Friday, February 6, 2015
Wasting Time
As a new volunteer, one of the biggest challenges is learning how to not do anything. This doesn't sound like a problem, but think about it: how long can you not do anything? 2012 Kim loved a lazy weekend and relished a night of nothing as much as the rest, but I would go crazy during summer vacation when all there was to do was hang out around the house.
Senegal really relishes doing nothing. A lot. Lunch is sandwiched by hanging out in the morning and hanging out in the afternoon. Field work gets in the way of tea drinking. Women do laundry right next to the people hanging out so they don't miss the lively conversation.
Constant conversation might sound lovely, but even two years in I still get lost. My friends will be talking about lunch one second and then are off gossiping about their aunt's daughter's brother in law over in another village and I'm zoning out the next. And they know I'm not paying attention; I must have a slightly glazed look on my face, and they say "Oh Aissatou, you're dreaming of America again!"
Sometimes I am, and sometimes I'm silently freaking out that I could be doing something more worth while. Studying for the GRE, reading a book, writing, listening to a podcast, anything to increase my brainpower and get ahead. I never knew not doing anything could be so stressful!
And then I read this Why is Everyone so Busy? There are some interesting concept in there, like "time poor," "the harried leisure class." In Senegal, I am definitely viewed as a rich American, and in a way I am. I get paid (however little) every month, and I have a safety net at home (thanks for the safety net Mom and Dad, I swear I'll grow up some day. But I also have more stuff to do. I have Peace Corps work (grants, meetings, reports), post- Peace Corps prep (resumes, job searches, networking, grad school), and cultural pressures (sitting, drinking tea, greeting). All of these conflict, and make me obviously more harried.
"I'm sorry Neene, I absolutely must get internet today, I have so much work, and if I don't do it, the entire fabric of the universal will unravel. You're welcome."
Statistically, I'm headed for a future where I work hard at a job all week, put in extra hours, and then do the majority of child care and house work (thank God for machines). Does that sound fun to you? Not on paper. I will have more schooling and less leisure time, and the leisure time that I'll have will be stressful because I'll have so many other ways that I could be using my time.
But do you want to know what? Those are just statistics, and that's not the way people have to be. In Senegal, one of the things people know about (aside from Rihanna and that our president is black) is the phrase "time is money." I never realized how we really take that to heart. I see myself working constantly, always trying to get ahead, and it doesn't please me.
So one of the biggest lessons I'll be taking home from Peace Corps is just to enjoy the moments you have with the people you love. Have a really great conversation about politics. Talk about your friends you haven't seen in a while. Do it over drinks. Do it without the distraction of technology. It's all about being present, and there's no way you can be in the moment with someone while you're trying to create a moment with someone else. My host family always reminds me, "Aissatou, life without people isn't living. You have to be with other people in order to live life to the fullest."
I think they're right. I'm looking forward to coming home, catching up with you all, and having some really great conversations about life. So I'll be home in May. I'll bring the tea and conversation starters, and you can leave your Iphones at home.
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
House of Slaves
One of the first things I learned about Senegal was that an island off the coast of Dakar was the largest exporter of African slaves. What a depressing Google search. At the time I didn't really know what that meant. Why? Seeing it from an American perspective, all there is was how horrible slavery actually was and how it's torn the fabric of society. No matter how hard we try to stitch it up, our history is always there lurking in the background.
So when I finally visited this island, called Goree Island, I was interested this was not how it was perceived in Senegal. The port was decorated with flat screen TVs, showing snap shots of important people's visits: Obama, Clinton, Hollande, Sall, all of them looking contemplative.
We got off the ferry and were welcomed with exuberant drumming, bar signs, and local women trying to entice us to visit their shops. The tone of seriousness, of gravity, that I was expecting did not greet me.
So what did we do? We went shopping. Honestly, my first impression of the island reminded me of my quick trip to ; colorful French colonial buildings, manicured plants yet it still gave the impression of not being cared for, and, most of all, the sellers. Rasta men followed us around playing some sort of marachos, trying to get us to forever remember Goree with a fun, easy instrument. All of us declined, but that didn't stop me from practicing. We did end up visiting the artisinal market, where there was an assortment of bags, clothes, jewelry, and fabrics. Unlike the Caribbean, where I felt so overwhelmed I just shut down and didn't buy anything, this time I was equipped with my Pulaar and two years worth of haggling skills. I also found another Diallo, and she gave me a good deal on some bags (because we're family).
Shopping was followed by a walk around the island. We walked up, past the art vendors and restaurants, and followed by the Rasta men. Goree also used to be a French base, so it was peppered with large guns. All of them had vendors, and some of them were a stone's throw away from some one's home. There were cliffs overlooking the ocean, and you could see the port from the east side of the island. Very picturesque.
During our walk we tried to go to the Maison Des Esclaves (House of Slaves). The eastern shore was filled with these houses, where the slaves would be quartered before being sent to the Americas, and only one is now open for tourism (the others have been converted into homes). This is the place the Obamas had a pensive photo.
