out is so simple: “Wash your hands with soap,” “Eat a variety of foods,” “Sleep under a mosquito net…all year round” etc. The thing is that yeah, it’s simple, but when I’m told that we could reduce global child deaths by 43% just by getting people to wash their hands…I am always re-inspired to continue my monotonous mantra.
Also, some very exciting news from home. A teacher and her class from PA have taken an interest in my New Mother’s Group and have not only held a bake sale to raise funds, but asked local stores, and advertised on their local television station asking for donations of products (lotions, creams, vitamins, clothing) for my mothers’ children. It’s funny how my notion of what is “sustainable” has changed as I live and work here. I know that technically, unless this class continues to do this, that it is not by definition “sustainable.” But I think that this project of theirs will certainly make a lasting impression on the students. Who knows? Maybe one of them will join the Peace Corps someday? And of course it means the world to my new moms and their children will certainly benefit.
I have had trouble getting my girls’ group up and running. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about things that are universal, and one of them is that teenage girls are difficult to organize. (Duh right?) They tend to talk a lot about the kinds of club meetings they want to have and the things they want to learn and accomplish, but when it comes down to getting them to commit to a date and actually (gasp) attend the meetings they beg me for…its pretty hopeless. But no matter, I’d much rather focus my attention on people who will follow through. One of the things I’ve learned over the past 7 months at site is that it just isn’t worth trying to motivate uninterested individuals. My energy is much more efficiently spent on people who already want my participation and are willing to commit to it.
I am also beginning to take over our bi-monthly health radio show (in Pulaar!) from the soon to leave volunteers. Myself and the other newest health volunteers in the region are now going to have to start writing the scripts and make the bi-monthly treks to the regional capital to deliver health messages and American music across the airwaves. Pretty cool huh? I’ll be like a Senegalese Pulaar B-list celebrity…sort of.
So there you have it. That is the work that has been taking up most of my time these days. I know it doesn’t sound like very much, but you’d be amazed at how long all of the planning, coordinating, greeting, and meeting take. It’s possible that I am also going to start to hold weekly health talks at the health post, but thus far I have not been able to have a sit down meeting with the interested mid-wife. I have more projects brewing in the back of my mind, and am hoping that the big meeting I’m holding in January with the community organizations will introduce me to new partners and open some doors.
For now though, I’m pretty proud of my very first health class and am pleased with the progress of my work.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
My Yaaye
Having lived in Kanel for almost seven months now, with my family, I have grown so incredibly attached to them, that if I let my mind wander and think of the day when I have to leave this place, tears come to my eyes. Walking home one day, about a month ago, I literally started to cry thinking about how sad I will be to leave at the end of my service. I think that was the first time that I realized how attached I’ve become to them. Because they really are my family, for better or for worse. I know so many of their secrets, their laughs, their annoying habits, their various tones of voices, and all the other intricacies you grow up knowing inherently about your family.
I haven’t written much about them for awhile so I thought it would be a good time to write a lengthy update about my family Lam. This week I’m going to start off with my Yaaye (mom) because I have the most to say about her and it should make for a long and inspiring entry. Maybe I’m feeling exceptionally maternal today because I’m reading The Red Tent, but lately I feel closer to my Yaaye than to anyone else in the family.
She is wonderful. She just amazes me, day in and day out. She is so wise, and patient, and strong, and compassionate, and careful, and observant, and hilarious. I just love her (probably because she reminds me so much of my own mom). Some of my favorite moments at site have been the quiet nights sitting with her on a mat, away from the television, talking about whatever I can and listening to her hilarious stories. Because she does. She is always ready to tell a story, and by the end of it she’s bound to have the whole family rolling. Her stories don’t even have to be that funny. But the way she laughs in the middle of them, pausing to show her lack of two front teeth, always makes me giggle. Half the time I don’t even understand what she’s saying, though she almost always remembers to catch me up after she is done. (She knows exactly what to say to make me understand her.) She has a knack for dragging out her stories and everyone sits around her, captivated, giggling alongside her. She doesn’t tell folktales passed down from generation to generation. She just spontaneously recounts some event from the day or week or year before that came to her mind.
And I have no idea how old she is, maybe in her 60s? It’s hard to tell. I know she’s got to be exhausted, and sometimes she will admit that she is, but you’d never know it the way she works. She is always the first one awake, having breakfast with the little kids. Always the last one working at night, freezing water to sell as ice, or preparing haako for tomorrow’s dinner. No matter how wiped out she never refuses my little nephew’s attention. He is more attached to her than to his own mom, Binta. During Ramadan in 100 degree weather with no water or food, I would see her at 5 pm, still two hours from breaking the fast, the sun beating down on wiry frame, walk gracefully past my room with 4 foot long logs balanced on her head, her grandson strapped to her back.
She never went to school, never learned anything about modern medicine or nutrition and yet instinctively feeds her grandson a greater variety of foods than his mom does. Some of this is certainly a product of raising 8 children and knowing how to care for them, but I am always still in awe. Last night, with just one conversation about germs and me explaining to her that the only way to kill them is with soap, suddenly, today at lunch she and all the kids washed their hands with soap! A true breakthrough I should add. I do hope it continues and it was not just a coincidence.
And she is so accepting. Accepting of my differences, of other people. She acknowledges that my culture and her culture are different and that I don’t have to do everything that they do (like fast, pray, wear a headscarf, have a husband etc. Things that as you all have read are regularly told to me by other more “educated” individuals). She is so quick to see the good in people. The first time I told her that my parents adopted my siblings she went on and on praising them and what good people they were and that Allah would reward them in Paradise. When Chris came to visit, and gave her a bag of dried milk as a parting gift (something he was embarassed about at first because it was so little to him, but a big deal to them), she followed us into my room and told him that he was her son (grabbing her breast) and that he did not have to give her anything. That Allah had brought him to her and they were family. That he came all that way, across America and across Senegal just to visit them. She said that he was forever family and could stay with them always, and eat, and sleep and never have to give them anything.
There is so much more to say about her, so many moments I wish I could burn into my memory and tell to all of you.
Oh!
