I mean, Kaolack, the Detroit of Senegal.
I dont really have much to say, except that I am back in Kaolack for a regional meeting. The Kaolack group is creating a regional strategy to work across sectors on projects and hopefully increase our ability to bring about real results and change in our corner of Senegal. Its a cool idea and I really hope we can get it off the ground.
As for me, I think I am headed back to site tomorrow; though I am not positive, for about 3 weeks before we meet again. I am definitely finding it hard to not have specific assigned tasks right now except for meeting people and learning the language. It is already driving me crazy and I can only sit around not doing anything with my family for so long before I retreat into my hut for several hours in the afternoon. Yes, people really do just sit around for hours on end, esp in the afternoon when it is too hot to do anything else, sometimes talking, sometimes not. Usually if I am around and trying to review Serere, the convos only revolve around me and my husband (or lackthereof), animal names, body part names, family member names, and how I generally cannot remember any of the names. Yep, oh cultural integration!
Heard heyennas at site a few nights ago...scariest sounds ever! Oh Africa!
This may be my last post for a few weeks. Until then, I love and miss you all a lot!
samedi 31 mai 2008
dimanche 25 mai 2008
Pics!
Picassa is actually letting me upload pics right now, so check them out. The website is listed on the side bar. Facebook is a totally different story, though.
Remember that time...
When I fell off a sharet in Africa?
Yea…so here’s a long story to explain the title of this entry…
So I know that I said I wouldn’t be back online for about 2.5 weeks and I only made it 1.5 weeks, but that’s because I’m currently in Kaolack, on PC Med’s orders, to stay here and rest after falling off a sharet. And since there’s not much to do in Kaolack outside of the market, eating, going to the internet, or lounging around the Regional House, I’m taking this as an opportunity to update my correspondence, lol.
Yea, so I fell off of a sharet. Now what is a sharet, you may ask? Well, in a way it’s the pickup truck of Africa, kind of a horse drawn cart of sorts. Think large wood planks attached together, balanced on two wheels, and pulled by either a horse or a donkey, usually will up to 6 people and their goods from the market, etc.
How did this happen, you may ask. Well, I had spent the entire day observing in town (not my village) at the Health Post and hanging out with the ICP (the nurse at the health post who is also one of my counterparts), her family (mainly Wolof speaking), and the nurse’s assistant (speaks Serere and impeccable French, so I get to practice both). For nearly two hours, I had been waiting for one of the women from my community who is in charge of the women’s group, we’ll call her Sally (obviously not her real name…) and had accompanied me into town to come around so we could go back to our village (bc people don’t yet allow me to come or go on my own…I’ll take it as a blessing until my language improves…). Every time that I tried to leave, they people around made me sit and wait. Well Sally finally shows up and we have to wait for a sharet to take us to our village (bc people think it’s crazy that I would want to walk 4km to our village, they make me wait for the sharet) for about half an hour. Well, the sharet comes by loaded with some members from my compound (of unknown relation in my host family…maybe with time I will figure that out) and a bunch of their stuff, but there was space for myself and Sally. I climb onto the middle spot on the left side, but am not fully seated (only halfway on, since there was a lot of stuff there). The driver kicks the horse into high-gear and I’m holding on tight, but we took a corner to fast and I was bounced off and onto the ground. Right before I fell off, Sally tells the driver to slow down, but it was too late. I landed hard on the ground, rolled, and smacked my chin really hard on the ground. I think I used my hands to soften the fall, but majorly scraped up my left elbow and knee, not to mention hit my head. It was quite the scene.
