My pictures are updated and available for your viewing pleasure. There are updated pictures in the 4 most recent web albums, so don't just look at the newest album but check 'em all out.
http://picasaweb.google.com/pcbeth
There's a PC photo contest in February which I would like to enter for fun (many different categories), so please let me know your favorites (the good, the bad, the random). Thanks!
For me, 2009 was neither a normal year nor a remarkable year in and of itself, or so it seems. No one single event sticks out in my head for any particular reason, and yet it was the day-to-day events of life in Senegal which will forever endear it in my mind as “a GREAT year,” solely for the fact that it was during my Peace Corps Service. I did a fair amount of traveling during 2009, inside and out of
For myself as well as my small, but loyal(ish) reading public, I have compiled a list of some of the events of the past year (with the help of my trusty German day planner—thanks Sommer!).
January:
February:
March:
· Starting work on the Ndiomdy-Pethie latrine project, which came directly from the January community meeting.
· Reproductive health sessions with the boys of Djilor, expansion of program into Sadioga middle school as well
· The birth of “James” Ndar Diouf, my American dad’s fake namesake
· Senegalese local elections…
· More helping in Thies for PST, bonding with the new Health/EE stage
April:
May:
June:
July:
August:
September:
October:
November:
December:
Baby James, Me, and Seynabou on the day of the baptism. Maybe I will write more about the actual baptism next time...pictures will definitely be on picasa as soon as the internet cooperates enough to do so in a speedy manner.
This past Monday, the Peace Corps Cross Culture and Homestay Coordinator Awa Traore (with whom I work with whenever I am in Thies) came to talk with selected girls from the middle schools in Djilor and Sadioga where I work. In total, 30 girls were chosen by their teachers to participate: 20 from Djilor (a school with about 1,000 students between the middle and high schools) and 10 from Sadioga (middle school student enrollment around 400), based on their academic achievements, motivation, and ability to serve as leaders among their classmates.
It was a great day and Awa really got the girls thinking, talking, and sharing. I think the selected faculty members on hand also learned a lot, especially about the problems facing female students today. One faculty member in particular from Djilor was surprised to discover that rape is a big issue among middle school students in the area. Conversations on these sensitive topics got both the girls and faculty members talking and I hope that the greater community will in turn benefit from the day.
Hopefully Monday will be the first in a series of trainings specifically aimed at keeping girls in school through improved leadership, greater self-confidence, reduced rate of unwanted pregnancy, and improved access to education. The next training will hopefully be a several day reproductive health training for students and teachers to lead classes at their respective schools in January, A feelanga Roog.
Your friendly local Peace Corps team: Chris (Moustapha), Me (Khady), Awa, Jessica (a fellow Kaolack Region PCV who organized the tourney), and Mamadou the chauffer.So for various reasons, I’ve been avoiding updating this blog. Since the Kaolack House moved to its new location (natural light, ooo!) a month ago, I have not had much internet access for work or communication, so that has made the rare and precious time online even more so. But more than the lack of internet access, there is a blog entry that I’ve been dreading posting, but need to, because it was a HUGE event in my village and my service. And it revolves around an old man who a fellow female PCV once tried to sell me to for 4 cows (not enough to me and too much for him—she was just KIDDING!). I call him George.
I started writing this blog about three weeks ago, so it’s kind of out of date, sorry.
I’ll be honest, the last week and a half has been tough—downright hard. Not for anything like getting used to life again or a lot of work or cultural adjustment or anything like that. No, this week was tough in a way that has shown me just how difficult it will be to leave my village in 8 months, because of the real bonds and friendships I’ve made with the people around me. George passed away. “George” was the name I gave to the oldest man in my compound/ village, and he was convinced I was his third wife. I *believe* George was 93 years old, but realistically, he could have been any age from 80-95. He had told me 90 and 93 on separate occasions and while I never asked him to show me his birth certificate (if he even has one…he was already in his 40s when
The first few months of my PC service (after Installation) were spent sitting next to George in our compound and arguing with him. My early vocabulary was comprised mostly of different ways to say “I don’t like you” and why to all of his professions of love for me and his desire for me to marry him. Up until even the night before his stroke, George was proposing and insisting I accept and be his wife. Not a chance, sorry George, you are my grandfather and much too old for me, plus you are old and don’t have enough money to pay back my student loans (I always got a laugh from those around me with this comment), which I constantly told him.