Right now she just walked into my room and is looking over my shoulder at me typing this very entry! She has on her grand bubu with her headwrap and is sitting on my bed, perfectly content to observe my work. She can’t read or write a thing but just enjoys the quiet pleasure of my concentration. I love it when she periodically stops into my room just to have a chat. While explaing my computer to her, I mentioned to her that Faama, one of my nieces, wants to learn how to type, how to use a computer. I told Yaaye that she might take classes next summer at the school’s library.
Upon hearing this, my yaaye took a breath and launched into a story (which I’ll get to in a moment). I stopped writing and gave her my full attention, both so that I could better understand what she was saying and because I could tell by the sigh in her voice that something was weighing on her, that she needed to share this with me. That this wasn’t a story that would leave us both giggling.
Actually, her story left us both in tears. We sat together, just the two of us, in my tiny hut, my arms wrapped awkwardly around her, one behind her back and the other resting on her knee, not knowing how best to comfort her. I stayed quiet. We sat there, her on the bed, and me on the floor by her feet, my computer still in my lap, until the tears subsided. I eventually tried consoling her with my meager pulaar while she tried to stifle her sobs, and buried her face into the cloth of her bubu. She cried for maybe a minute in all, then quickly rose and splashed her face with water. I stood up, wiping my cheeks and fumbled for some kleenex. She mumbled to Allah a few times, graciously accepted a tissue and stepped out of the room, perfectly composed, leaving me in a tearful daze.
Throughout the whole thing, I couldn’t help but think that somehow, even while crying, she still looked so regal and poised, her neck perfectly straight, sitting with ease on my graceless bedframe. I noticed all of her wrinkles for the first time, and how worn she looked, yet still strikingly beautiful. You can tell that she was a true beauty in her youth. Though resilient, I know that life has been hard on her. She lost seven of her fifteen children either through miscarriage, at birth, or in infancy. She raised eight children to adulthood, one of whom passed away seven years ago, a father of three.
It was talking about this son that broke the dam. Yaaye’s story was about his daughter, my niece Faama, the one I had mentioned wanted to take computer class. I have actually been here to watch these events unfold, but hearing Yaaye recount them and seeing how deeply Faama’s actions have hurt Yaaye over the past several months was sobering. I realized how deeply important her family is to her. During her story, I couldn’t help but think of all of the grief my siblings and I put our parents through (especially as teenagers), and what a mild rebellion this was compared to all of ours over the years.
Faama is fifteen. The oldest of her three siblings. Her father (my Yaaye’s favorite son) died when she was eight. (It was her mention of him as her favorite among all the children that kept the tears flowing). His three kids moved in with Yaaye and Baabaa and their mom moved across town. The littlest one, Hapskaciel, never even knew her dad. BenOumar just barely remembers him, but Faama took it the worst. I had always thought this because I noticed that she is quick to beat up on the younger kids when they take her things without asking, or bug her just enough until she snaps.
So it turns out that their aunt, Nene, my counterpart and older sister (the one with the new baby named Diana, after my real mom), has paid for absolutely everything for them ever since her brother (their father) passed away. She never asks questions, she just gives and gives. She pays their school fees, and pushes her husbands (the first one passed away and now she is remarried) to give them money for clothes, and anything they need. Naturally, this summer, when Nene was extremely pregnant and weak and had no other women in the house to help her with the chores, she asked Faama to move in with them for a few months. Faama refused. Yaaye and Baabaa sat down with Faama and had her mother come and the three of them essentially forced her to go. So she spent her summer vacation working and doing all of the chores at Nene’s house during the day and coming back to our house at night. (Mind you, Nene’s house is pretty nice, with satellite TV, tons of kids around, two refrigerators, and a real shower.)
Towards the end of the pregnancy and in the first few weeks Faama did start spending the night there. But now that she is free of what was required of her, she has not even stopped by the house to greet. Yaaye, Baabaa and her own mother have sat her down and talked to her about being ungrateful and that she needs to appreciate what Nene has done for her and respect Yaaye and Baabaa, who have raised her. I actually came home from my visit with Chris the night that the third of these “interventions” was happening. Faama refused to talk throughout the whole thing, while they told her that she was ungrateful and needed to stop hitting the younger children and needed to respect and thank Nene for being so generous to her.
As Yaaye told all of this to me she said,
“I don’t know how it is for Toubaks, but for Muslims, for us, in our family, you must respect your family. I see you Binta, you work until you are exhausted, and you are far away from your family, in a different country, but you call your family, and you are happy and you laugh together. And you go and you greet Nene and her family every day. Why? Why do you do this?”
Dumbfounded, I muttered something like, “Because it’s my family. We’re the same blood. And here, you are my family.”
Yaaye wiped a tear from the corner of her eyes. She said, “I don’t know what to do. We’re done with her. We’ve given up on her. She is not part of the family anymore. (And then I think she said something about being disinherited, not monetarily, but in their hearts). She can come and do as she pleases, she can work, go to school, but no one cares anymore. Allah sees what she does and we can’t help her. I just don’t understand. I don’t understand why she is like this. We have given her everything, and she has forgotten her family. I don’t know why?”
Again, I shook my head dumbfounded, finally understanding the gravity of Faama’s defiance in this culture.
I told her, “Yaaye, I don’t understand why she would be like that. It’s so sad.” To which Yaaye replied, “No…it’s not sad,” trying so hard to be strong, and then immediately burst into tears. Clearly, she has not given up on Faama, and it breaks her heart to think of doing so. The combination of that and then she again mentioned Faama’s father and we were both in tears. Me mostly because seeing the anguish and grief in her face just about broke my heart.
I will forever remember this day, this moment with my Yaaye.
In this culture, crying in public is reserved for extreme moments of grief. For her to weep freely in front of me, even for a brief moment, felt like some kind of strange honor. It is an honor that a woman I respect so deeply trusts me enough to seek out my company and allow herself to be so vulnerable. I understand now that I really am one of her daughters. I know that she has told me this many times over (simultaneously grabbing her breast…something all women do here when they mention their children), but in that moment I completely understand how much it means to her that I am here, in her life.
