Who's The Tubab?

Tubab [too.bab] the last syllable sometimes followed by [eh] making [too.bab.eh] N. 1. Foreigner 2. Person with light toned skin 3. White person 4. A person who is not a habitant of host country 5. Peace Corps Volunteers

Being the only tubab and also the only white person (although if I wear the right clothing I have once or twice passed for a Mauritanian-although Mauritanians are still considered tubabs) in my village, one of two Americans within a 4km radius and 1 of 5 within a 10km radius, I stick out as sorely as the lone carrot in a bowl full of ceeb (rice). And for those who don't yet know my name (any variation of Mariama), when I run into town and past the garage which is unfortunately teeming with cocky teenage and my age boys, walk through the market or visit with families in my village, there is always a resounding "Tubab!" that follows in my wake. Some, actually most people have no idea why I'm actually here so here are my thoughts on what's going through people's minds (or coming out of their mouths) concerning the matter of my reasons for being in the Djolof of West Africa. While some people-like my counterparts, family for the most part, school director, etc., already know the main reasons I'm here, part of my goal as a PCV is to share my goals and culture so the Senegalese have a better understanding of Americans and vice versa. So while for now, there is still need for some disillusioning, I hope I can change that over the next two years.

Ndiaga (my older brother and counterpart): Of course I know why she's here-she's going to plant trees in Thiamene and every village within 5km. She'll give us fruit trees (maybe an orchard Inchallah) and she's going to make our women's gardens flourish. Since she played with the Brazilian national team, she's going to whip our men's soccer team into shape and start a team for girls. And she's going to help us plant lots of Moringa trees which by the way have over 20 different vitamins in its leaves.

Abby, Alsane, Haddee (my older sisters): Sure, Sure, she's here for all of that, but most importantly she's here so we can make her as fat as possible so her family back home and all of America can see how great Senegal is. She's here to eat two lunches and dinners of rice and couscous and sometimes fish everyday and if she dares to leave the bowl before its all gone, we'll be sure she knows that she'll have no hope of getting fat if she doesn't eat until the bowl is done. The fatter the better :)

The Two Teenage Girls Who Attempted To Accost Me On My Run Through The Bush: Obviously she's here to hand out money. All tubabs are rich so why else would she be here. I don't think she understands wolof though since she sprinted away when we reached for her backpack.

Woman Who Owns The Beanstand In Dahra: Her hair is so long and curly and black like mine and I'm pretty sure she's here to either chop off all her hair to give to me as a seriche (present) or at the very least to give me her miracle shampoo (which she said she bought at the boutique on the corner...I don't believe her).

Every women age 8-92: Uh-Uh. She's here to be our entertainment. Everything she says in wolof is hilarious and she's supposed to dance for us on command so we can laugh some more. We don't understand why she'll only dance when we dance with her...that's no fun.

Little girls at the gamou (Muslim version of a revival) in Medina: Well, we think she's here to button all of our jean jackets when it starts to get cold. She's the best jean coat buttoner we've ever seen!

Every Single Person Who Sees Me On My Bike: Her bike is so "Nice" and she can ride to the market and home so much faster than our donkey and horse carts. I'm sure the next time I ask her where her bike is she's going to go getit and give it to me.

The Men At The Beanstand: She's an American tubab eh? Well even though I'm 83, and I'm 11, we're obviously prime marriage material. So if I tell her right off the bat, while she has a mouthful of beans, that I love her, she'll want to marry me, she'll take me to America, and she'll probably pay for my bean sandwich too.

Everyone Who Hears Me Speak English: O she's french. No? Must be Spanish. Italian? Portuguese? Aha American! Then clearly she's here to teach us English. If we ask her often enough, she'll definitely come to my house and teach me everything-even if she's still learning wolof and can't understand me that well.

And Going Off The Last One-My All Time Favorite: No, No, she's here to teach us a phrase or two. She doesn't have all the time in the world to sit down and teach us English. She is hear to plant trees remember. Here I'll teach you the few she's taught us so far: Director of the school and my tutor: "Dafa Ngelaw": It is windy: now how he translates it: "The wine is blowing". My older sister: after hearing me say "O My God" more than once and asking what it meant (I told her it meant yes! as in an exclamation): "Oi ma Gaww". My older brother: he wanted to know how to say "Maangiy xole ay gertes": I am shelling peanuts: how he pronounces it "I'm selling penis". *Now I better understand why I'm constantly laughed at for my wolof-I could be saying things as funny as 'I'm selling penis' and not even know it.

