Wrapping Up

The term "wrapping up" can have many different meanings, for example, hiding Christmas presents within colorful paper (or, as dictated by my college budget last year, within newspaper), bundling up in multiple layers of insulating clothes to protect you from the blistering cold of the North American winter, or, less literally, bringing something to an end.  Currently, I am participating in only one of these "wrapping up activities."  I'll give you a hint, it doesn't have to do with presents or the cold.  Yes, I am talking about the semester coming to an end.  Now, for me, you could say, and I even imagined up until today, that this point is really more of a halfway marker, because I will be in Senegal for 5 more months.  However, as was suddenly brought to my attention a few hours ago, this is the end for all of the semester MSIDers, and therefore the end of my being a part of MSID Fall 2010. 

I actually happen to love wrapping presents

The good-byes today were awkward and unexpected.  We actually did have some presents, but no wrapping or newspaper.  We also have some students who will soon be experiencing the biting cold of jack frost, but, since it is currently 77°F with a slight ocean breeze, we have no layers or insulating materials.  Endings we do have, and as we come from many different universities, it really may be the last time some of us will see each other at least for a very long time, maybe ever.

This will not be a part of my wardrobe this year

Thrown together in a foreign country, the twenty of us make quite the hodge-podge.  Although many lasting friendships, and no deep-seeded rivalries have resulted from this semester, there has certainly been lots of tension at times (Real World: Dakar, anyone?)  We have also had lots of fun, and so it was a sobering day for the group.  I, in particular, was reminded of the All-American, white Christmas holiday season (because let's be serious, in America, Christmas dominates the month of December) that the others are going back to.  I was made aware of just how different their junior years will be from my own.  While this "winter break" is, in ways, a new beginning, it is also the wrapping up of my Fall semester- minus the usual wrapping up of presents and my body from the frigidness of December.

A Typical Drive Home

(Continuation of A Typical Day at Work)
After about 20 minutes of maneuvering around the uneven ditches that are the dirt road, we noticed a wobbling feeling near the back of the car.  Continuing on a little more cautiously, we got to the next town and stopped to have a look.  Sure enough a tire change was in order.

            Luckily we only had to wait about 15 minutes, with the company of a few donkeys, clearly unhappy about our presence interrupting their sleeping in the middle of the road, for a sept-place to drive by.  We waved down the driver, who happened to live in the town in which we were stranded.  He gave us directions to his house and we gave him a wrench (I’m still trying to figure that transaction out), and he was off. 

We bulkily made our way down the narrow dirt roads of the town, which were only about two feet wider than the SUV, stopping every once in a while to ask for directions.  After backtracking a few times and certainly drawing the attention of everyone who was about, we were lead down the street by a neighbor of the sept-place driver.  He helped us open up the trunk of the car in his neighbor’s driveway, where we found, as apparently promised, a spare tire.  After a quick tire change, we wound our way through the maze of slender streets out onto the main road.

http://i1.trekearth.com/photos/83277/drogi_te.jpg

This time, we were actually heading out for good.  The rest of the ride home, the only other slow down we encountered was negotiating the pot-hole ridden roads – and by negotiating I mean choosing between big pot-holes, really big pot-holes, and ditches; smooth road surface just wasn’t an option.  Thanks to my childhood of long car rides enhanced by relentless disturbances (a.k.a. a little brother) and my justifiable exhaustion, the swerving and bouncing of the SUV were no match for my willingness to sleep. 

Groggily forcing myself awake as we meandered down the road to my house, I checked my phone, only to discover that it was just past midnight. We pulled up to my pink house, dark and peaceful and full of sleeping people.  Feeling guilty for awaking her, I reluctantly called sama Yaay to come let me in.  After a few words of apology from Cheikh, the two of us stumbled sleepily inside, where she accepted, just as groggily as I offered, the fruit and juice that I had brought back. 

Then, suddenly awake, she looked at me, and clearly and sternly demanded, “Yow, Reer nga?” (Have you eaten dinner?)

“Déedéet.”

She briskly brought from the kitchen the leftovers from dinner, and quickly set me a plate of cerre u mafi, couscous with a delicious peanut butter and palm oil sauce, topped off with a big piece of meat.  Sitting in my room, sleepily savoring my delicious leftovers, I decided that, regardless of the setbacks and the fatigue, a stomach full of mafi and a nice, mosquito-net protected bed was a much more perfect ending to a very long day.

