The Great Unknown: August 2012

I have procrastinated writing the end to my Peace Corps story. Perhaps because I was hoping to live in a little bit of denial. I feel like putting it in words makes it all that more real. However, it has almost been a year; that makes it pretty darn real.

The last week in village was bittersweet. Ndeye Penda was born the week after I arrived in Dioly. Baaye Niass was only 3 months old when I arrived. Baaye Niass had become a great friend, in the wonderful way special to two-year-olds.

Baaye Niass

On September 15, 2011, I went to visit my Master Farmer, Ousmane Willane, in Keur Lahine Lobe. The other volunteers and I discussed hosting a demonstration field day later that month. I crossed my fingers that I'd be able to return for it. When I said goodbye to Ousmane's family, his first wife pretended to cry and tied me to her with her headwrap. I shook hands good-bye with my left hand. Shaking with the left hand is a way to say "I'll be back" because I have to right that wrong of shaking left handed. I biked back in to Kaffrine and got a ride back to Lage from my favorite Nganda "alham" drivers. While crammed on to the alham like normal, one of the other passengers informed me that I wasn't American anymore. I was Senegalese.

The next day I biked down to Kayfara. Kayfara is a village about 7 kilometers south of Dioly. It hosted two generations of volunteers, its last volunteer departed in 2010. The volunteer's host family had called my host family and asked for me to come visit to identify some tree seeds for them. Ian's host mother was very sweet and I explained which seeds were which to her. She gushed about her volunteers and how much she missed them. And then something embarrassing happened. Now, I precede this with the facts that I had 1) biked that road a maximum of 5 times and 2) everything looks different in the rainy season. You guessed it. It was hot and getting late and I realized that I was seeing different fields than I'd seen on the way down to Kayfara. I was 99% sure I was on a different road. But I was still biking north-ish, so I continued on my way. Sure enough, I biked in to an unfamiliar town. Swallowing my pride (after being proclaimed Senegalese the day before), I stopped under a tree and asked the elderly gentlemen drinking tea what town I was in. Gui! I'd always heard of Gui, and knew that it was only the second stop after Dioly on my local alham. So I felt pretty reassured. I looked around and "ta-da!" I saw my local alham! And the driver! So I biked over and greeted Abdu,

Driver, Abdu in his patchwork boubou

told him I was leaving Dioly in only three days. He told me to wait for just a minute and he would pack his bags. :) I then sheepishly asked him which road to Dioly. I got back on the road and biked back home. I then had to explain to everyone why I biked in from Ndanke/Gui instead of Kayfara. I guess two years isn't long enough.

I visited a few more fields so that I was prepared for what to show Massaly, my Agriculture APCD (Associate Peace Corps Director), when he arrived on September 18th, my last full day in village. Fields didn't germinate well, farmers didn't fertilize, rain was inconsistent. It felt like the rainy season had been a waste.

I sorted through all of my stuff and gave away everything I could. Made children's days by giving them pens and empty water bottles. But I held back my family's "seriche" (gifts). I had bought some fancy head scarves for the women and soccer balls for the children.

Me and Samba

Baaye Niass followed me around constantly, knowing I was leaving soon. His big brother Samba tried to ignore me, knowing I was leaving soon.

I woke up early in the morning on September 18th and packed up all the last pieces of my room. When I opened my door, I told my toma (namesake and my host mother) that I didn't need any more water. I called her and the other women over and gave them their "seriche". I explained to them that in America, we give gifts of gratitude. I called Omar over a little later in the day and gave him his seriche, a nice messenger bag and my old foam mattress. When I explained thank-you gifts, Omar's eyes overflowed. Little Samba called a truce and visited with me all day. Women stopped by throughout the day, once they heard it was my last day. I had an uneventful, normal village lunch of maafe with eggplant and kaani (hot pepper). I sat outside all afternoon, enjoying watching the village bustle around me. Ouly and Fanne pounded millet and kept the children busy running errands.

Massaly and his crew showed up just before prayer-time at 5 pm. I showed them Omar's garden, Sambel's corn, Samba's beans and his field of millet (from millet seed he'd saved from his field the year before), and Matar's corn and sesame. It didn't go as badly as I thought it would. I was reassured by Massaly's low expectations. Perhaps I had already started judging with an American attitude instead of a Senegalese attitude. I opportunistically sent the last of my baggage in the Peace Corps car back to Kaolack.

I ended the day by walking alone with my host father deep into the bush. One of my farmers wanted pictures of herself in her bean field. We walked back in to the village as the sun set. I was served my "favorite" of cere mboom for supper. I'd told everyone cere mboom was my favorite meal because it is very healthy. In truth, cere noungati neibi was my favorite meal; I don't think I fooled anyone. I stayed outside until almost midnight. We mixed "pop drink" and drank hot milk with mint. The men filtered by, saying their goodbyes. I finally got up to go to bed, and got teary saying good night.

Me, Fanne, Fatou Mbaye, Ndeye Penda and cousins

I woke at 5:30 on the 19th. I packed up the very last of my essentials onto the back of my bike and locked my hut for the last time. Ouly and Fanne were just starting to prepare for the day. I openly cried as I gave my key to Ouly and asked her to hold it for my replacement. Samba stood next to her, biting his lip. I put on my helmet and slowly started biking out of Dioly.

I biked down the dirt path, bright orange sun rising before me, millet fields lining my road. I said a little prayer for my home of Dioly and all the people who live in it. But then I stopped myself. What exactly was I praying for?

Was I praying for their prosperity? If they were prosperous, would they be so content? Would people move outside the village if they had more money? Would they just start buying televisions and car batteries if they were prosperous?