Funny thing is, I don’t feel the need to push our interactions. Rather, I know that these moments with my Yaaye happen organically, probably what makes them so special. I am beside myself when I think of the day when I will have to leave and I might very well never see her again. The thought makes me nauseous and weak.
I hope that you have all been inspired by my Yaaye, Koumba Ba. It is an honor to know her and call her mom.
I haven’t written much about them for awhile so I thought it would be a good time to write a lengthy update about my family Lam. This week I’m going to start off with my Yaaye (mom) because I have the most to say about her and it should make for a long and inspiring entry. Maybe I’m feeling exceptionally maternal today because I’m reading The Red Tent, but lately I feel closer to my Yaaye than to anyone else in the family.
She is wonderful. She just amazes me, day in and day out. She is so wise, and patient, and strong, and compassionate, and careful, and observant, and hilarious. I just love her (probably because she reminds me so much of my own mom). Some of my favorite moments at site have been the quiet nights sitting with her on a mat, away from the television, talking about whatever I can and listening to her hilarious stories. Because she does. She is always ready to tell a story, and by the end of it she’s bound to have the whole family rolling. Her stories don’t even have to be that funny. But the way she laughs in the middle of them, pausing to show her lack of two front teeth, always makes me giggle. Half the time I don’t even understand what she’s saying, though she almost always remembers to catch me up after she is done. (She knows exactly what to say to make me understand her.) She has a knack for dragging out her stories and everyone sits around her, captivated, giggling alongside her. She doesn’t tell folktales passed down from generation to generation. She just spontaneously recounts some event from the day or week or year before that came to her mind.
And I have no idea how old she is, maybe in her 60s? It’s hard to tell. I know she’s got to be exhausted, and sometimes she will admit that she is, but you’d never know it the way she works. She is always the first one awake, having breakfast with the little kids. Always the last one working at night, freezing water to sell as ice, or preparing haako for tomorrow’s dinner. No matter how wiped out she never refuses my little nephew’s attention. He is more attached to her than to his own mom, Binta. During Ramadan in 100 degree weather with no water or food, I would see her at 5 pm, still two hours from breaking the fast, the sun beating down on wiry frame, walk gracefully past my room with 4 foot long logs balanced on her head, her grandson strapped to her back.
She never went to school, never learned anything about modern medicine or nutrition and yet instinctively feeds her grandson a greater variety of foods than his mom does. Some of this is certainly a product of raising 8 children and knowing how to care for them, but I am always still in awe. Last night, with just one conversation about germs and me explaining to her that the only way to kill them is with soap, suddenly, today at lunch she and all the kids washed their hands with soap! A true breakthrough I should add. I do hope it continues and it was not just a coincidence.
And she is so accepting. Accepting of my differences, of other people. She acknowledges that my culture and her culture are different and that I don’t have to do everything that they do (like fast, pray, wear a headscarf, have a husband etc. Things that as you all have read are regularly told to me by other more “educated” individuals). She is so quick to see the good in people. The first time I told her that my parents adopted my siblings she went on and on praising them and what good people they were and that Allah would reward them in Paradise. When Chris came to visit, and gave her a bag of dried milk as a parting gift (something he was embarassed about at first because it was so little to him, but a big deal to them), she followed us into my room and told him that he was her son (grabbing her breast) and that he did not have to give her anything. That Allah had brought him to her and they were family. That he came all that way, across America and across Senegal just to visit them. She said that he was forever family and could stay with them always, and eat, and sleep and never have to give them anything.
There is so much more to say about her, so many moments I wish I could burn into my memory and tell to all of you.
Oh!
Right now she just walked into my room and is looking over my shoulder at me typing this very entry! She has on her grand bubu with her headwrap and is sitting on my bed, perfectly content to observe my work. She can’t read or write a thing but just enjoys the quiet pleasure of my concentration. I love it when she periodically stops into my room just to have a chat. While explaing my computer to her, I mentioned to her that Faama, one of my nieces, wants to learn how to type, how to use a computer. I told Yaaye that she might take classes next summer at the school’s library.
Upon hearing this, my yaaye took a breath and launched into a story (which I’ll get to in a moment). I stopped writing and gave her my full attention, both so that I could better understand what she was saying and because I could tell by the sigh in her voice that something was weighing on her, that she needed to share this with me. That this wasn’t a story that would leave us both giggling.
Actually, her story left us both in tears. We sat together, just the two of us, in my tiny hut, my arms wrapped awkwardly around her, one behind her back and the other resting on her knee, not knowing how best to comfort her. I stayed quiet. We sat there, her on the bed, and me on the floor by her feet, my computer still in my lap, until the tears subsided. I eventually tried consoling her with my meager pulaar while she tried to stifle her sobs, and buried her face into the cloth of her bubu. She cried for maybe a minute in all, then quickly rose and splashed her face with water. I stood up, wiping my cheeks and fumbled for some kleenex. She mumbled to Allah a few times, graciously accepted a tissue and stepped out of the room, perfectly composed, leaving me in a tearful daze.
Throughout the whole thing, I couldn’t help but think that somehow, even while crying, she still looked so regal and poised, her neck perfectly straight, sitting with ease on my graceless bedframe. I noticed all of her wrinkles for the first time, and how worn she looked, yet still strikingly beautiful. You can tell that she was a true beauty in her youth. Though resilient, I know that life has been hard on her. She lost seven of her fifteen children either through miscarriage, at birth, or in infancy. She raised eight children to adulthood, one of whom passed away seven years ago, a father of three.
It was talking about this son that broke the dam. Yaaye’s story was about his daughter, my niece Faama, the one I had mentioned wanted to take computer class. I have actually been here to watch these events unfold, but hearing Yaaye recount them and seeing how deeply Faama’s actions have hurt Yaaye over the past several months was sobering. I realized how deeply important her family is to her. During her story, I couldn’t help but think of all of the grief my siblings and I put our parents through (especially as teenagers), and what a mild rebellion this was compared to all of ours over the years.