Besides providing me with a story to tell around future Thanksgiving tables, this experience also happens to be very telling of many of the problems here in Senegal.  Take the roads.  Even the roads in between main cities are littered with pot holes, less frequently than those in this story but they are still a problem.  This is an example of what I’ve concluded must be the result of a lack of infrastructure, or perhaps a lack of an efficient system within the existing infrastructure.

I would also like to highlight the fact that this whole adventure was not even technically necessary.  The selection of enterprises is a stage of the process that the community leaders can do independently; we were simply there to guide the process along.  Not only was it unnecessary for us to be there, but it only took about 20 minutes.  Actually the real reason we went was for M. Diouf to take measurements for another project, but the day before we had gone to Loul Séssène for the same process, and spent about two times as much time in the car as choosing between enterprises.

This leads to another thing I have noticed in my short time here, which is a lack of training.  We had to go to show the presidents of these communities how to go through the enterprise process, because they didn’t already know how to do it.  I’ve also noticed that, in filling out forms related to projects, the people filling them out often don’t know what information we’re asking for.  Only having been here for three weeks, I have only noticed this problem, and haven’t come up with any substantial causes or solutions.

Senegal is in a very interesting stage of development.  It has a functional government, a willing population, and various private and state programs working towards social, technological, and economical advancement.  However, it is stuck in this mélange of old and new.  While waiting for a herd of cattle to cross the road, you can jump out of the car to go by credits for your cell phone, and drop some change into the hand of a polio-handicapped man with no way of obtaining medical help.  In Dakar, 50 year old car rapids share the road with charrettes and 2010 Mercedes Benzes.  Giant skeletons of buildings stand, unfinished, on the outskirts of the capital city of the region due to the abandonment – for political or capital reasons – of ambitious projects.

http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/GsTD-5cwua4jhDxd3w0Uvg

It is these juxtapositions that strike me on a daily basis, that provoke questions that I can’t find answers to, that illustrate perfectly the state of the country – pushing itself forward and into the world economy since before independence, but struggling with the hindrances of governmental misjudgments and capital inadequacies (due largely, but not uniquely, to the after-effects of colonialism, which are quite numerous - perhaps I will delve into this subject later on), searching for a balance between modern and traditional.  But then again, what do I know, Amuma dara!

A Typical Day at Work

Sitting on the pirogue, looking out over the calm, inviting sea towards the lights of far away island villages, and palm trees and mangroves illuminated by the moonlight dispersed softly through the night fog, I thought to myself what a perfect end to the day this was.  After trekking down to the coast and spending the day on the islands of Saloum at the mouth of the Fatick River, we were all ready for a good, long night’s rest.

 This visite de terrain was to help the president of the Communauté Rural of Dionewar analyze potential partners for the construction of two classrooms (thanks to the climate here, schools can easily be added onto because there is no need for indoor hallways).  The drive down took about an hour and a half to two hours, because of the poor state/lack of roads, a typical, but not discouraging, obstacle to travel in Senegal. 

We spent about 20 minutes analyzing the bidders – each enterprise submits an envelope containing its proposed price for the project and certain criteria to establish credibility, which we look through and take note of, finally choosing the best enterprise.  Omar, a fellow intern, and I spent the rest of the day at the home of the ex-president of the village and visiting a neighboring island with the current president while our supervisor, Semi Diouf, took measurements for a future project.  We wrapped up our visit by buying ditakh, a sweet fruit that looks like a rock and is filled with green fibers and dry pulp, and ditakh juice. 

Our charrette ride back to the other side of the island steered us through shrubs and ditakh trees, from dusk into nighttime, where we moved from charrette to pirogue.  But this perfect pirogue wrap up would become the deceptively smooth start to a crisis-ridden crepuscule.

It all started when I got out of the pirogue.  As I waded my way to shore, with one of the drivers helping me carry my stuff, the bag of ditakh juice broke and my two bottles fell into the water.  “garawoul, garawoul,” (“No worries,” or “Ce n’est pas grave”) I said as I picked them up and continued on my way.  Once we were all four on shore we made our way through hoards of fishermen sorting though the catches of the day to the old Mitsubishi SUV that had bravely brought us here. 

