Peace Corps for Realsies

Seventeen days in.  I still haven’t quite been able to wrap my mind around the two years part of Peace Corps, but at least now I have more of an idea about what those two years will actually be like. 

The most surprising element of volunteer life so far, is how typical my experience is.  I have found myself astounded by how much my individual experiences and emotional reactions to these experiences are exactly what volunteers who have been here for a while talked about during training or at the regional house before we went to site.  It’s funny to think back on those conversations now.  I remember thinking that things like feeling like I was living in a fishbowl of constant observation didn’t seem like it would be all that hard.  Well, it’s exhausting.  Working up the energy to leave my hut to constant scrutiny, albeit extremely friendly scrutiny, can be really hard.  Going from a jam-packed training to a life in village where you make up your schedule as you go turns out to be pretty hard, despite my initial thoughts that people were making a big deal about nothing.  We had a session during training about volunteer mental health where they gave us a handout that details a typical volunteer’s emotional experiences at every month of service.  So far, in this sense, I am nothing but typical.

However, there are some definite circumstances where I have found that my experience has not been typical.  For example, I have Pat.  Well I did have Pat, until he had to go to Dakar to get a knee injury checked out.  (It must be noted that this injury was sustained while he was doing the worm at a dance party during training.  It turns out that nothing is torn, there is just an excessive amount of fluid accumulation on the knee which was causing a lot of pain.  He should be coming back in a few days, Inshallah.)  As for now, I am experiencing what Peace Corps is like for everyone else in our training class.  It sure is a lot harder.  For example, I couldn’t run to Pat when wasps started building multiple nests inside our hut each day.  I had to deal with the nests (and the maggots inside!) by myself.   I hope that Going Alone (title of the book I’m reading for inspiration in this unforeseen aspect of my first weeks of service which is about women going on solo adventures) will expedite my process toward my goal of being more badass.  Since Pat has been gone, I’ve also been sleeping inside, which is no fun.  I have found I wake up every night at 1:08.  Apparently it takes my body eight minutes to realize that the electricity (and thus the glorious fan) has been cut, and I wake up drenched in sweat and panicking.

The main way my service has been atypical so far is that I have actually been doing things.   Our work for the first few months is supposed to be focused on community integration, which I have been doing a lot of, but there’s more to it for me.  I’m doing double-duty integration: my Malinke community and the health center community, most of whom were sent here from Dakar.  I’m pretty confident that I was placed at this particular health center, which my boss described as the best health district in the country, because of my status as a Masters International student.  Over the past few years I have had reoccurring doubts about the order of doing things (grad school and Peace Corps in particular, since it made everything more complicated, especially with getting married in the middle), because every day I’m more and more excited about this placement.   I think my French proficiency had something to do with it too—it’s funny the trajectory our lives take and the things that lead to other things.

Anyway, integrating with the health center staff has involved hanging out there and waiting for them to tell me what meeting is coming up (nothing seems to be planned very far in advance).  So far, while some of my stage mates have talked about how, on their busy days they meet three people, I’ve been able to do some translating between hospital staff and patients, observe data compilation for a baseline survey about the capacity of all of the health posts in the district, be made part of the hospital hand washing committee, helped to edit a report (about the measles outbreak that recently occurred in the area due to people missing vaccination campaigns in their constant quest for gold), done two radio shows, and help to carry out a Schistosomiasis prevention and deworming campaign. 

Having studied International Health and Development in a developed country, it has been very interesting to really be a part of how the theories are put into practice in the real world with all it’s practical limitations.  For example, how do you prevent hospital-borne infections in a hospital with no running water?  That’s a challenge for the handwashing committee that I’m on.  How do you target a prevention campaign when you only receive 25% of the medication you requested in order to cover all the school children in the district?  We ended up targeting the daaras, or Koranic schools, where the children were deemed to be most vulnerable.  How do you send out teams to measure kids to determine their dosage of preventative medicine when the health center only has one tape measure?  You get creative, and make a tape measure out of knotted rope.   Experiencing these problems and their solutions are at the heart of why I wanted to do Peace Corps as a part of my career trajectory in working in global health and development.  Working at the community level now seems even more essential.  Even two weeks in, I am confident that these years spent seeing up close how projects play out on the ground and how they affect individuals and communities will make me a better public health professional.  That is affirming when real Peace Corps gets hard, which it often has and often will.

What's in a Name?