Although right now there are a lot of people who don't know who I am, where I come from and what I'm doing here, over the next two years I hope to get to know them better and hopefully all of us will learn something from eachother and even grow a little bit (so long as those 14 year old girls don't catch me by the backpack on my runs...thank God I run fast :)

Welcome to 2012

Happy Holidays everyone! I’m so sorry that I’ve been MIA for a long time…finding the time to write blog posts is often a tricky business. In Senegal it’s considered strange and antisocial for one to sit in their room alone and it’s a bit of an affront if I (as a new member of the family), spent a couple hours in my room napping, working, doing whatever we Americans do in our alone time. Privacy and seclusion is an unknown concept in Senegal so it’s often hard to find time to read and rest in peace and quiet. I’ve been attempting to do these things outside with my family but it’s hard to get anything significant done when you are constantly being interrupted by children, your family and people walking by. So today, I have an excellent excuse of having to study in my room because it’s windy and cold outside and this combination of weather is not a favorite of the locals here. So if you can picture this: I am sitting on my foam bed, under constant cover of mosquito net, my kitten napping on my chest as I’m surrounded by the constant sounds of zombie sheep and goats outside my window and the occasional Wolof song blasting from someone’s speakers. This morning when it was a bit colder, my big brother and a friend of mine-Tepha (who I think believes he’s going to marry me at some point in the future), were both wearing women’s headscarves around their heads. Quite a hilarious site. I toldTepha that he looked beautiful today with his stylish clothing, and his response was “Damay raffet chaque jour”. Translation: I’m beautiful every day. (At least he said that with a smile to negate some of the cockiness).

Yesterday I returned to village after a nice Christmas break to signs posted on the outside of our compound doors for the opposing candidate in the elections. While you all have absolutely zero need to worry because I am far from any unrest, these elections are the first time that Senegal is experiencing anything other than complete peace. The current president Abdoullaye Wade is 85 years old and I believe he has already served for two terms, yet he seeks to be reelected so that if and when he dies, his son can take over. Doesn’t sound very democratic now does it? Running for another term would have been unconstitutional because during his presidency an amendment was passed-disallowing a president to run for a third term; however Wade makes the point that he is not breaking any rules because the amendment was passed after his term began. Hmmm. Many Senegalese, mainly young adults, are not happy with the president and don’t want to see him elected for another term, so there have been protests since June in the capital and in big cities. Again I am perfectly safe but it will be very interesting seeing what happens come election time at the end of February.

The first thing I did today after my work out was tape the pictures and cards I was sent over Christmas. My room is starting to feel more like home-especially with the card my brother Mark sent me- featuring Santa’s butt taped on my wall. How to explain that one to the family? O and Tommy, if you’re reading this, my 18 year old friend from my village (who is actually quite amazing and beautiful) wants to marry you after she saw your picture taped to my wall and after I told her all about you.

I can’t remember everything that I posted in my blog about Christmas because I don’t have internet right now to check so forgive me if I repeat anything!

Touba Diallo

My Christmas break can best be described by the amazing food I ate which had been sorely missing from my diet up until that point. After the cramped night bus and crash on the Thies training center couches, Team Linguere (my region of volunteers) hopped in taxis and got dropped off at Le Croissant Magique-a resturaunt I had been to during training. We were all so excited about eating real food that we went a bit crazy when we saw a menu full of food reminiscent of our days in America. First I made sure to order a real live cappuccino (not the usual packet of Nescafe complete with a pound of sugar). Then I enjoyed a tall glass of orange juice and devoured some peanuts that were brought to the table. After scouring the menu I decided I would go big-an omelet with ham, onions and cheese as well as a sugar crepe to top it off. Delicious.