It was closed when we tried to go, but we did meet a tour guide. His name was Mamadou Balde, so I immediately had to question his credentials. When I insinuated that he was probably really bad at his job, he discovered I was a Diallo. "Ah a Diallo! A slave! When we are done here I'll take you to the house of slaves were someone can buy you! HAHA."
You would think this would be followed by an uncomfortable silence. It wasn't, because slavery is part of the joking world that I've been involved with for two years. Baldes and Diallos call each other not only bean eaters, lazy, and ugly, but also slaves. Pullars call the Mandes their slaves because they were actually
their slaves just a short while ago, and even the Wolofs even get a jab in every now and then.
Slavery is talked about, but let's remember Senegalese slavery is not the same as the back breaking, dehumanizing slavery that was found in the United States. This does not make it ok,but it may explain why the Senegalese don't have the same feelings about slavery as Westerners, specifically Americans.
So Balde and I joked about enslaving each other on this memorial to the horrors of slavery. I know it sounds bad. Then Balde looked over at us, very gravely, and started giving us a history lesson in jilted English.
"You know, we're all to blame, black and white, Senegalese and American. The Americas wanted the slaves, but we didn't have to give them."
I'd like this to be an uplifting end to a blog, it can't be in the way Americans will want it to be. I doubt that Western slave merchants would have given up the slave trade had there been no African middle man, and I doubt the African merchants knew what they were getting their merchandise into. What struck me was that Balde had the script down pat, but he didn't really know what he was saying. Countries like South Africa, Zimbabwe, the US, they know what racism is. And when I say racism, I don't mean getting "toubab" yelled at you on the street; I mean actual hatred of another human being for no other reason than the color of his skin. But Senegal, they don't get racial hatred; it's just never come up. And maybe that could be a different kind of happy ending.
So when I finally visited this island, called Goree Island, I was interested this was not how it was perceived in Senegal. The port was decorated with flat screen TVs, showing snap shots of important people's visits: Obama, Clinton, Hollande, Sall, all of them looking contemplative.
We got off the ferry and were welcomed with exuberant drumming, bar signs, and local women trying to entice us to visit their shops. The tone of seriousness, of gravity, that I was expecting did not greet me.
So what did we do? We went shopping. Honestly, my first impression of the island reminded me of my quick trip to ; colorful French colonial buildings, manicured plants yet it still gave the impression of not being cared for, and, most of all, the sellers. Rasta men followed us around playing some sort of marachos, trying to get us to forever remember Goree with a fun, easy instrument. All of us declined, but that didn't stop me from practicing. We did end up visiting the artisinal market, where there was an assortment of bags, clothes, jewelry, and fabrics. Unlike the Caribbean, where I felt so overwhelmed I just shut down and didn't buy anything, this time I was equipped with my Pulaar and two years worth of haggling skills. I also found another Diallo, and she gave me a good deal on some bags (because we're family).
Shopping was followed by a walk around the island. We walked up, past the art vendors and restaurants, and followed by the Rasta men. Goree also used to be a French base, so it was peppered with large guns. All of them had vendors, and some of them were a stone's throw away from some one's home. There were cliffs overlooking the ocean, and you could see the port from the east side of the island. Very picturesque.
During our walk we tried to go to the Maison Des Esclaves (House of Slaves). The eastern shore was filled with these houses, where the slaves would be quartered before being sent to the Americas, and only one is now open for tourism (the others have been converted into homes). This is the place the Obamas had a pensive photo.
It was closed when we tried to go, but we did meet a tour guide. His name was Mamadou Balde, so I immediately had to question his credentials. When I insinuated that he was probably really bad at his job, he discovered I was a Diallo. "Ah a Diallo! A slave! When we are done here I'll take you to the house of slaves were someone can buy you! HAHA."
You would think this would be followed by an uncomfortable silence. It wasn't, because slavery is part of the joking world that I've been involved with for two years. Baldes and Diallos call each other not only bean eaters, lazy, and ugly, but also slaves. Pullars call the Mandes their slaves because they were actually
their slaves just a short while ago, and even the Wolofs even get a jab in every now and then.
Slavery is talked about, but let's remember Senegalese slavery is not the same as the back breaking, dehumanizing slavery that was found in the United States. This does not make it ok,but it may explain why the Senegalese don't have the same feelings about slavery as Westerners, specifically Americans.
So Balde and I joked about enslaving each other on this memorial to the horrors of slavery. I know it sounds bad. Then Balde looked over at us, very gravely, and started giving us a history lesson in jilted English.
"You know, we're all to blame, black and white, Senegalese and American. The Americas wanted the slaves, but we didn't have to give them."
I'd like this to be an uplifting end to a blog, it can't be in the way Americans will want it to be. I doubt that Western slave merchants would have given up the slave trade had there been no African middle man, and I doubt the African merchants knew what they were getting their merchandise into. What struck me was that Balde had the script down pat, but he didn't really know what he was saying. Countries like South Africa, Zimbabwe, the US, they know what racism is. And when I say racism, I don't mean getting "toubab" yelled at you on the street; I mean actual hatred of another human being for no other reason than the color of his skin. But Senegal, they don't get racial hatred; it's just never come up. And maybe that could be a different kind of happy ending.
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