“I jamun diima?”  This question was yelled out to me by nearly every person I have passed during my first few days in site.  It means “What is your sweet last name” in Malinke.  We are asked this because knowing a person’s last name is essential in order to properly greet that person.   Now, they call out my last name, “Tigana, Tigana, Tigana!”  The correct response is to say the person’s last name in return before starting the rest of the greeting process (and repeatedly throughout the greeting), which is tricky since there are 6000 people in my town, all of whom remember our last names and expect us to remember all of theirs.  There is a significantly smaller variety of last names in Senegal than in the states, and I’m trying to decide whether this makes it easier or harder to remember.  It seems as though about half of the population is either Cissokho or Danfakha (or Sakhiliba or Damba, respectively, which are the unofficial female versions of these surnames), so one of those names can sometimes be a safe guess if someone has told me his or her last name repeatedly and I’m expected to know it.  If someone does not know my name but knows who my host family is, they will often shout out Sakhiliba, since our host family is a Cissokho family, so I am presumed to be a child of the family.  Senegalese women do not take their husbands last names (although I wish they did just so that I could memorize the last names of entire households instead of individual people), but all the kids take the father’s last name.  Actually, my first day of volunteer visit, I was named Sadio Sakhiliba because I was a child of the Cissokho family, but then they thought that was weird since Pat and I were married, so they changed my last name to Tigana.

When people learn that my name is Sadio Tigana, they know, or assume to know, a lot more about me than just my name.  They correctly assumed that I am named after the real Sadio Tigana and understand the special relationship that I have with her as my toxoma, or my namesake.  I am just starting to understand the depth of the toxoma relationship and am looking forward to appreciating it more as my time in site continues.  Sadio lights up every time she sees me and chants, “Ntoxoma, ntoxoma, ntoxoma.”  She takes special care of me and takes pride in me, particularly if I do something that she considers to be a Malinke thing to do, such as dance crazy at a wedding, wear Senegalese clothing, help cook food, or successfully express myself in her language.  As I have assumed Sadio’s name, I am also presumed to assume all of her relationships.  For example, her daughter Diunkunda, simply addresses me as “nnaa”, or “my mother”, and her grandkids call me grandma.  I guess it’s kind of helpful in figuring out who is who, since everyone in the extended family lives together in the family compound. 

Sadio is married to Ibrahima Cissokho, so people think it is hilarious when they learn that I am married to Pat, whose Senegalese name is Iburahima Cissokho.  The community thinks it’s really funny to have two sets of Sadios and Ibrahima, the originals and the mini, toubab Sadio and Iburahima.  I’ve actually heard myself referred to in the family compound as “Sadio wulema”.  This translates to “red Sadio” (as opposed to black Sadio), which is an interesting juxtaposition to Western designations of skin color.

Being married to a Cissokho also means that men with the last name of Cissokho tell me that they are my husband, which I’m not sure how to react to.  It’s all just part of the Senegalese humor that goes along with names.  I mentioned in one of my first posts how different ethnic groups are joking cousins, but there are joking cousin relationships between different last names.  Tigana has this relationship with several last names, which is why it was completely appropriate for me to tell the chief that he is a big bean eater when I greeted him yesterday, since he is a Danfakha after all.  The Tures and the Cissokhos are joking cousins, so it is not uncommon for Pat to be told by a Ture that he is no good.  I’m still trying to learn the correct responses to these jokes—at this point I mostly just turn it around and say the same thing back, “No, you eat all the beans”.   The past few days, a group of old men has repeatedly told me that my toxoma is pregnant (she is at least sixty).  When I asked her about this, she explained it was a joking cousin thing, and the best response was to tell the ringleader that his first wife was pregnant.  I did this, and they about died laughing.  Different senses of humor I guess.

People also have been asking me if I farm peanuts.  Maybe this has to do with the resemblance of the Malinke word for peanut (tigo) and the name Tigana, or maybe it’s just because rainy season (aka peanut farming season) is just around the corner. 

The caste system in Senegal , which is something I still don’t really understand, corresponds to occupation and last name.  The Tiganas are traditionally metal workers, so people often make jokes about my metal working skills.  One cast is called the “griots”, who are the story tellers.  A griot offered to tell me the story of the Tiganas for a little money, but I think I’ll wait until my language skills are improved to the point where I can appreciate it. For now, my toxoma is pleased enough that I have learned to say “Tigana Marena”.  Marena is the extension of the last name Tigana that the griots use when talking about the Tiganas.  Each last name has its own special griot addition, and so far I’ve only learned two.  It’s hard enough to keep everyone’s original last name straight!