We arrived in beautiful Touba Diallo that afternoon (after being sold into marriage at the garage) and it was more amazing then I could have ever hoped for. If you know me at all you know the first thing I did was throw my bag on the floor, strip off my clothes (yes, I had worn my bathing suit under my clothes all morning in anticipation of the ocean) and run into the water. I was too excited to scout out a sandy, non-rocky strip of beach so I ended up slicing my legs in four different places being thrown against the rocks by the surprisingly strong current…no worries, I could’ve cared less-I was too excited about the fact that I was seeing water other than the puddles in my drainless shower. After swimming for a bit I found Team Linguere on a balcony overlooking the water, drinking beer and wine and enjoying the beautiful breeze. There is nothing like sitting on a stony ledge, overlooking the ocean, drinking a glass of wine, surrounded by friends after you have been living in a desert village for a bit of time (not that I don’t like my village-there are just certain things you miss). Almost forgot-I walked into quite a scene on the balcony and I’m still sad that I missed this…one of my friends who will remain unnamed, was sitting in her chair, very low to the ground. It looked a bit odd, but not until further examination did I realize that she was actually sitting on the ground-she had completely fallen through the lawn chair. Not only that, but after breaking the chair, she proceeded to pee herself from laughing so hard and unable to remove herself from the chair, she was now enjoying her view from a puddle of pee. Anyways…

That afternoon I enjoyed real hot chocolate (which I did not realize how much I missed until tasting its chocolately goodness…ahem *wink *wink). I believe I talked about the highlights of the beach in my last post so I will skip everything expect the quest for pita bread:

The Biggest Letdown Ever

A few friends and I were sitting enjoying our hot chocolate, coffee and books when two more of our friends showed up with pita bread veggie sandwiches. Now this was just beyond my comprehension-fresh pita bread and vegetables? Was this real life? Until you’ve gone months without seeing a sandwich of this breed, I can’t fully explain to you the excitement of seeing such an oddity. I was so excited for this bread that I audibly gasped, gulped down the rest of my hot chocolate (few things will make me rush hot chocolate), stood up from the table and announced that I was going on a quest for this pita bread and if anyone wanted to join me, they had better join now. I recruited the two girls who had originally been sitting with me and we traipsed through the sandy roads to the boutique where the golden bread had been found. Practically shaking at what awaited me, I went up to the counter with an enormous grin on my face and I asked the young man (in Wolof) if he had any more pita bread. Disclaimer: I am not proud of what happened next. The young man told me (not unkindly…no cackling laughter or anything like that) that he only had two more pieces of pita bread, and there were three of us. I don’t know what possessed me-maybe it was the sun, exhaustion, having already gone village crazy or something else that only God knows, but I yelled (yes yelled) NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! And I might have stomped my foot. What was that outburst?? The man behind the counter started laughing hysterically, as did I in mortification because who has a reaction like that to a shortage of pita bread? Answer: Only a crazy person. The thought never even crossed my mind of simply sharing the bread. After seeing my crazy hunger for this small piece of home, my friends quickly decided that I should have one to myself. Before cracking open my bread I went to the “Tubab Store” (foreigner store) which was about double the size of a normal boutique and I bought a bottle of tempranillo, a wedge of goat cheese and some pepperoni. I almost forgot that I was in Senegal. I made it all the way to our balcony outside our room where all of our friends were sitting on mattresses watching the sunset before I enjoyed my delicious meal of bread, meat, cheese and wine. It doesn’t get any better than that.

We left the beach on the morning of the 25^th for Dakar. After bargaining with our driver, we convinced him to drive us all the way to Dakar instead of the previously intended garage in the next town over. Four of us including all of our bags fit into a car slightly bigger than a smart car (which turned out to be amazing as we zoomed in and out of atrocious traffic). For the next two nights we all stayed at the Peace Corps transit house in Dakar and for the first time in 3 days I didn’t have to sleep on the floor or share a bed with another volunteer…it was so nice having my own, creaky and old top bunk. I had only been to Dakar once before and it was a brief couple hour visit so it was very exciting getting shown around the capital. We planned our stay around food so the very first thing we did was stop at the ice cream shop for real ice cream! ICE CREAM! Once again I went crazy and got an enormous triple scoop bowl (the largest you can get) of pistachio, black berry and triple chocolate and even though I was the last of us to get our ice cream, I then proceeded to finish it faster than anyone else. I can confidently say that I can beat anyone in an ice cream eating contest (well, except my brother Tommy).

