Another Wilma in Senegal!?

I love my name.  Actually, I love all three of them: Wilma, 竹宜, and Rouby.  The great thing about all of these is that they are all pretty unique; I don't often run into someone with the same name as me.  As a matter of fact, I have never met another Wilma or 竹宜.  So what's this about another Wilma in Senegal!?  I have successfully avoided meeting another Wilma for 25 years, but has the time come that this streak is broken?  Yes and No.  The newest addition to my Senegalese family has been named after me!  Wilma Rouby Seydi or maybe it's Rouby Wilma Seydi (I'm not sure, I will clarify when I go to village for the baptism) was born close to midnight on March 5, 2013.  Since she's named after me, I don't count it as meeting another Wilma necessarily.

In Pulaar tradition, a baby is given a name a week after he/she is born and it typically coincides with a baptism party.  However, my brother, the baby's father is in Dakar right now and won't be back til this Saturday, which means that the party will be next week.  The choosing of the baby's name is a complicated process, where families spend hours discussing (aka arguing) over who to name the baby after.  There are some guidelines such as the first male of the family will be named after so and so or if the child is born on a holy day, he/she will be named accordingly.  It's complicated and my head hurts just thinking about it.  In addition, it is an honor to have a child named after you and there are certain responsibilities.  I wasn't in village when all the discussion was going on, but the night Wilma Rouby was born, my brother mentioned that he wanted to name her after me.  And when I talked to my father the next day, he reiterated that point.

Many volunteers have had babies named after their Senegalese names, but a far smaller group has a child given their American names (I think it's because some names are really difficult to say).  It was my luck that the first round of children born in my family were all born just before I arrived in village and the next baby was a boy.  When I returned to village in November and discovered that there were three pregnant women in my family, I was ecstatic, not because of the fact that I might get a namesake (ok...maybe a little), but because I love babies! So now, three years after I arrived in Senegal, I have a tokora, a namesake!

My village and my family will always hold a special place in my heart and now a part of me (even if it's just my name) will remain in village.

--Peace

My village is better than yours!

For all of my PC/Senegal friends, this is something that you've heard me say numerous times and I know you’re rolling your eyes right now.  But it’s true!  I have one of the best villages and host families ever!  What makes me bring up this point again?  Well, it all started last Tuesday…

While I was up in Thies for my third and last All Volunteer Conference and stressing over my two presentations, I received a call from my host brother telling me that my sister had just given birth to a baby girl and the baptism was the following Tuesday- two short days after WAIST.  It is the season of babies in my family.  My sister and two sister-in-laws were all pregnant at the same time (this actually happened last time too…they all have three year olds that were born within a month of each other).  Last time I was in village, I promised them that when each of them gave birth, I would make it back for the baptism, so I couldn't disappoint with the first one.  After the last party ended at 5am (as a third year, I stayed to help clean up), I slept for two hours and it was off to the garage to catch a car back to Velingara; I was on a mission.  Thanks to car troubles, it took me 12 hours to get back to my apartment only to know that I had another 2-3 hour ride ahead of me in the morning. 

I get to my road town, to my dad’s boutique around 10:30am and am greeted by his smiling face.  I stay there for a bit, until the kindergarten lets out, where I am then ushered into village by seven of my favorite children.  I dress in my complete (matching outfit) and go see the baby, gifts in hand.  I walk into the compound and am greeted by waves of women who told me how great it was to see me and how they’re happy that I haven’t forgotten about them.  I spend the day eating, catching up with my friends, and lounging under the mango tree. 

When I usually go to village, I sleep in my old hut that my replacement graciously shares with me. However, due to lack of communication, I hadn't coordinated this visit with her.  As a result, I told my family that I could sleep anywhere, with my host sisters or mom- I wasn't picky.  My oldest brother was out of town, so they put me in his room for the night.  I left all my stuff in the room without a second thought; I always felt safe and protected in my village and never had anything stolen from me…until that baptism.  As the evening approached, I went to look for my phone for the first time since arriving in village.  I looked and looked, but it wasn't in my bag or in a hidden pocket.  For a second, I thought that I may have lost it en route, but I had received a call from a fellow volunteer, just as I was walking into village- I knew I had had it.  So where had it gone!? I told my sister-in-law about it, who told my brother.  We discussed, we had suspects, and we continued the baptism celebration.  I was resigned to the fact that it had finally happened.  After almost three years, my phone had been stolen- not bad. 