Now, the SUV, being a little old, doesn’t really start on its own, so you have to have everyone but the driver push it, preferably downhill, until the driver (Cheikh Ach) can rev up the engine and jam it into gear, which is usually not a problem.  So the men and a few fishermen gathered at the back of the SUV and started pushing down the little hill we had strategically parked on.  Unfortunately, once the car started picking up speed, it bounced and thudded to a halt.  Everyone went to the front, pushed it back up, and tried again.  No luck.  After a few more futile attempts, we decided to move the car from the ditch, where it was surrounded by piles of fish and hoards of fishermen, up the hill where we could take a look under the hood.

As we were pushing it up the hill, one of the onlooking fishermen tapped my arm, asking, “Mademoiselle, Am nga jëkker?” (“Miss, do you have a husband?”)

“Waaw,” I responded with a smirk. (“Yes,” – I don’t normally use this response, but I judged it the most diplomatic this time)

“Fan?! Fan?!” (“Where?! Where?!”)

“Fii, ci Senegal.” (“Here, in Senegal”)

“Déedéet, déedéet, amuloo dara dé!” he exclaimed, laughing. (“No, no, you don’t have anything!”)

Chuckling to myself as I approached the top of the hill, I heard others inquiring about my marital status, and his ecstatic response, always the same, “Déedéet, amul dara dé, amul dara!” (“No, she doesn’t have anything, she doesn’t have anything!”)

Once at the top of the hill, we continued without luck to push the SUV back and forth, interrupted by the occasional concerned bystander insisting on checking out the engine.  After about 25 minutes, Cheikh and Omar went with someone to find the local mechanic, and Semi and I walked to find a boutique with some cold water. 

Here in Senegal, there are these little boutiques everywhere, open at all hours.  If there is any sort of inhabitation of an area, there is guaranteed to be at least two boutiques.  The boutiques are decorated with photos of lutteurs, marabouts, and Barack Obama and are often painted Coca Cola red, TiGO blue, or Orange orange, always with signs and the corresponding logo plastered all over the place.  These boutiques are stacked floor to ceiling – including things hanging from the ceiling and walls – with pretty much anything you could ever need.  Bread, powdered milk, evaporated milk, tissues, cigarettes, playing cards, phone 

credits, candy, candy bars, cookies, nutella, eggs, spices, sugar, scrunchies, combs, flip flops, notebooks, pens, plastic bags, yogurt, coffee, Kafe Touba, water, Coca Cola, Sprite, Fanta, fruit juices, matches, chewing gum, laundry/dish washing detergent, soap, perfume, anti-mosquito spray, anti-mosquito incense, and 50kg sacs of onions are a few of the items that you are guaranteed to find at a boutique.

We went to a particular boutique, owned by a friend of Semi’s (who is from Dionewar).  Strolling down the road lined with shops, the aroma of this little coastal fishing town dramatically improved as we left behind us the overwhelming smell of fish, seawater, and sweat, to discover a delicious scent reminiscent of sweet, fried, state fair foods.  We passed by a few other boutiques, a barber shop filled with customers and music, women selling peanuts and people sitting chatting with them, groups of men making ataaya, people praying, and a bar/restaurant filled with patrons (likely the source of that tantalizing fair food fragrance).

This dark little town was lit up by the reflection of the moon and the starts on the water and the fish scales, the cell phones constantly texting or playing Akon and Youssou Ndour, the T.V.s in each boutique, the music leaking from the store fronts into the dirt street, the gas tank fires heating the peanuts for sale, and the constant hum of fish sorting, discussion, laughter, and activity.

            Despite all this seaside town charm, there was no getting around the fact that in addition to having left the island a few hours later than planned, we were stuck with a broken car and a long, bumpy ride ahead of us.  After another 45 minutes or so of waiting for the mechanic to arrive, we spotted him sauntering towards the car.  After about 15 minutes of repair time, we all got behind the old Mitsubishi and once again started pushing.  Only three tries this time and she rattled to a start.  After many thanks, we were finally problem free and homeward bound.

            Wrong again… (to be continued)