Faama is fifteen. The oldest of her three siblings. Her father (my Yaaye’s favorite son) died when she was eight. (It was her mention of him as her favorite among all the children that kept the tears flowing). His three kids moved in with Yaaye and Baabaa and their mom moved across town. The littlest one, Hapskaciel, never even knew her dad. BenOumar just barely remembers him, but Faama took it the worst. I had always thought this because I noticed that she is quick to beat up on the younger kids when they take her things without asking, or bug her just enough until she snaps.
So it turns out that their aunt, Nene, my counterpart and older sister (the one with the new baby named Diana, after my real mom), has paid for absolutely everything for them ever since her brother (their father) passed away. She never asks questions, she just gives and gives. She pays their school fees, and pushes her husbands (the first one passed away and now she is remarried) to give them money for clothes, and anything they need. Naturally, this summer, when Nene was extremely pregnant and weak and had no other women in the house to help her with the chores, she asked Faama to move in with them for a few months. Faama refused. Yaaye and Baabaa sat down with Faama and had her mother come and the three of them essentially forced her to go. So she spent her summer vacation working and doing all of the chores at Nene’s house during the day and coming back to our house at night. (Mind you, Nene’s house is pretty nice, with satellite TV, tons of kids around, two refrigerators, and a real shower.)
Towards the end of the pregnancy and in the first few weeks Faama did start spending the night there. But now that she is free of what was required of her, she has not even stopped by the house to greet. Yaaye, Baabaa and her own mother have sat her down and talked to her about being ungrateful and that she needs to appreciate what Nene has done for her and respect Yaaye and Baabaa, who have raised her. I actually came home from my visit with Chris the night that the third of these “interventions” was happening. Faama refused to talk throughout the whole thing, while they told her that she was ungrateful and needed to stop hitting the younger children and needed to respect and thank Nene for being so generous to her.
As Yaaye told all of this to me she said,
“I don’t know how it is for Toubaks, but for Muslims, for us, in our family, you must respect your family. I see you Binta, you work until you are exhausted, and you are far away from your family, in a different country, but you call your family, and you are happy and you laugh together. And you go and you greet Nene and her family every day. Why? Why do you do this?”
Dumbfounded, I muttered something like, “Because it’s my family. We’re the same blood. And here, you are my family.”
Yaaye wiped a tear from the corner of her eyes. She said, “I don’t know what to do. We’re done with her. We’ve given up on her. She is not part of the family anymore. (And then I think she said something about being disinherited, not monetarily, but in their hearts). She can come and do as she pleases, she can work, go to school, but no one cares anymore. Allah sees what she does and we can’t help her. I just don’t understand. I don’t understand why she is like this. We have given her everything, and she has forgotten her family. I don’t know why?”
Again, I shook my head dumbfounded, finally understanding the gravity of Faama’s defiance in this culture.
I told her, “Yaaye, I don’t understand why she would be like that. It’s so sad.” To which Yaaye replied, “No…it’s not sad,” trying so hard to be strong, and then immediately burst into tears. Clearly, she has not given up on Faama, and it breaks her heart to think of doing so. The combination of that and then she again mentioned Faama’s father and we were both in tears. Me mostly because seeing the anguish and grief in her face just about broke my heart.
I will forever remember this day, this moment with my Yaaye.
In this culture, crying in public is reserved for extreme moments of grief. For her to weep freely in front of me, even for a brief moment, felt like some kind of strange honor. It is an honor that a woman I respect so deeply trusts me enough to seek out my company and allow herself to be so vulnerable. I understand now that I really am one of her daughters. I know that she has told me this many times over (simultaneously grabbing her breast…something all women do here when they mention their children), but in that moment I completely understand how much it means to her that I am here, in her life.
Funny thing is, I don’t feel the need to push our interactions. Rather, I know that these moments with my Yaaye happen organically, probably what makes them so special. I am beside myself when I think of the day when I will have to leave and I might very well never see her again. The thought makes me nauseous and weak.
I hope that you have all been inspired by my Yaaye, Koumba Ba. It is an honor to know her and call her mom.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
I DELIVERED A BABY!!!
Last week I had an amazing experience that I will remember for the rest of my life.
Driving up from Dakar after dropping off a visitor, I had already spent roughly 8 hours on the road in a hot and cramped station wagon on my way back to site. I stopped at a garage in a town near the regional house to transfer cars. Since no one ever seems to be going in the direction I do, further into the Sahel Desert, I had to wait at the garage for several hours. Upon arrival the police officer on duty decided to give me a hard time for traveling without my passport. Of course I had my Peace Corps identity card with me as always, with my passport number on it, but this guy was set on giving me a hard time. I explained to him that Peace Corps told us that these I.D.s were valid and we didn’t need to carry my passport and that if he continued to threaten to take me in to the office in town that I would get the American Embassy on the line and they would sort it out for him. After a brief yelling match and my threats, he finally admitted that because I wasn’t actually GOING into the town, but continuing on, that he didn’t HAVE to look at my passport and he would let me go…this time.
Right, I’m sure the threat of the embassy had NOTHING to do with his change of heart.
I finally got into the new car around 3:30pm. In the back seat were an older woman, a younger woman and her 7-year-old daughter and twin 2-year-old boys. I was squished in between two men in the middle seat, and then in the front sat the driver and an older gentleman. A half an hour later, the car stopped suddenly. We were in the middle of nowhere by a tiny roadside transport checkpoint. The young mother in the backseat pushed past the man in front of her and hurried out of the car. Not sure why we stopped, I sneaked a glance behind me. I saw her maybe 10 feet from the car, doubled over in pain and crouching precariously on the ground. I asked the men around me what was wrong with her. They replied, quite surprised that I didn’t know, that she was in fact IN LABOR!
Of course I blurted out something like, “What?? Now??” and jumped out of the car. As the older woman and myself ran towards her I saw that sure enough, she was in labor. Not only that, but the baby was already crowning! The woman and I arrived just in time. We guided the baby out and onto the extra material from her dress that was dragging on the ground. Right there amid the dirt, sand, thorns, and dead grass, I helped deliver a healthy baby boy. With no medical facility for miles, no tools, and only my bare hands to serve as his first welcome into this world.