Trying to brush it all of, I stand up and walk back to the sharet and they put me at the front of it, where there’s a little more space. But before we can take off, one of my host sisters-in-law who was on the sharet too points out that my elbow is bleeding and I see there’s a bloodstained hole at the knee in my skirt and they insist I get cleaned up at the Poste de Sante (since we still hadn’t even made it out of town). That’s when I realize that in the fall, while my huge purse stayed on me, my glasses had been thrown but miraculously survived the fall (the transitions, virtually indestructible glasses were a great investment, Mom!). The driver found them and followed Sally and I to the Health Post as I called the PC Med Office (since we aren’t allowed to be treated by anyone except them except in emergency or with permission). We get to the Health Post and the nurse and assistant look at me, asking “Khady, what happened? Why are you back here so soon?” I should them my elbow and Sally explained what happened and I got to experience some free Senegalese first aid care of the assistant and I was off, having to get back on that sharet to get home.
During the ride back (much slower than usual, which was fine by me), the shock wore off and pain kicked in, in my left hand (where I broke my fall) and my head, and I fought tears off the rest of the way home. As we pulled into our village, Sally jumps off to go find my local counterpart (person pictured a few entries ago) as the sharet heads to my compound. I get off, fighting off tears and wanting to head straight to my room, but some of the older men from my compound are where the sharet stops (my host parents are on the other side of the tree) and call me out for not greeting them, so I turn, manage one greeting, burst into tears before I can get a response and head to my room, not even greeting my host parents or the rest of the family who are seated under a tree on the other side of the sharet. My counterpart and Sally are at my door in a matter of minutes to find out what happened and shortly after my host dad, the village chief comes to find out what happened. I’m crying, it’s an ordeal, and they are obviously very concerned (b/c it would look bad for such a new site to “break their Volunteer” within the first two weeks) and I felt bad that it became such an ordeal.
I spent the rest of the night sitting with my host sister and on the phone with PC Med, Etienne (our amazing Safety and Security guy), the CD, and the nearest volunteer to me. Med really wanted me to come to Dakar for xrays (since it was a head injury, though thankfully no concussion), but after they talked to the nearest volunteer and considering I didn’t yet know how to get to Dakar since I had only been to site for 9 days or so, they decided it would be ok for me to just come to Kaolack, see a pre-approved doctor at a private clinic, and rest here until Monday (3 day mandatory stay at the Regional House).
While thankfully nothing was broken, I’m still very cut up, bruised (pride and physically), and super sore back/neck like I had never felt before (esp when my major med cocktail didn’t do much of anything to curb the pain). I feel very blessed that people in my compound/village were so concerned and that they accompanied me back into town the next morning to head to Kaolack. My local counterpart even went to the Health Post to inform the nurse and I received text messages from the assistant yesterday inquiring about my health as well. I just feel a little ridiculous as I KNOW it will be the talk of several villages for months, if not longer (for serious…everyone saw and when you do something extraordinary as a foreigner here, everyone knows about it, good or bad), plus being away from my site during my first two weeks means I am missing some key integration and language practice time with my family, esp since I have to leave next week for a regional meeting for a few days as well. Oh well, it’s giving me a chance to get to know Kaolack a little more. And, Laura, a new Volunteer near me was kind enough to come up for the day today to hang out with me, which I really appreciate.
Yea…so here’s a long story to explain the title of this entry…
So I know that I said I wouldn’t be back online for about 2.5 weeks and I only made it 1.5 weeks, but that’s because I’m currently in Kaolack, on PC Med’s orders, to stay here and rest after falling off a sharet. And since there’s not much to do in Kaolack outside of the market, eating, going to the internet, or lounging around the Regional House, I’m taking this as an opportunity to update my correspondence, lol.
Yea, so I fell off of a sharet. Now what is a sharet, you may ask? Well, in a way it’s the pickup truck of Africa, kind of a horse drawn cart of sorts. Think large wood planks attached together, balanced on two wheels, and pulled by either a horse or a donkey, usually will up to 6 people and their goods from the market, etc.