My first week in site I went to a naming ceremony.  This is the Muslim baptism, which takes place a week after the baby’s birth.  Somehow my toxoma was designated to name the baby.  I’m not exactly sure if I’m understanding all of this correctly, but I think that the men in the baby’s family picked the name, it was just her job to present the name to the baby himself and then announce it to the women present at the ceremony.  They shaved the baby’s head, washed him (soap is a common gift at a baptism), and Sadio made a trilling noise into each of his ears, after which she whispered his name to him.  She then held him high and announced his name to the group.

 Needless to say, names mean a lot, and I have a feeling that I’ve just scratched the surface.

Trainee No More

Peace Corps has a lot of acronyms, which are taken very seriously.  For example, PCT stands for Peace Corps Trainee.  PCV stands for Peace Corps Volunteer.  There is a large distinction between the two.  Trainees are pretty much in awe of current volunteers, who seem to actually know what they are doing. On Friday, May 11, we swore in as Peace Corps Volunteers at the US Ambassador’s house in Dakar.  This ceremony marked the end of nine weeks of technical, cultural, and linguistic training and the beginning of our actual two years of service. 

One of the first things that we were told at training is that we would be responsible for obtaining traditional Senegalese outfits for Swearing In.  Fashion is a big deal here, and it was really fun to look around and plan my outfit.  My host sister Mami took us to buy our fabric at the market in Mbour, and then her tailor came to our house.  I thought that we would look at some pictures and we could pick something out, but after a conversation in Wolof with Mami, he left the house.  When I asked if he was going to come back with pictures, she laughed and said that she had picked something out for us that was stylish but affordable.  We thus had no idea what to expect, which was nerve-wracking, but we knew we would get something authentically Senegalese.

This is what we got.  The sleeves on mine are a little out of control, but overall we felt very African and fancy, which was the whole point. 

My outfit is called a complet and Pat's is called a boubou

Another aspect of swearing in is that someone who is learning each language is selected to give a speech in his or her respective language.  I was selected from the Mande language group, which includes Jaxanke, Malinke and Mandinka.  This had been a goal I had set for myself from the beginning of training, so I was really excited to do it.  Typically, the ceremony is aired on national television, so I felt like I had a rare chance to tell the people of Senegal why I was here.  I wrote the speech with the help of my host family and my language teacher and with input from the other members of our language group.  Since these languages are not used for written communication, it felt weird reading the speech, so I decided to go ahead and memorize it.  Pat was a saint and let me practice it over and over, but I was still more nervous than I have been about anything for a long time.  Nervous as is I had a lump in my chest so big that I was convinced that my malaria medication had gotten stuck there until it was gone after the speech.  I think it ended up going really well—I didn’t tell anyone that I was going to try to do it from memory in case I chickened out, so it was really well received when I pulled it off as a surprise.  Hopefully a Youtube video will be available soon.

The actual act of swearing in was a surprise.  I actually didn’t know what we would swear to, but it ended up being about defending the constitution and nothing specific to Peace Corps.  Regardless, swear in we did, therefore becoming PCVs.

2012 Health/Environmental Education Stage

After getting our hands held for the last few weeks, the extra responsibility that has come with the TàV switch has been a bit overwhelming.  Two days after swearing in, we said goodbye to our stage (training group), and squished into a sept-place for Kedougou.  A sept-place is a really old station wagon that is used for public transportation.  We had to fit four of us and all of our stuff (originally packed, acquired in Senegalese markets, given to us from Peace Corps and sent from our lovely families and friends) into one sept-place.  It took about two hours longer than the trip down for Volunteer Visit, and included new adventures like our illiterate driver getting a ticket for having too many bags and bikes strapped to the roof and trying to help him discern what the ticket said, actually having to stop at all the police checkpoints that Peace Corps vehicles are allowed to bypass, and the back seat caving in and making all of us squish together even more than we had been.  However, the lengthy and uncomfortable car ride became worth it when we got to Kedougou and I went with three other volunteers to swim in the Gambia River.  It was a scene right out of a poster for Peace Corps—biking through a bush path to a lazy river where mobs of children were swimming and women were washing their clothes.  After a glorious while swimming around, it started to get dark, and everyone got out all at once—apparently that’s the time of day that the hippos come to the swimming hole. 