That night, when my dad got back from the boutique, he was furious.  He was upset that this had happened to me within his compound.  Our primary suspect was from a village 10K away, so my dad told my brother to bike out there the next day and ask him about it.  Not accuse, just mention that my phone was stolen and if he had seen it etc., etc. And if he didn't return my phone, “invite” him to a reading of the Quran in my village; in fact, we were going to “invite” the entire village.  In the meantime, my dad gave me his phone to use.  He said that it was more important for me to be able to communicate than it was for him.  He’s the best. 

The next morning, we receive a call informing my dad that someone from his old village has passed away.  He explained to me that it was his duty to go and that we would not be able to hold the reading of the Quran that day.  Totally understandable.  So my dad went off to the other village and I went to the road to catch a car back to Velingara.  While waiting for a car, so many people asked me if I had found my phone- word travels fast in village.  My mom said, no, it was still missing and proceeded to curse the person who stole it, for coming into our house and taking from us.  My family was definitely more upset than I was; if anything I was more annoyed.  I took a car to a larger town, where it happened to be market day, and engaged in some retail therapy (two kilos of avocados for just over a dollar!).  When I returned to the land of the internet, I sent emails off to our Safety and Security coordinator and our property manager to start the process of retrieving my old number (mainly to stay in the free calling loop). 

I get a call four days later from my replacement asking what numbers I had on my phone.  The culprit had returned to the scene of the crime.  He had brought the phone to my brother to have it charged on his solar panel.  I guess it was a good thing that I had procrastinated in getting a new phone!  After I confirmed that it was my phone, with worn buttons and a small scratch, my brother said that he was going to talk to the culprit about it.  I get an update a few hours later and apparently the culprit claimed that someone had sold him that phone in Kolda- convenient.  I asked about my SIM card, but my brother was hesitant to call the guy out-he was a friend of my older brother.  I told him that this “friend” had entered my brother’s room and stole something from it- it didn't matter if it belonged to me or to my brother, but the fact that he violated that space and friendship was disrespectful.

That night my dad and I orchestrated what would turn out to be a complicated hand off.  One of my favorite women in village was going to Dakar on Monday night on a bus that would pass through Velingara, where I would then be able to get it from her.  Simple right?  WRONG!  Buses passing through Velingara are subject to assertive women and children attempting to sell things to the passengers.  I employed the help of the bus assistants and other guys to help me, which meant that everyone knew the tale of my stolen phone.  After an hour of chaos and a broken shoe, I had my phone in hand.  Victory!  Then came the saga of returning my dad’s phone to him...  One of the assistants said that my dad had told him the story and that they had arranged for him to return the phone.  I tried to call my brother in order to confirm this story, but his phone was off.  What to do?   Trust this guy and run the risk of him stealing the phone or having to deliver the phone myself.  I decided to trust the guy because he gave details of my dad and where he was located, but there was an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.  I worried about it all night, calling the phone to no avail, and thinking that I just gave my dad’s phone away.  The next day, I call again and my dad answers.  Phew! 

Bear with me, I know this is a long winded story, but it’s almost over…

So back to my SIM card… Peace Corps had received my replacement SIM card and is sending it down to me as I type this.  Little did I know, my dad had threatened the culprit with Peace Corps and policemen if he didn't return the SIM card within five days.  So of course, he returned the SIM card to my dad.  JUSTICE!  I’m pretty sure that the SIM card has been canceled by Peace Corps, but it’s the principle of the matter.  My dad asked me if I wanted to do anything else, but I told him that all is forgiven and that the culprit has to live with the fact that everyone knows what he did. 

That’s the end!  Whew!  If you made it through that story, I’m impressed.  That entire adventure was a week- and what a whirlwind week it was.  So that is why my village and family are the best.  They easily could have left it at “we’re sorry that your phone was stolen”, but they went a million steps beyond to get my phone and my SIM card back to me.  I miss them already and I’m only 100 kilometers away.  I don’t even want to think about when I leave to go back to the States.  Oy.  I’m one lucky gal to have two loving and caring families who will always have my back. 

Thanks for reading!

--Peace

Friends!

This is a guest post from my friend Steph who came to visit me in December!