How did this happen, you may ask. Well, I had spent the entire day observing in town (not my village) at the Health Post and hanging out with the ICP (the nurse at the health post who is also one of my counterparts), her family (mainly Wolof speaking), and the nurse’s assistant (speaks Serere and impeccable French, so I get to practice both). For nearly two hours, I had been waiting for one of the women from my community who is in charge of the women’s group, we’ll call her Sally (obviously not her real name…) and had accompanied me into town to come around so we could go back to our village (bc people don’t yet allow me to come or go on my own…I’ll take it as a blessing until my language improves…). Every time that I tried to leave, they people around made me sit and wait. Well Sally finally shows up and we have to wait for a sharet to take us to our village (bc people think it’s crazy that I would want to walk 4km to our village, they make me wait for the sharet) for about half an hour. Well, the sharet comes by loaded with some members from my compound (of unknown relation in my host family…maybe with time I will figure that out) and a bunch of their stuff, but there was space for myself and Sally. I climb onto the middle spot on the left side, but am not fully seated (only halfway on, since there was a lot of stuff there). The driver kicks the horse into high-gear and I’m holding on tight, but we took a corner to fast and I was bounced off and onto the ground. Right before I fell off, Sally tells the driver to slow down, but it was too late. I landed hard on the ground, rolled, and smacked my chin really hard on the ground. I think I used my hands to soften the fall, but majorly scraped up my left elbow and knee, not to mention hit my head. It was quite the scene.
Trying to brush it all of, I stand up and walk back to the sharet and they put me at the front of it, where there’s a little more space. But before we can take off, one of my host sisters-in-law who was on the sharet too points out that my elbow is bleeding and I see there’s a bloodstained hole at the knee in my skirt and they insist I get cleaned up at the Poste de Sante (since we still hadn’t even made it out of town). That’s when I realize that in the fall, while my huge purse stayed on me, my glasses had been thrown but miraculously survived the fall (the transitions, virtually indestructible glasses were a great investment, Mom!). The driver found them and followed Sally and I to the Health Post as I called the PC Med Office (since we aren’t allowed to be treated by anyone except them except in emergency or with permission). We get to the Health Post and the nurse and assistant look at me, asking “Khady, what happened? Why are you back here so soon?” I should them my elbow and Sally explained what happened and I got to experience some free Senegalese first aid care of the assistant and I was off, having to get back on that sharet to get home.
During the ride back (much slower than usual, which was fine by me), the shock wore off and pain kicked in, in my left hand (where I broke my fall) and my head, and I fought tears off the rest of the way home. As we pulled into our village, Sally jumps off to go find my local counterpart (person pictured a few entries ago) as the sharet heads to my compound. I get off, fighting off tears and wanting to head straight to my room, but some of the older men from my compound are where the sharet stops (my host parents are on the other side of the tree) and call me out for not greeting them, so I turn, manage one greeting, burst into tears before I can get a response and head to my room, not even greeting my host parents or the rest of the family who are seated under a tree on the other side of the sharet. My counterpart and Sally are at my door in a matter of minutes to find out what happened and shortly after my host dad, the village chief comes to find out what happened. I’m crying, it’s an ordeal, and they are obviously very concerned (b/c it would look bad for such a new site to “break their Volunteer” within the first two weeks) and I felt bad that it became such an ordeal.
I spent the rest of the night sitting with my host sister and on the phone with PC Med, Etienne (our amazing Safety and Security guy), the CD, and the nearest volunteer to me. Med really wanted me to come to Dakar for xrays (since it was a head injury, though thankfully no concussion), but after they talked to the nearest volunteer and considering I didn’t yet know how to get to Dakar since I had only been to site for 9 days or so, they decided it would be ok for me to just come to Kaolack, see a pre-approved doctor at a private clinic, and rest here until Monday (3 day mandatory stay at the Regional House).