A few posts ago I referred to the gifts I brought back from
George was a good Muslim in every sense of the word: he prayed 5 times a day, he gave to the poor, and he fasted (no food or water 6am-7:30pm) during Ramadan (even though the elderly are let off from fasting, which I reminded him of every time someone commented to me about him fasting). So the day I left for
I walked up to the door of George’s room, knocked and started teasing/greeting him as usual as I walked into his room, but not to the normal response. I looked in and realized something was not right—and my sister Njira was right on my heels. She told me he was sick—obvious signs of facial paralysis and confusion in his eyes, he couldn’t see well, and could barely hear. He was scary skinny, his hip bone sticking up from his bed as he laid on his side facing the door. No duh he’s sick. We tried to talk with Njira translating for both of us, unable to really understand the other. I gave him the dates and tea, which seemed pointless, but he thanked me and called me a great person and asked me to sit. So I did. I sat for about 5 or 10 minutes, thinking about what happened and wondering who I could contact who would know what to do to help a person recover from a stroke. The private doctor from Djilor had been by a few times to give George an IV and meds, but George has always been freaked out by needles, or so I was told. After sitting a bit, I got up, telling him I needed to go take a bucket bath. The last words he spoke to me were “Reti bogoox,” or “Go, bathe!” [To those who knew me in my Group Workcamps days, this is quite a fitting phrase…]
Around 8, I was called to dinner by my 8 year old sister, saying as she had for the past year and a half “Mame Mordou says to come and have dinner.” Out of habit, having briefly forgotten about the stroke, I walked into his room where several of his grand children and myself usually eat meals with him, but I was quickly brought back to reality. George was turned over on his other side and as tried to greet him, he barely looked at me. He looked in severe heart-breaking pain. Ndiaye was waving a hand fan on him and Njira was trying to give him some pain medication and I felt like I was intruding on a private, painful moment, and left as I was summoned into the hallway to eat dinner there instead.
He passed minutes later, but no one in the family was told until after 9:30 that night. As I went to my room praying for his healing, I didn’t realize that God had already taken care of it. No, when I ran out of my room at 9:30 or so, running from the army of cockroaches that had taken up all corners of my latrine and making using it impossible, begging the other side of the family to buy cockroach killer for me at the market the next day, I had no clue. I thought it was crazy that when I handed them money for the poison, they weren’t sure if they were going to the market the next day or not. But I didn’t know. In fact, my brother Ibou (one of George’s oldest sons) specifically waited to tell everyone so that he could call relatives in
From my journal,
“I woke up around 7:15 to sweeping outside my hut and Rhoky knocking to tell me the sad news. I was shocked, and thankful that he didn’t have to suffer anymore—not to mention extremely grateful that I had (barely) made it back. I quickly changed, brushed up on my Serere condolences and grabbed a 5mille note to go pay my respects to Mame Dibbor, his 1st wife/widow…then I basically stood/sat around for several hours, in shock and unsure about what to do…A crowd quickly started to gather as relatives from Djilor, Gague, and Dakar arrived, plus others from Ndiomdy. It was tragically sad as people walked in with red eyes, crying, or even wailing.”
(back in real time, aka October 16)
The elders of the village washed and clothed the body in the traditional white fabric as HUNDREDS of people from all of the surrounding villages showed up throughout the morning (as many as 1000people that day and hundreds more in the following days). Sitting mats, benches, and a large picnic tent were set up to accommodate the mourners as men started praying. I sat around, mostly silent, as people came in. Many were surprised I was back so quickly (most not having seen me the day before) and then looked visibly relieved when they heard that I had seen and talked with George before his passing. A little before noon, the body was brought out (covered) and the tears flowed as the men of the village accompanied the body to the mosque and the cemetery for burial. It was quite emotional and I don’t really have words for it, even now. After the body was buried, everyone returned and the men circled up and spent the next 2 or so hours talking about George and all of the good he did in his life. The people he helped, the families without food he shared with, the grandchildren he supported through school when their father wouldn’t buy them new clothes or take them to the doctor, and the work he did as a store owner, cowherd (walked across Senegal MANY many times), President of the Communaute Rurale, and farmer.
Oh, this all happened the day before Korite (the celebration for the end of Ramadan), so Korite was pretty lame as the village was still in morning. For George’s passing, one of his cows was brought (since George couldn’t really walk, he had a Pulaar family outside our village watch his heards) and sacrificed, then the meat divided up and distributed among the whole village, so Ndiomdy ate beef for Korite. But otherwise it was a lame end-of-Ramadan. The day after Ramadan, another 500 or so people came through and in the week following (and the month too…) visitors from across the country have come to share their condolences. The village will be in morning for some time as we get used to life without George.
George, an old man who as much as he would irritate me with his constant marriage proposals, was also one of the most alert and understanding people in my village, in terms of his understanding of my work. He would constantly ask me about projects I would mention (including constantly harassing me to get him his own private latrine behind his room back in May) and also harass me about all of my work and the fact that I never took time to rest. I know that he enjoyed the two weeks between coming back from my US vacay and going to Dakar because I sat around our compound rather than constantly being on the go. He took care of me (I think my eating with him and his grandkids was because he thought I couldn’t get my fair share eating in the chaos of the rest of my family) and made sure I took care of myself.
I know sometimes they say someone who is dying may wait a bit for something or someone before they feel like they can properly move on to the next life. I don’t know if it’s true, but I like to think it is. MANY people in my village said that George waited until I came back before he gave in and let God take him back; that George wanted a final few words—maybe that he even hoped I would finally accept his proposal. All I can hope is that my simple gifts of the shirt in August and the dates and tea (a big Senegalese tradition) were enough to let him know I care. I miss him, and I was very hard to hear my friend Seynabou (and others…) say to me, “George left you [me],” but it’s true. The village is sad, I’m sad, and they know and understand how sad I am. They have found their way into my heart and I think I have found my way into their’s.
O kiin a paax a ref'u, yasam Roog malaka paax a ngetwin.
He was a good man and may God keep him in
---------------------------------------
Thanks and sorry for this being long-winded and kind of nonsensical and sentimental. Hopefully there will my a more upbeat and light-hearted post next time around.