Instinct kicked in and I felt so lucky for my doula experiences back in California. I thought to myself, “okay, I’ve seen birth, I know what it should look like. I’ve looked at my health worker training manual, I can do this!” I immediately wrapped him up in the only ratty cloth we could find. The afterbirth followed maybe 30 seconds later. I was relieved that it all looked normal and that it happened so fast. The baby cried right away, his passages were clear, he was alert, breathing well, and a decent size-probably about 6 lbs. I didn’t notice any meconium, the fetal fluid was clear, and the blood from the umbilical cord looked red and clean.
I wanted desperately to do this right, so I started giving orders. I yelled to the men across the street “Please, bring me a blade, and string now!” Somehow, a few moments later with this minutes old baby boy wrapped up in my arms, the birth juices soaking into my green Skidmore College t-shirt, the men came running across the street with a blade and a string in hand! I couldn’t believe it. So I instructed the woman with me how to tie off the umbilical cord and where to cut it. I pleaded with her to let me run to my bag and sterilize the blade with the Hibicleanse from my emergency mini-med kit I carry with me at all times, but my hands were full of the baby and after dropping the blade in the dirt, she had already started cutting away the placenta. I wish so desperately that I had had just a few more moments notice to set up a cloth and sterilize the tools, wash my hands and help clean off the baby a little bit.
But we made do with what little we had. Ten minutes later, with the baby wrapped up in a heavy towel still pressed closely to my body, I cooed at him. As the very first person he would ever see, he opened his eyes for the first time, and I whispered to him “welcome to the world baby boy.” I congratulated the mom and held him out to her, but she was much too exhausted and spacey to do much more than give me a half smile.
By this time several women from the surrounding huts had appeared with kettles of water and a change of clothes for the new mommy from her bag in the car. We women encircled her, trying to hide her naked body from the view of the men standing idly by as we changed her clothes and got her as cleaned up as possible. We wrapped up the afterbirth in her other clothes and put it into a plastic bag. I used a cloth to wrap around her and absorb any blood.
Literally only fifteen minutes later we were back in the station wagon on our way to the nearest village with a health post.
She climbed back into the backseat with her other three children and the older woman. I carefully sat back in my middle seat with Baby Boy in my arms the whole time. Ten minutes later we stopped again. Flat tire! Of all the times to have a flat tire. I couldn’t believe it. The four men took twenty minutes to get us back on the road. All the while I’m trying to pay attention to the baby, making sure he was lucid, breathing, and making the right “nursing” motions. I tried to encourage her to begin breastfeeding so she would release oxytocin that would help the uterus contract and stop the bleeding, but she was too tired and promised me she would as soon as we got to the health post. Meanwhile she was dealing with her other three children. She even had the presence of mind to joke with her twins the rest of the ride! I was in total awe of this woman. I mean, I hadn’t even realized she was in labor. Not a single sound the entire ride. Not a groan, or a yell, or any special requests. She literally waited until the very last second to hop out and give birth to her son right there in the dirt. It was like no big deal, like she did this everyday! I have no idea when her water broke. I assume before she even got into the car back at the garage.
During the drive the men thanked me for helping and commended my attention. They joked that even though it was a baby boy, that he would be named after me anyway. I laughed and appreciated the encouragement.
An hour later we arrived at the village of her husband’s family and the health post. I promptly got into my second yelling match of the day with a Senegalese man.
The driver, instead of driving two minutes out of his way to drop her at the hospital, he dropped her off on the side of the road, at a stranger’s house, with her baggage, and her now four children. I yelled at him in French that this was inappropriate, that she needed medical attention to make sure that she and the baby were okay, that she shouldn’t be walking and that we needed to drop her off at the health post immediately. “C’est pas normale!” I shouted out him. One of the other men agreed with me, but it was getting dark and we were nowhere near their final destination. With much protest, I handed over the baby to one of the women that had come upon the scene. I gave them strict instructions to get her to the health post, and for her to start breast-feeding ASAP. With a final goodbye the rest of us piled back into the wagon and left her to the rest of the women who were already ushering her to the back of the house to wash up.
My shirt and hands soaked with fetal fluids and blood, I spent the last hour and a half of the trip in an adrenaline pumped daze. They dropped me off at the regional house at 7pm, twelve hours after I had begun the journey that morning from the Dakar garage.
Luckily I arrived at the house and all the volunteers could not wait to hear my story (I had sent them a pre-emptive text message along the way). So I got to sit down with friends and share my joy, my awe, and my anxiety at being partly responsible for the birth of a brand new baby boy.
I’m sure that by now the story has gotten out and the whole region knows that an American toubak, named Binta Lam, helped deliver this little guy into the world. I have no idea how to find them again though. I knew the woman’s name, but not the name of the village and will probably never see them again, as we were still about 5 hours away from my town. But it’s exciting and an honor that I will live in infamy in this family’s life. Baby Boy will have to hear the story of the toubak that helped deliver him for the rest of his life.
I feel so lucky that I got to be part of such an important event. And what a great story!
All in a day’s work of a Peace Corps volunteer.
Driving up from Dakar after dropping off a visitor, I had already spent roughly 8 hours on the road in a hot and cramped station wagon on my way back to site. I stopped at a garage in a town near the regional house to transfer cars. Since no one ever seems to be going in the direction I do, further into the Sahel Desert, I had to wait at the garage for several hours. Upon arrival the police officer on duty decided to give me a hard time for traveling without my passport. Of course I had my Peace Corps identity card with me as always, with my passport number on it, but this guy was set on giving me a hard time. I explained to him that Peace Corps told us that these I.D.s were valid and we didn’t need to carry my passport and that if he continued to threaten to take me in to the office in town that I would get the American Embassy on the line and they would sort it out for him. After a brief yelling match and my threats, he finally admitted that because I wasn’t actually GOING into the town, but continuing on, that he didn’t HAVE to look at my passport and he would let me go…this time.
Right, I’m sure the threat of the embassy had NOTHING to do with his change of heart.