That night we ate Thai food…just as good as any thai you can get back home, accompanied by bottles of red wine and afterwards we went in search of dancing but unfortunately I had to settle for a nice jazz band and a whip cream garnished cappuccino (sans sugar). The next morning we ate pastries for breakfast and for lunch I had an amazing goat cheese salad with chicken followed by coconut ice cream…by this point I was feeling a bit in limbo, not sure where I was anymore-America, Senegal, gelato rich Italy? After this feast I was taken to the supermarket which I know I already described…suffice it to say I will never look at a supermarket the same way again. For dinner that night we went to a Chinese restaurant (the real kind where the only language they speak is Chinese-thankfully one of the volunteers is fluent). Our table ordered 10 dishes ranging from fried eggplant to meat pastries, spicy noodles and peppered tofu. This might have been better than any Chinese food I had ever eaten in the states….although I’m biased from deprivation.

May the Wind Always be at Your Back

The next morning we decided to wake with the sun and get to the garage early enough to avoid horrible Dakar traffic. After a few hours of sleep, we rolled out of bed and into taxis that took us to the already hopping garage. Our friends had beaten us there (because we had tried to explain to the taxi driver that we needed to stop at the ATM but whether out of sheer refusal or confusion, we didn’t actually make it there) and they were already sitting, waiting in a sept-place car, ready to go. I approached the trunk, looking for a place to store my massive backpack when one of the guys came up to me and demanded I pay extra for my bag. Being so early, my humor was still asleep and so I flatly refused: “Deedeet”. I think he got the point. But what he failed to see was that I had no interest in dating a man old enough to be my father. He asked for my phone number-shocking originality and when I lied and told him I didn’t have a phone, he whipped out a decrepit blackberry, shoved it in my hands, and told me to keep it so that I could call him to go on a date on New Year’s Eve. Tempting…but no. With a smile I joked it off, telling him he was every manner of things ugly “danga naaw”, old “danga maggat”, and small “danga tuuti”. So after haggling over prices, I climbed into the backseat of the car-it was one volunteer in the front seat, two in the middle next to a Senegalese woman and her two kids, and three of us in the back (which was so small that I couldn’t sit up straight without my head hitting the ceiling…but then again, I do have a torso the size of a giant). But whatever, I was headed home, I was with my friends, there was an apple and two bananas in my purse and we pretty much had an entire car to ourselves (doesn’t always work out that well). Now even if you don’t believe me, it’s the cold season right now which means that the mornings and nights are surprisingly cold. Nothing unbearable but enough so that I need my flannel shirt and leggings underneath my skirt, and maybe even socks to make a fashionable sock+sandal combo. So it was about 6.30am, still very cold, and as we started off down the road I asked the volunteer in front of me to roll up his window because the wind was making it even colder. Upon examination we realized-O shit-there is no window. Sometimes when I’m tired I find everything to be hilarious and this was one of those times…our falling apart car didn’t even have a window. At first my friend and I tried to huddle under a thin airport blanket but the wind kept getting under it and my face was still getting a cold blast of air. I can’t remember which of us had this brilliant idea, but after shivering in the cold for at least a half hour, we decided to try stacking all of our bags on our laps to create a wind barrier. So here we were, cramped in the backseat of a dilapidated sept-place with backpacks and duffel bags piled from ceiling to laps, munching on hard boiled eggs that I had bought off a kid on the side of the road (when cars stop at checkpoints, they’re swarmed by kids and women selling tree nuts, eggs, fried dough, etc.) which I had cracked by slamming it against the car window (I recommend trying this-it’s quite satisfying). Our fort did the trick and I was delightfully warm all the way up to midday when the sun was enough to keep us warm. O and I forgot to mention-we also got two flat tires on the way home. Some would say that that was a terrible car ride, but honestly, it was an adventure and if it weren’t for my numb butt at the end of the trip, I would gladly make the same journey again.