In Kedougou, which is our regional capitol, we had one day (ONE DAY!!) to acquire everything we would need to start our life at our site.  This isn’t quite as bad for Pat and I, who actually do have a few shops in our site, but it was still really intense to navigate the market and the bank in the limited amount of time that we had.  Pat put it really well: "I learned a lot today.  I'm not sure what I learned, exactly, but it was a lot."  We both were pretty stressed by the end of the day—Pat’s bank card wouldn’t work, so he couldn’t withdraw any of the money Peace Corps allotted us for setting up camp, and vendors were out of several of the things we needed to buy.  Plus, it is freaking hot.  May is the hottest month of the year, and we are making this transition right in the middle of it. 

Tomorrow morning we take another sept-place to our site, and it really begins.  The first phase of service is referred to as the five week challenge, where volunteers are encouraged to stay at site for five weeks.  We aren’t really expected to do traditional work for the first three months, so our time will mostly be spent greeting people (so important here) and continuing to work on our language skills.  And coming up with strategies to stay cool.  In the past day I have adopted the following strategies: taking multiple bucket baths each day, eating mangoes whenever possible, drenching my pajama shirt in water and putting it on in order to fall asleep.

Bring it on.

The Real Lion King

This post is not about what you think it’s about.  It’s about wrestling.  April 22^nd was a big day in Senegal.  Because of wrestling. 

Wrestling, or “la lutte” is a big deal here, and it’s more of a part of my daily life than I ever could have imagined.  At my community training site, I spend a considerable amount of my day working on a garden at a school in my neighborhood, and the wrestlers work out and practice in the playground (which is essentially a giant sandbox) just outside of the garden.  These guys are massive—they spend most of their time doing squat hops back and forth across the sand, which, as Pat can tell you, is really difficult (he has worked out with them a few times and has been sore for days afterward).  They also drag giant rice sacks through the deep sand while Pa Lo, the crazy school caretaker and gardener yells at them.  Recently they started helping us pull water from the well to water the garden, and I suspect there had been some kind of dispute between them and Pa Lo that got resolved.

On the 22^nd, the wrestlers Balagaye 2 (aka The Lion of Guédiawaye) and Yekini were scheduled to meet in the ring.  This was a big deal for several reasons: 1) Wrestling is a huge deal here.  2) They are the two best wrestlers in the country. 3) Yekini had never lost a match.  4) At a press conference about the upcoming match, their entourages got in a giant fight.

Our family had been talking about nothing else but this match for days.   Both wrestlers had supporters in our house, and I chose to support Balagaye 2 because Kamkou did, and I figured she would be the most fun to celebrate with, since she is ridiculous.  As usually happens at our house during an important sporting event, the TV room was packed, and little kids were peering in the windows.  The preparation for the match was the most interesting part from an anthropological perspective.  Each wrestler arrives with their entourage, gets out of the car, and pours water that has been blessed by a Marabout (Islamic leaders who also dabble in traditional, more animist beliefs) out of old soda bottles.  They also perform other rituals that they have been instructed by the Marabout to do—I saw lots of eggs, sand, and ropes today.  Then, they and their entire entourage do a choreographed dance. 

Our neighborhood wrestling champion (whose wrestling name is Obama) showed us his dance, as can be seen in this video.

After the dancing, more rituals were undertaken, and the match began.  La lutte is an interesting combination between American wrestling and boxing.  The whole match couldn’t have been more than two minutes before Balagaye put Yekini on the ground, ending his undefeated career.

If anyone is interested in watching the match, here’s the link to a Youtube video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sbqfW9pV3Ro

 Having never really watched a match before and not knowing the official rules about when someone won, I was completely unprepared for the chaos that ensued.  All of the Balagaye supporters ran screaming out of the house and flooded the street.  By the time I got outside, several people had stripped down to their underwear (remember this is a Muslim country where modesty is highly valued).  It was nuts.  Our brother Cheikh and neighbor Abdou took us on a walk through the madness, which you too can experience in this video (it’s a little jerky, but worth it to see me get mobbed by a swarm of celebrating school girls).  

 Everyone was going crazy, no matter who they supported.  The Balagaye supporters were dancing, drumming, practically killing people by riding their motorcycles through crowds at high speeds.  The Yekini supporters were simply stunned.  Abdou kept asking me if he was dreaming—he just couldn’t believe it.  Their king had fallen, and the lion had emerged as the new king.