I finally got into the new car around 3:30pm. In the back seat were an older woman, a younger woman and her 7-year-old daughter and twin 2-year-old boys. I was squished in between two men in the middle seat, and then in the front sat the driver and an older gentleman. A half an hour later, the car stopped suddenly. We were in the middle of nowhere by a tiny roadside transport checkpoint. The young mother in the backseat pushed past the man in front of her and hurried out of the car. Not sure why we stopped, I sneaked a glance behind me. I saw her maybe 10 feet from the car, doubled over in pain and crouching precariously on the ground. I asked the men around me what was wrong with her. They replied, quite surprised that I didn’t know, that she was in fact IN LABOR!
Of course I blurted out something like, “What?? Now??” and jumped out of the car. As the older woman and myself ran towards her I saw that sure enough, she was in labor. Not only that, but the baby was already crowning! The woman and I arrived just in time. We guided the baby out and onto the extra material from her dress that was dragging on the ground. Right there amid the dirt, sand, thorns, and dead grass, I helped deliver a healthy baby boy. With no medical facility for miles, no tools, and only my bare hands to serve as his first welcome into this world.
Instinct kicked in and I felt so lucky for my doula experiences back in California. I thought to myself, “okay, I’ve seen birth, I know what it should look like. I’ve looked at my health worker training manual, I can do this!” I immediately wrapped him up in the only ratty cloth we could find. The afterbirth followed maybe 30 seconds later. I was relieved that it all looked normal and that it happened so fast. The baby cried right away, his passages were clear, he was alert, breathing well, and a decent size-probably about 6 lbs. I didn’t notice any meconium, the fetal fluid was clear, and the blood from the umbilical cord looked red and clean.
I wanted desperately to do this right, so I started giving orders. I yelled to the men across the street “Please, bring me a blade, and string now!” Somehow, a few moments later with this minutes old baby boy wrapped up in my arms, the birth juices soaking into my green Skidmore College t-shirt, the men came running across the street with a blade and a string in hand! I couldn’t believe it. So I instructed the woman with me how to tie off the umbilical cord and where to cut it. I pleaded with her to let me run to my bag and sterilize the blade with the Hibicleanse from my emergency mini-med kit I carry with me at all times, but my hands were full of the baby and after dropping the blade in the dirt, she had already started cutting away the placenta. I wish so desperately that I had had just a few more moments notice to set up a cloth and sterilize the tools, wash my hands and help clean off the baby a little bit.
But we made do with what little we had. Ten minutes later, with the baby wrapped up in a heavy towel still pressed closely to my body, I cooed at him. As the very first person he would ever see, he opened his eyes for the first time, and I whispered to him “welcome to the world baby boy.” I congratulated the mom and held him out to her, but she was much too exhausted and spacey to do much more than give me a half smile.
By this time several women from the surrounding huts had appeared with kettles of water and a change of clothes for the new mommy from her bag in the car. We women encircled her, trying to hide her naked body from the view of the men standing idly by as we changed her clothes and got her as cleaned up as possible. We wrapped up the afterbirth in her other clothes and put it into a plastic bag. I used a cloth to wrap around her and absorb any blood.
Literally only fifteen minutes later we were back in the station wagon on our way to the nearest village with a health post.
She climbed back into the backseat with her other three children and the older woman. I carefully sat back in my middle seat with Baby Boy in my arms the whole time. Ten minutes later we stopped again. Flat tire! Of all the times to have a flat tire. I couldn’t believe it. The four men took twenty minutes to get us back on the road. All the while I’m trying to pay attention to the baby, making sure he was lucid, breathing, and making the right “nursing” motions. I tried to encourage her to begin breastfeeding so she would release oxytocin that would help the uterus contract and stop the bleeding, but she was too tired and promised me she would as soon as we got to the health post. Meanwhile she was dealing with her other three children. She even had the presence of mind to joke with her twins the rest of the ride! I was in total awe of this woman. I mean, I hadn’t even realized she was in labor. Not a single sound the entire ride. Not a groan, or a yell, or any special requests. She literally waited until the very last second to hop out and give birth to her son right there in the dirt. It was like no big deal, like she did this everyday! I have no idea when her water broke. I assume before she even got into the car back at the garage.
During the drive the men thanked me for helping and commended my attention. They joked that even though it was a baby boy, that he would be named after me anyway. I laughed and appreciated the encouragement.
An hour later we arrived at the village of her husband’s family and the health post. I promptly got into my second yelling match of the day with a Senegalese man.
The driver, instead of driving two minutes out of his way to drop her at the hospital, he dropped her off on the side of the road, at a stranger’s house, with her baggage, and her now four children. I yelled at him in French that this was inappropriate, that she needed medical attention to make sure that she and the baby were okay, that she shouldn’t be walking and that we needed to drop her off at the health post immediately. “C’est pas normale!” I shouted out him. One of the other men agreed with me, but it was getting dark and we were nowhere near their final destination. With much protest, I handed over the baby to one of the women that had come upon the scene. I gave them strict instructions to get her to the health post, and for her to start breast-feeding ASAP. With a final goodbye the rest of us piled back into the wagon and left her to the rest of the women who were already ushering her to the back of the house to wash up.
My shirt and hands soaked with fetal fluids and blood, I spent the last hour and a half of the trip in an adrenaline pumped daze. They dropped me off at the regional house at 7pm, twelve hours after I had begun the journey that morning from the Dakar garage.
Luckily I arrived at the house and all the volunteers could not wait to hear my story (I had sent them a pre-emptive text message along the way). So I got to sit down with friends and share my joy, my awe, and my anxiety at being partly responsible for the birth of a brand new baby boy.
I’m sure that by now the story has gotten out and the whole region knows that an American toubak, named Binta Lam, helped deliver this little guy into the world. I have no idea how to find them again though. I knew the woman’s name, but not the name of the village and will probably never see them again, as we were still about 5 hours away from my town. But it’s exciting and an honor that I will live in infamy in this family’s life. Baby Boy will have to hear the story of the toubak that helped deliver him for the rest of his life.
I feel so lucky that I got to be part of such an important event. And what a great story!
All in a day’s work of a Peace Corps volunteer.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Visitor
My first visitor left this morning.