More than anything, I want to thank Wi, her village, and all the PCVs that have welcomed me into their homes and shared with me an experience that I will truly never forget. 

That being said, I can succinctly sum up my trip in Senegal as being a week and a half of beautiful color juxtaposed against gritty filth and nothing short of amazing in every way. Many people call me an adventurer, floating from whim to whim. Senegal was the 4th country I had visited in 2012, but the trip was so much more than just checking another country off my list. Wi has 3 sisters, but I have none. In the decade that I have known Wi, she has become my sister. Whether she likes it or not, she's stuck with me for good. So this trip was for Wi, for family. In the 2.5 years, she's been gone, Senegal and the Peace Corps have just been vague ideas in my head. Finally being able to get a glimpse of her life and the work she's done, watching her aggressively haggle down prices in tongues too quick for my brain to comprehend, has made me even more proud to know and love her. 

Senegal itself was really something else. From the minute I looked out the plane window and saw the bright orange dirt, I knew I was in for adventure. Traveling really does something to my soul, opens it up. As I slept under the stars in village, my soul began to dance. For the first time in a long time, it could breathe. Sounds corny, but I live Irvine, which definitely tops the charts for sterile, cultureless cities. From one end of the country to the other and back, traveling hours in every type of vehicle available, I saw more than I can describe. Words could never capture the awe I felt wandering through the markets draped in cloths of the most  vibrant colors and patterns or the joy I felt cradling the ever bouncy and giggly Sajo on my lap. I was alive in every sense of the word, in every sense of my being. 

That will stay with me forever. Senegal has made me a bit more completely human, and I thank Wi for showing it to me. Despite seeing all the great work she's done and the lives she's forever impacted in Senegal, I can't wait for my girlie to return to the states. I know she won't stay for too long; Wi is a wanderer, an adventurer. You should consider yourself truly lucky if she ever crosses your path. 

Sticks and Stones

Toubab. Toubako. Chinois. Toubahaako.

I can't leave my house without hearing these phrases being yelled at me from every direction. Usually, I let it roll off my back and ignore the immature teenagers, but sometimes it just gets to me. I've been here for over 2 ½ years and being called a foreigner hasn't gotten any easier. Sometimes children yell it because they want to say hi and when you tell them your name, they immediately change to yelling that. Other times, it's said in a derogatory manner and usually the best course of action is to ignore it as to not fuel the fire. There are days where I miss the safety bubble that was village, where anyone who dared to call me Toubab was reprimanded.

Friday was one of those days.

I was walking home for my lunch break when a child kept yelling Toubab at me. I ignored him. After I was a few yards past him, he started to throw things at me. It wasn't until a rock rolled passed me that I realized what was happening. I immediately turn around and he takes off in a sprint. Furious, I turn my attention to another kid, and demand answers. Who was that other kid? What is his name? Where does he live? He wasn't any help. There were three other women around and one of them had the audacity to tell me to forgive the kid. Seriously? So I said “You wouldn't stand for a child disrespecting you, let alone throwing stuff at you, and you want me to forgive him!?” And her response was “yes, he's just a child and he doesn't know any better.” But children turn into adults and if they don't realize that this is unacceptable behavior, then it gets perpetuated from generation to generation.

This is the second time that I've had rocks thrown at me. The first time was after a really long day at a clinic and I called my friend in tears- it was exactly what I didn't need that night. This time around, I had a wonderful morning and was in high spirits, but this immediately changed it. More than anything, my feelings were hurt. No matter what, I will still be a foreigner.

Yesterday, while my friends and I were at a dinner stand, a man comes up to us and asks us for money. He doesn't address any of the 20 men standing around, but hones in on the three white girls. I'm still upset from Friday, so I'm immediately on the defense. I call him out for not asking anyone else and focusing on us because of our skin color. He admitted to it and proceeded to stay around. I appeal to the other people at the stand for assistance in getting rid of the guy, but all I got was a few half hearted attempts. So frustrating.

It's times like these where I wonder what I'm still doing here. Why do I continue to subject myself to verbal abuse? These situations are few and far between, but they cut me to the core. At the same time, all it takes for me to smile is one of my neighborhood children calling my name or a baby grinning toothlessly at me. Life here is stressful and a roller coaster, but in the end, it's worth it.  

Peace