Was I praying just for their health?

I decided that I was praying that they would preserve all their positive virtues of contentment and community while improving their health and crops. But only improving their crops and health enough that they don't lose those qualities that make them special.

God, is that too many addenda to my prayer?

I cried the whole way to the gravel road. I reached the gravel road just as the Nganda alham pulled up. I waved it by. I had another stop to make. I biked two miles up the road to Katakel. I pulled in to Fatou Willane's compound. And the tears started again. I told Fatou that I came to say goodbye. She gave me one of her big, mothering hugs and told me to go wash my face and drink some water. She invited me to breakfast. I told her that I needed to get on the road and get to Kaffrine. Fatou told me she had some errands to run in Kaffrine today, too. I would wait, and she would come with me. We waited hours for another alham to drive by.

Fatou Willane and me the morning I departed

Some young men on the side of the road started mocking Fatou. "What are you waiting for? Don't you know all the alhams are gone for the day? You're just a silly woman." I turned my back to them. One of the men noticed and taunted me for it. I turned around and (as Senegal PCVs say) "went Wolof" on them. "She is your grandmother, you need to respect her! You have no respect, you are rude! I don't want to talk to you, I don't want to hear you! You are rude and disgraceful!" Fatou smiled, took my arm, and we walked across the road to wait on the other side. On the other side of the road, a tall Pulaar man came by, herding his cows in front of him. He stopped and greeted me in English. Turns out he had lived in Nigeria for a number of years. He was a highly educated man who had been forced to return to the Senegalese bush because of rough circumstances. He had been jailed in Nigeria simply for being a foreigner, "And then they took all my fucking money!"

An alham finally showed up and Fatou and I got on. I paid Fatou's pass, she protested, and I said, "You are my mother, I will pay your pass." A few stops down the road a young man got on the bus. He sat a few rows back from me. After a few kilometers, I hear, "Eh, noir! Noir!" (french for black) I noticed this because the tone of it sounded like "Eh, toubab! Toubab!" (Wolof for white person). I ignored him because he obviously wasn't talking to me. After all, my skin isn't black. Finally, the man touched my shoulder and says, "Yow, do noir?" (You, you're not black?) So I turned to him and said, "You can see, I'm not black." He responded, "No, you're black. No white person would be on this bus. You are black."

I had to switch buses three times in Kaffrine. I traveled from Kaolack to Dakar the next day. I made the mistake of drinking a liter of water before the car pulled out of the garage. It was hot. The car was (of course) crowded. And there was traffic. An hour into the drive I realized I had to go to the bathroom. An hour and a half into the drive, I had to go to the bathroom badly. Two hours into the drive, I couldn't hold it. We were on the outskirts of Dakar and we stopped to unload some luggage. The driver was taking down the luggage from the top of the car. I leaned forward and told one of the ladies, "Wait until I return, I have to go to the bathroom!" I ran into the street, hearing the women in the car saying, "What? She knows Wolof! She said she had to go pee!" I asked the first woman I found to point me to a bathroom. I ran into an empty compound. There was no one in sight. "Hello! Hello! How are you? Where's the bathroom?" After a couple minutes a girl finally came out of the house. Only to discover she didn't have the key to the bathroom (because a bathroom must be locked?). After another few minutes she tracked down the key and I thankfully relieved myself. As I was finally able to relax, I realized something scary. I had just left ALL my worldly belongings in the car. Including my phone, money, and passport. I didn't even remember any defining characteristics about my car. Thankfully, one of the other passengers spotted the white girl when I came out of the alley. "You were a long time!" "I know! Sorry! I had to go!" And, surprisingly, that was the only complaint about the wait I caused. And, thankfully, I hadn't made a mistake by abandoning my belongings.

I spent just over a week in Dakar, finishing up my paperwork and my medical evaluation. As darkness literally fell on my last day in Senegal, I called my host-uncle who is a taxi driver in Dakar and asked him to take me to the airport. I left the remainder of my money with him.

I called my host family in November (six weeks later), for Tabaski. Everyone very kindly told me about how quickly I had forgotten Wolof. I bitterly cursed myself for spending $10 and arguing with the computer to figure out how to call them, just to be told that I didn't remember anything.

I waited until July to call them again. Ramadan, the holy month of Islam, started. I texted my host father (since he can read Wolof) and told him I would call the next day, late. So I left work early on the first day of Ramadan and called my host family. It was 10 at night in Senegal. The phone was passed around the compound for twenty minutes. "Yes, my family is in peace. No, I miss you more! Thanks be to God! How is your family? No, I haven't sent the pictures yes. Yes, my family is in peace. No, I miss you more! Thanks be to God!"

And not once did anyone say that I'd forgotten Wolof. My toma even complimented me, "You haven't forgotten anything!" I congratulated Fatou Mbaye for her 5 month old daughter (She'd had so many miscarriages). I asked my toma if her parents' compound had burned in the fire (Theirs was the only compound that didn't!).

I said I miss you. I miss you and forgive me for not calling sooner. Forgive me.

Naam naa leen, baal ma aq. Dinaa fo dem, leen seetsi. Inshallah. Ci kanaam, ci kanaam tuuti rekk.

Me and Ablaye Seck, an extension worker in Katiot

Master Farmer, Ousmane Willane. Hilary Clinton has quoted his successes when talking about food security programs. He increased his corn yields by 200+% by incorporating peanut shells into the soil. He took the risk to try the experiment on a full hectare of corn. And it was his own idea. He is one helluva motivated farmer.