He was here for 2 weeks, came all the way across the country to my site, to meet my family, and to see my life and work. He also met some of the other volunteers, saw our regional house, met my Thies family, saw Dakar, and even got to spend some time on the coast. It was a rushed but wonderful vacation for him. And quite an experience for me to have such a close friend from home come all the way out here, and actually get to glimpse a small part of my life. He left saying that it was probably the most exciting, eye-opening trip he has ever taken.
I asked him to contribute a blog entry, but he said that he would just wait and comment on my entry. So hopefully you can all hear directly from him at some point (hint hint Chris).
Parts of it were exhausting, mostly from my perspective as the responsible one. I was so worried that he would get sick, or hurt himself, or lost, or not like it, or pass out from heat exhaustion, but there was not even one single minor disaster. He ate street food from the first day, drank homemade juice with tap water, ate all the national dishes (usually with his hands), slept on concrete under a mosquito net, got water, did laundry by hand, went to the fields, played with the kids, toured my whole town, and was treated like a true guest of honor by my family.
One thing that he kept repeating was how incredibly honored, and at times awkward, he felt because of the hospitality from my family. He commented that they lived in the most abject poverty he’s ever seen and yet no relative luxury was spared. They went all out and made some of the most delicious dishes I’ve had to date. He was always given tea after meals, the best seat in the house (the plastic lawn chair), made comfortable, and fawned over by my adoring nieces.
What a treat it was to sit back and watch my family interact with him, to try and speak to him with sign language, their broken English, and his ten words of Pulaar. They were so thrilled just to have him say “peace only” in Pulaar that every time he greeted and just kept repeating it he got instant smiles and laughter. People were so honored when I brought him by to greet them. And I did. I made him walk all over my entire town checking off every person on the list that I could possibly think of to go greet. He really fit right in. Which I’m learning in a country with so much hospitality is easy to do as a guest.
And what an ego boost to hear him tell me he was impressed with my language and my ease at site. Sometimes it’s so easy to get caught up with how far removed I feel, or how far I still have to go in terms of integrating culturally, or with my language, but having him here made me feel so proud. Proud of my work, of my progress, of my attitude.
Even walking around Dakar I learned so much about myself. I just take the harassment and constant attention in stride. Though sometimes to a fault because I have less tolerance and sometimes don’t trust people because my defences are up. I’m programmed to ignore people and ignore their pleas for my attention to come to their stands and buy their merchandise. I guess it’s that inherent American sense of personal space that kicks in. But because Chris was here and hasn’t become immune to the constant badgering yet, we ended up having a really great experience with a bag vendor that made me laugh and remember that while it’s much more tiring, joking and a little trust gets you a lot further with people.
We took a trip to the market. I was looking for a bag to carry back some of the stuff that I had accumulated. We must’ve had at least 5 men following us trying to get our attention and trying to get us to come into their stores. I was bee-lining to the bag shops when one guy started walking with us and really would not let up. He pulled the usual “hey, don’t you recognize me?” line…to which I replied “no I don’t know you, and you don’t know me either.” He wouldn’t give up and said he was sure he knew me so I stopped, gave him a sarcastic look and said “oh yeah? What’s my name then?” To which he replied (in English)…. “I know your name…it’s Impossible!” Chris and I both thought that was pretty funny. And he took it upon himself to take us around to stores to help me find the bag I was looking for. When I didn’t see any, he started leading us away from the market to another street. I started getting a little nervous, and wouldn’t have even considered following him without a big strong guy by my side, but eventually I just said forget it, we’re going back to the market. He pleaded with us to follow him a little further. But I refused. We started walking away and from up behind us he comes RUNNING with a bunch of bags in tow. Exactly what I was looking for. Then he explains to me that he can’t sell on the street because if the police catch him he’ll be fined. Sure enough, in the next ten seconds the police turned the corner and he and his buddy gestured for us to follow them…hurriedly. So we did. And what did we stumble upon? A huge, airy shop full of men sewing bags, cloths, clothing, in every pattern and style imagineable. So we haggled for a while and I walked away satisfied with the bag I had chosen and him satisfied with succeeding in bringing a tourist to buy his goods.
It was such a small interaction, that lasted maybe 10 minutes, and not only makes a great story, but made me realize that giving in just a teeny bit to the bombardment can be absolutely worth it in the end. And now I have a friend and he actually DOES know my name, and next time I’m in Dakar I’ll find him and buy beautiful cloth for you all at home…on my HUGE Peace Corps salary (insert dripping sarcasm and sly smile).
Having the time to really sit down with Chris and talk to him about my work at site was extremely helpful. Though he admitted that he does not know the culture as well as I do of course, it was refreshing to hash out ideas and take some of the primary health problems one by one and go over new and innovative ways to tackle them. I appreciated this so much because coming up with things on your own is always difficult. One of the things I hope that the Peace Corps will implement are standardized To Do manuals written by other volunteers who have had successful projects.
Again, patience and understanding…development moves slowly.
Chris suggested that I take an itemized list of health concerns that I want to work on and how I’m addressing them so that you can all follow along. A sort of mini-work proposal if you will. I’m going to try and get around to that soon.
I guess I hope that some of you out there will be inspired to come visit or at least to maybe visit another place you’ve been meaning to go to.
Once you catch the travel bug…
The only bummer is that now I’m left alone again and dealing with going back to normal life.
Chris will literally be remembered and talked about for the rest of my family’s life. He was invited back anytime and told he could stay as long as he wanted. In their eyes coming to greet someone from halfway around the world is one of the greatest honors anyone could perform.
So who’s next?
He was here for 2 weeks, came all the way across the country to my site, to meet my family, and to see my life and work. He also met some of the other volunteers, saw our regional house, met my Thies family, saw Dakar, and even got to spend some time on the coast. It was a rushed but wonderful vacation for him. And quite an experience for me to have such a close friend from home come all the way out here, and actually get to glimpse a small part of my life. He left saying that it was probably the most exciting, eye-opening trip he has ever taken.
I asked him to contribute a blog entry, but he said that he would just wait and comment on my entry. So hopefully you can all hear directly from him at some point (hint hint Chris).