While thankfully nothing was broken, I’m still very cut up, bruised (pride and physically), and super sore back/neck like I had never felt before (esp when my major med cocktail didn’t do much of anything to curb the pain). I feel very blessed that people in my compound/village were so concerned and that they accompanied me back into town the next morning to head to Kaolack. My local counterpart even went to the Health Post to inform the nurse and I received text messages from the assistant yesterday inquiring about my health as well. I just feel a little ridiculous as I KNOW it will be the talk of several villages for months, if not longer (for serious…everyone saw and when you do something extraordinary as a foreigner here, everyone knows about it, good or bad), plus being away from my site during my first two weeks means I am missing some key integration and language practice time with my family, esp since I have to leave next week for a regional meeting for a few days as well. Oh well, it’s giving me a chance to get to know Kaolack a little more. And, Laura, a new Volunteer near me was kind enough to come up for the day today to hang out with me, which I really appreciate.
samedi 24 mai 2008
Swear In
Team Serere at Swear In: Fatou, Chris, Simone, et Moi
New Health Volunteers
Some of the trainers in their beautiful Senegalese glory
Whoa, I am now a real Volunteer
Country Director Chris inspiring us and welco,ing us officially to the PCV family :)lundi 12 mai 2008
From a New Volunteer...
Thats me!!!!!!!
Friday was SwearIn and yesterday we arrived in Kaolack. I arrived with a 104.4 degree fever, but am mostly better and am taking advantage of the drugs in the PC med kit. Today was a major shopping day for gear for my hut and tomorrow I get Installed, aka Abandonned by q PC Rangerover for a few months. This is the moment Iùve dreaded since before applying. I would really just like to fastforward a week or two and skip through this moment Im so dreading. It will be ok and I have at least seen my village, which is more than most people, but still. Scary stuff...
Some pics:
or not...but Im working on switching to Flickr or another photo site, so hopefully things will go a little better with that.
My internet use will now become less and less regular until I figure out where the nearest halfway decent internet service will be. Im estimating it will be about 2 weeks before I get internet service again, just an FYI. Hopefully by that time I will also have a post box and can start receiving mail again.
Love you all, please think about and pray for me!
Friday was SwearIn and yesterday we arrived in Kaolack. I arrived with a 104.4 degree fever, but am mostly better and am taking advantage of the drugs in the PC med kit. Today was a major shopping day for gear for my hut and tomorrow I get Installed, aka Abandonned by q PC Rangerover for a few months. This is the moment Iùve dreaded since before applying. I would really just like to fastforward a week or two and skip through this moment Im so dreading. It will be ok and I have at least seen my village, which is more than most people, but still. Scary stuff...
Some pics:
or not...but Im working on switching to Flickr or another photo site, so hopefully things will go a little better with that.
My internet use will now become less and less regular until I figure out where the nearest halfway decent internet service will be. Im estimating it will be about 2 weeks before I get internet service again, just an FYI. Hopefully by that time I will also have a post box and can start receiving mail again.
Love you all, please think about and pray for me!
mercredi 7 mai 2008
stupid computer
Sorry for the abruptend to the last post...the computer decided to hate me mid post. Anyway, it's a picture of something from the package from my parents, then me with my counterpart, and a picture of two fellow trainees that I didn't mean to put on but then couldn't delete (if you want me to take it down, I will try to at a later date, sorry).
Anyway, I will probably get to a computer once or twice more before I'm Installed and then not fr at least a few weeks probably. Anyway, please be thinking about and praying for me and my fellow almost-Volunteers. We have a difficult few months of language and integration coming up...
Njookoonjal!
Anyway, I will probably get to a computer once or twice more before I'm Installed and then not fr at least a few weeks probably. Anyway, please be thinking about and praying for me and my fellow almost-Volunteers. We have a difficult few months of language and integration coming up...
Njookoonjal!
Almost a Volunteer...
Hi Friends.