A Gamou for Everyone

I just returned home from a weekend of gamous in two volunteers villages out in the bush, and I am a little delirious at the moment from having 1 hour of sleep on a stone floor with my flannel as a pillow. But regardless of that fact, this weekend was truly an experience. A gamou is a 24 hour religious event to celebrate the birth of the prophet Mohammed and not all, but many villages have their own events where people from all over Senegal pour into the village to celebrate. On Thursday I left for Ngouy Dieri, my friend Bonnie’s village for my first gamou of the weekend. As soon as I got there Bonnie took me on the tour of her village, which I am in love with. Most people sleep in huts (including Bonnie) and the village is nice and condensed which makes it easy to navigate and to know the people you are living with. The day started off wonderfully-met her village friends, ate meat and French fries (I might have freaked out about this and proceeded to eat an exorbitant amount of food…whatever I was celebrating), almost got run down by a hoard of horned cows (or at least I imagined that’s what they were trying to do), and I got to meet her new puppy Shane (who has a belly the size of a soccer ball). That night before bed I took out my contacts and of course there was sand lodged behind them and I scratched my eye taking them out…NNOOO! II just want to be able to wear my contacts L So, I used the age old Italian remedy for scratched eyeballs-Raw Potato. I asked Bonnie’s mom for a fresh potato, sliced it in half and then lied in bed for fifteen minutes with the potato slice over my eye, blinking in the potato juices. And what do you know-when minutes before I could barely keep my eye open without tearing up-it now felt perfectly fine! That night we both caught up on some reading and then fell asleep early, preparing for the lack of sleep we would have the next day.

Friday, the day of the gamou we walked around in our clothes talking to people for most of the day, ate delicious meat and potatoes and were given sodas and fruit juice everywhere we went…fanta has never tasted so good. During our rounds to people’s compounds, we stopped and helped slice potatoes and onions and we even got to roll fish balls (now doesn’t that sounds appetizing?)….they actually are amazing. Later that night we ventured over to the actual celebration where a huge tent had been erected with hundreds of plastic chairs set up underneath. While I couldn’t understand most of what was being said, to my untrained ears, the celebration sounds like the daily prayers that are announced over loud speakers five times a day. It is incredibly loud and it continues for hours into the night. Thankfully Bonnie’s hut was far enough from the center of the celebration that we each got a decent amount of sleep that night.

On Saturday we hitched a ride over to another volunteer’s village for her gamou. Her village is considerably larger and as we arrived there were people selling goods everywhere along the road-yogurt and bissap juice, necklaces and diapers. We spent most of the day the same way we did in Bonnie’s village-walking around in our nice clothes-sprinting after women in nice clothing to tell them that they looked beautiful. During big celebrations, the custom for women is to throw a piece of cloth at the feet of women who are wearing beautiful clothes and then you proceed to dance and tell them la li na la (basically-you look beautiful), until they pick up the cloth to give back to you. We drank lots of boissions (sodas and juices) ate lots of meat and potatoes and got tens and tens of thorns that had fallen from the trees, stuck in our feet. On a side note-the owner of a bar in Linguere (where our regional office is) lives in this volunteer’s village and he happens to be her grandpa, so of course we had to go to his house to greet him and his family. The man, between the ages of 40-50, has an intense and quite creepy liking for me and as soon as he saw me, he grabbed my arm and pulled me in for a hug (men and women don’t do that here) which I resisted as best I could. Throughout our visit he proclaimed that I was his second wife, he called in his uncle to bargain with my supposed uncle-another volunteer-on our marriage, we had pictured taken of just the two of us and he tried to give me yet another hug (which I managed to escape). That was interesting. The actual event was set up much the same as Bonnie’s except that because of the conservatism of this village, we were turned away for not wearing headscarves and we had to run back to the house before we could sit down under the tent. Unlike Bonnie’s gamou where we were able to sit with her male counterpart, the only male volunteer with us, was not allowed to sit in our area and he had to go across the tent to where the men were sitting. There was also a gamou event team manning the door and being ridiculous about not letting people in. They were actually pushing people away and frustrated women were sneaking under the rope behind us and refusing to get up when the “bouncers” demanded they wait in line. Craziness. Apart from the zero sleep because of the all night religious chanting, it was all amazing to experience.