Parts of it were exhausting, mostly from my perspective as the responsible one. I was so worried that he would get sick, or hurt himself, or lost, or not like it, or pass out from heat exhaustion, but there was not even one single minor disaster. He ate street food from the first day, drank homemade juice with tap water, ate all the national dishes (usually with his hands), slept on concrete under a mosquito net, got water, did laundry by hand, went to the fields, played with the kids, toured my whole town, and was treated like a true guest of honor by my family.
One thing that he kept repeating was how incredibly honored, and at times awkward, he felt because of the hospitality from my family. He commented that they lived in the most abject poverty he’s ever seen and yet no relative luxury was spared. They went all out and made some of the most delicious dishes I’ve had to date. He was always given tea after meals, the best seat in the house (the plastic lawn chair), made comfortable, and fawned over by my adoring nieces.
What a treat it was to sit back and watch my family interact with him, to try and speak to him with sign language, their broken English, and his ten words of Pulaar. They were so thrilled just to have him say “peace only” in Pulaar that every time he greeted and just kept repeating it he got instant smiles and laughter. People were so honored when I brought him by to greet them. And I did. I made him walk all over my entire town checking off every person on the list that I could possibly think of to go greet. He really fit right in. Which I’m learning in a country with so much hospitality is easy to do as a guest.
And what an ego boost to hear him tell me he was impressed with my language and my ease at site. Sometimes it’s so easy to get caught up with how far removed I feel, or how far I still have to go in terms of integrating culturally, or with my language, but having him here made me feel so proud. Proud of my work, of my progress, of my attitude.
Even walking around Dakar I learned so much about myself. I just take the harassment and constant attention in stride. Though sometimes to a fault because I have less tolerance and sometimes don’t trust people because my defences are up. I’m programmed to ignore people and ignore their pleas for my attention to come to their stands and buy their merchandise. I guess it’s that inherent American sense of personal space that kicks in. But because Chris was here and hasn’t become immune to the constant badgering yet, we ended up having a really great experience with a bag vendor that made me laugh and remember that while it’s much more tiring, joking and a little trust gets you a lot further with people.
We took a trip to the market. I was looking for a bag to carry back some of the stuff that I had accumulated. We must’ve had at least 5 men following us trying to get our attention and trying to get us to come into their stores. I was bee-lining to the bag shops when one guy started walking with us and really would not let up. He pulled the usual “hey, don’t you recognize me?” line…to which I replied “no I don’t know you, and you don’t know me either.” He wouldn’t give up and said he was sure he knew me so I stopped, gave him a sarcastic look and said “oh yeah? What’s my name then?” To which he replied (in English)…. “I know your name…it’s Impossible!” Chris and I both thought that was pretty funny. And he took it upon himself to take us around to stores to help me find the bag I was looking for. When I didn’t see any, he started leading us away from the market to another street. I started getting a little nervous, and wouldn’t have even considered following him without a big strong guy by my side, but eventually I just said forget it, we’re going back to the market. He pleaded with us to follow him a little further. But I refused. We started walking away and from up behind us he comes RUNNING with a bunch of bags in tow. Exactly what I was looking for. Then he explains to me that he can’t sell on the street because if the police catch him he’ll be fined. Sure enough, in the next ten seconds the police turned the corner and he and his buddy gestured for us to follow them…hurriedly. So we did. And what did we stumble upon? A huge, airy shop full of men sewing bags, cloths, clothing, in every pattern and style imagineable. So we haggled for a while and I walked away satisfied with the bag I had chosen and him satisfied with succeeding in bringing a tourist to buy his goods.
It was such a small interaction, that lasted maybe 10 minutes, and not only makes a great story, but made me realize that giving in just a teeny bit to the bombardment can be absolutely worth it in the end. And now I have a friend and he actually DOES know my name, and next time I’m in Dakar I’ll find him and buy beautiful cloth for you all at home…on my HUGE Peace Corps salary (insert dripping sarcasm and sly smile).
Having the time to really sit down with Chris and talk to him about my work at site was extremely helpful. Though he admitted that he does not know the culture as well as I do of course, it was refreshing to hash out ideas and take some of the primary health problems one by one and go over new and innovative ways to tackle them. I appreciated this so much because coming up with things on your own is always difficult. One of the things I hope that the Peace Corps will implement are standardized To Do manuals written by other volunteers who have had successful projects.
Again, patience and understanding…development moves slowly.
Chris suggested that I take an itemized list of health concerns that I want to work on and how I’m addressing them so that you can all follow along. A sort of mini-work proposal if you will. I’m going to try and get around to that soon.
I guess I hope that some of you out there will be inspired to come visit or at least to maybe visit another place you’ve been meaning to go to.
Once you catch the travel bug…
The only bummer is that now I’m left alone again and dealing with going back to normal life.
Chris will literally be remembered and talked about for the rest of my family’s life. He was invited back anytime and told he could stay as long as he wanted. In their eyes coming to greet someone from halfway around the world is one of the greatest honors anyone could perform.
So who’s next?
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Skype Webcam
My dearest blog followers,
Skype should probably pay me for this endorsement, but I just got a webcam up and running so if you all sign up for skype and add me (profile name: caitlingivens) then when we talk online you can actually see me! It's such a wonderful tool so I hope that some of you sign on. And it's totally free to call another skype user!
So log on because I'd love to hear from all of you. And you can see me in my sweaty glory.
Also, I'm uploading brand new pictures from my trip with my very first visitor. Check the new album called "Visitors."
I promise a better update soon.
Cheers,
Caitlin
Skype should probably pay me for this endorsement, but I just got a webcam up and running so if you all sign up for skype and add me (profile name: caitlingivens) then when we talk online you can actually see me! It's such a wonderful tool so I hope that some of you sign on. And it's totally free to call another skype user!
So log on because I'd love to hear from all of you. And you can see me in my sweaty glory.
Also, I'm uploading brand new pictures from my trip with my very first visitor. Check the new album called "Visitors."
I promise a better update soon.
Cheers,
Caitlin
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