Well, I'm approaching literally the last day of Peace Corps Training. I've made it through (almost). Tomorrow is my last day of language class until IST and then we probably have a culture and last tech class (an important last tech class at a local restaurant and PC haunt). Today was the LPI (Language Placement Interview)and then all of the PCtrainers and training staff and APCDs locked themselves in a training room and talked about all of us for about 3 hours. It was nerve-wrecking to think about, esp since I didn't feel like my LPI went very well. Two weeksago, during the site visit, I tested into the minimum level required to become a Volunteer, which is awesome, but you have to be continually improving. Yesterday was not a good language day for me and most of the questions I received during my LPI were not things that I had been studying, but rather aspects ofthe language we only covered in class within the past two days. Great, huh? Plus, many of my questions were about my job and how I would handle different things that I don't even know how to convey in English, let alone Serere. Anywho, it made for a not very good day as we waited around for the results and I was in a bit of a bad mood and thus did not want to hear my results. Well, then around 4:30 or so, the loud and boisterous parade of language trainers come out of the decision room and people swarmed them, well, kind of. I kind of avoided it, not wanting to know how poorly I did and especially not hear in front of other people. I tried to wait for my language trainer to be apart from the group and when I did, I totally lost her! Anywho, almost an hour later I found her while standing around waiting to leave and the trainee/trainer soccer match creating general chaos. A fellow trainee "encouraged" me to ask my level and by "encourage" I mean asked for me, in Wolof even, haha. At least I had the vocabulary to joke back in Serere and explain that she wanted me to know, haha (thanks AZ, and just wait until you start you Serere training!) Anyway, it was a good way to break the ice and put myself at ease and I even wound up, by some grace of God, testing a level higher than I did two weeks ago,which is rockin'! Tomorrow I will actually hear feedback about it and I'm sure I only attained that level based on my performance last week and not from the fact that I kept confusing verb tenses during the test today...oh well. It's a good feeling and weight off my shoulder, in anticipation of Installation (see: Abandonnement by a PC rangerover) on a Mefloquin day (notoriously bad days). My family tells me that my Serere is good, but I'm also comfortable with them and their accent, but in just a few days I return to the crazy accent of the Delta!
Friday is Swear-In at the US Ambassador's Residence, alongside Korean and Japanese Volunteers who are starting their own various terms of service. After Swear-In in Dakar, we return to Thies for a party with our families and then our stage starts parting ways early Saturday morning. I myself, leave my family Saturday, head to Kaolack with 2 others Sunday and spend Sunday and Monday shopping for thingsfor my new home, and am officially Installed on Tuesday. Prayers, thoughts, and phonecalls would be really appreciated that week and the following weeks as I adjust to life as a Volunteer in a village of about 500.
A shout out to all of the family and friends who have sent letters, emails, and carepackages. I really really appreciate them and they will basically become the mental health savers during my two years of service in Ndiomedi.
Here's a picture of me with the "special" present in the package from my fam
dimanche 4 mai 2008
And now for some education...
Here is an article about an all-too-real issue I encounter everyday. Ireceived this articlein a PCSenegal/Gambia list email.It's interesting and depressing at once.
Islamic schools lure African boys> into begging > By RUKMINI CALLIMACHI, Associated Press Writer> Sun Apr 20, 6:46 PM ET> >
On the day he decided to run away, 9-year-old Coli> awoke on a filthy > mat.> > Like a pup, he lay curled against the cold, pressed> between dozens > of other children sleeping head-to-toe on the> concrete floor. His T-> shirt was damp with the dew that seeped through the> thin walls. The > older boys had yanked away the square of cloth he> used to protect > himself from the draft. He shivered.> >
It was still dark as he set out for the mouth of a> freeway with the > other boys, a tribe of 7-, 8- and 9-year-old> beggars.> > Coli padded barefoot between the stopped cars, his> head reaching > only halfway up the windows. His scrawny body> disappeared under a > ragged T-shirt that grazed his knees. He held up an> empty tomato > paste can as his begging bowl.> >
There are 1.2 million Colis in the world today,> children trafficked > to work for the benefit of others. Those who lure> them into > servitude make $15 billion annually, according to> the International > Labor Organization.
It's big business in Senegal. In the capital of> Dakar alone, at > least 7,600 child beggars work the streets,> according to a study > released in February by the ILO, the United Nations> Children's Fund > and the World Bank. The children collect an average> of 300 African > francs a day, just 72 cents, reaping their keepers> $2 million a year.> > Most of the boys — 90 percent, the study found —> are sent out to beg > under the cover of Islam, placing the problem at> the complicated > intersection of greed and tradition.
For among the> cruelest facts of > Coli's life is that he was not stolen from his> family. He was > brought to Dakar with their blessing to learn> Islam's holy book.> > In the name of religion, Coli spent two hours a day memorizing verses from the Quran and over nine hours begging> to pad the pockets > of the man he called his teacher. It was getting dark. Coli had less than half the 72> cents he was > told to bring back. He was afraid. He knew what> happened to children > who failed to meet their daily quotas. They were stripped and doused in cold water. The> older boys picked > them up like hammocks by their ankles and wrists.> Then the teacher > whipped them with an electrical cord until the cord> ate their skin. Coli's head hurt with hunger. He could already feel> the slice of the > wire on his back. He slipped away, losing himself in a tide of> honking cars. He had 20 > cents in his tomato can.
Three years ago, a man wearing a skullcap came to> Coli's village in > the neighboring country of Guinea-Bissau and asked> for him.> > Coli's parents immediately addressed the man as> "Serigne," a term of > respect for Muslim leaders on Africa's western> coast. Many poor > villagers believe that giving a Muslim holy man a> child to educate > will gain an entire family entrance to paradise.> > Since the 11th century, families have sent their> sons to study at > the Quranic schools that flourished on Africa's> western seaboard > with the rise of Islam. It is forbidden to charge> for an Islamic > education, so the students, known as talibe,> studied for free with > their marabouts, or spiritual teachers. In return,> the children > worked in the marabout's fields.> > The droughts of the late 1970s and '80s forced many> schools to move > to cities, where their income began to revolve> around begging. > Today, children continue to flock to the cities, as> food and work in > villages run short.> > Not all Quranic boarding schools force their> students to beg. But > for the most part, what was once an esteemed form> of education has > degenerated into child trafficking. Nowadays,> Quranic instructors > net as many children as they can to increase their> daily take. > > "If you do the math, you'll find that these people> are earning more > than a government functionary," said Souleymane> Bachir Diagne, an > Islamic scholar at Columbia University. "It's why> the phenomenon is > so hard to eradicate." > > Middle men trawl for children as far afield as the> dunes of > Mauritania and the grass-covered huts of Mali. It's> become a > booming, regional trade that ensnares children as> young as 2, who > don't know the name of their village or how to> return home. > > One of the largest clusters of Quranic schools lies> in the poor, > sand-enveloped neighborhoods on either side of the> freeway leading > into Dakar. > > This is where Coli's marabout squats in a> half-finished house whose > floor stirs with flies. Amadu Buwaro sleeps on a> mattress covered in > white linens. The 30 children in his care sleep in> another room with > dirty blankets on the floor. It smells rotten and> wet, like a soaked > rag.
Buwaro is a thin man in his 30s who wears a pressed olive robe and digital watch. The children wear T-shirts black with filth. He expects them to beg to pay the rent, because there are no fields > here to till. But their earnings far exceed his rent of $50. If the boys meet their quotas, they bring in around $650 a month in a nation where the average person earns $150. Buwaro expects the children to suffer to learn the Quran, just as he did at the hands of his teacher.
So when Coli failed to return, Buwaro was furious. He flipped open his flashy silver cell phone and called another marabout who kept a blue planner with names of runaway boys. The list stretched down the page. He added Coli's name.
Islamic schools lure African boys> into begging > By RUKMINI CALLIMACHI, Associated Press Writer> Sun Apr 20, 6:46 PM ET> >
On the day he decided to run away, 9-year-old Coli> awoke on a filthy > mat.> > Like a pup, he lay curled against the cold, pressed> between dozens > of other children sleeping head-to-toe on the> concrete floor. His T-> shirt was damp with the dew that seeped through the> thin walls. The > older boys had yanked away the square of cloth he> used to protect > himself from the draft. He shivered.> >
It was still dark as he set out for the mouth of a> freeway with the > other boys, a tribe of 7-, 8- and 9-year-old> beggars.> > Coli padded barefoot between the stopped cars, his> head reaching > only halfway up the windows. His scrawny body> disappeared under a > ragged T-shirt that grazed his knees. He held up an> empty tomato > paste can as his begging bowl.> >
There are 1.2 million Colis in the world today,> children trafficked > to work for the benefit of others. Those who lure> them into > servitude make $15 billion annually, according to> the International > Labor Organization.
It's big business in Senegal. In the capital of> Dakar alone, at > least 7,600 child beggars work the streets,> according to a study > released in February by the ILO, the United Nations> Children's Fund > and the World Bank. The children collect an average> of 300 African > francs a day, just 72 cents, reaping their keepers> $2 million a year.> > Most of the boys — 90 percent, the study found —> are sent out to beg > under the cover of Islam, placing the problem at> the complicated > intersection of greed and tradition.
For among the> cruelest facts of > Coli's life is that he was not stolen from his> family. He was > brought to Dakar with their blessing to learn> Islam's holy book.> > In the name of religion, Coli spent two hours a day memorizing verses from the Quran and over nine hours begging> to pad the pockets > of the man he called his teacher. It was getting dark. Coli had less than half the 72> cents he was > told to bring back. He was afraid. He knew what> happened to children > who failed to meet their daily quotas. They were stripped and doused in cold water. The> older boys picked > them up like hammocks by their ankles and wrists.> Then the teacher > whipped them with an electrical cord until the cord> ate their skin. Coli's head hurt with hunger. He could already feel> the slice of the > wire on his back. He slipped away, losing himself in a tide of> honking cars. He had 20 > cents in his tomato can.
Three years ago, a man wearing a skullcap came to> Coli's village in > the neighboring country of Guinea-Bissau and asked> for him.> > Coli's parents immediately addressed the man as> "Serigne," a term of > respect for Muslim leaders on Africa's western> coast. Many poor > villagers believe that giving a Muslim holy man a> child to educate > will gain an entire family entrance to paradise.> > Since the 11th century, families have sent their> sons to study at > the Quranic schools that flourished on Africa's> western seaboard > with the rise of Islam. It is forbidden to charge> for an Islamic > education, so the students, known as talibe,> studied for free with > their marabouts, or spiritual teachers. In return,> the children > worked in the marabout's fields.> > The droughts of the late 1970s and '80s forced many> schools to move > to cities, where their income began to revolve> around begging. > Today, children continue to flock to the cities, as> food and work in > villages run short.> > Not all Quranic boarding schools force their> students to beg. But > for the most part, what was once an esteemed form> of education has > degenerated into child trafficking. Nowadays,> Quranic instructors > net as many children as they can to increase their> daily take. > > "If you do the math, you'll find that these people> are earning more > than a government functionary," said Souleymane> Bachir Diagne, an > Islamic scholar at Columbia University. "It's why> the phenomenon is > so hard to eradicate." > > Middle men trawl for children as far afield as the> dunes of > Mauritania and the grass-covered huts of Mali. It's> become a > booming, regional trade that ensnares children as> young as 2, who > don't know the name of their village or how to> return home. > > One of the largest clusters of Quranic schools lies> in the poor, > sand-enveloped neighborhoods on either side of the> freeway leading > into Dakar. > > This is where Coli's marabout squats in a> half-finished house whose > floor stirs with flies. Amadu Buwaro sleeps on a> mattress covered in > white linens. The 30 children in his care sleep in> another room with > dirty blankets on the floor. It smells rotten and> wet, like a soaked > rag.
Buwaro is a thin man in his 30s who wears a pressed olive robe and digital watch. The children wear T-shirts black with filth. He expects them to beg to pay the rent, because there are no fields > here to till. But their earnings far exceed his rent of $50. If the boys meet their quotas, they bring in around $650 a month in a nation where the average person earns $150. Buwaro expects the children to suffer to learn the Quran, just as he did at the hands of his teacher.
So when Coli failed to return, Buwaro was furious. He flipped open his flashy silver cell phone and called another marabout who kept a blue planner with names of runaway boys. The list stretched down the page. He added Coli's name.
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