S Mollenkopf1 and S Mollenkopf2
Author Affiliations:
1 Preventative Health Educator, Peace Corps Senegal
2 Mother of Preventative Health Educator, Peace Corps Senegal
ABSTRACT
I haven’t written a blog in a while because I didn’t really
feel like I had anything worth writing about. I did finally write a blog in
light of my mother’s visit to Senegal. I compared our views of certain things
and places in Senegal in respect to our very different, recent experiences in
time and space. Some things we characterized in similar fashions while other
things demonstrated stark differences. This provides evidence for individual
experience defining the differences in what
we look at versus what we see.
Its long though, so beware.
BACKGROUND
I have been having a bit of writer’s block recently in
respect to this blog. Every time I sit down to put some words on paper, it just
seemed to come out as some form of tedious, trivial, grandiose rambling about
some minute cultural detail or change in my mentality that I wanted to sound
cool but I was truthfully not overly enamored with so in the end it all just sounded
really dumb; it sounded inauthentic. And if there is anything I promised to
myself that this blog would not be, it is inauthentic. I don’t want to write
something just to write it, just to make you read it. I don’t want to just
recount my day for you – what time I got up, when I went to work, every time I
pooped and what I ate for lunch and dinner… I want to write something because I
have something to write, because I have something to say, because I care about
something. So in an attempt to spare you the time and effort spent reading cr*p
for cr*p’s sake, I have forgone several weeks of blogging.
That being said, I did stumble on something worth writing
about. For the first time in my service (I have now been in country for a whole
year), I had the occasion of hosting my very first guest: my mother.
Over her two week stay we did a range of activities –
everything from visiting my village and getting to experience a little of
village life to walking with lions, bird watching and tackling the chaotic,
open-air markets. What stood out about this trip however (beyond the exotic
animals, beautiful vistas and amusement of watching my mother, hair braided, dressed
in African garb, trying to no avail to pronounce
the names of my family members) was how it brought to light the difference in
our perspectives as a result of where we are coming from in the time and space
of our recent experiences.
I remember meeting two of my best friends in Morocco after a
year of studying abroad in college. They were coming from Madrid and Paris respectively
where they had each spent a semester studying, and arrived by quick-jaunt
flights on discount airlines. In
contrast, I had spent nearly 6 weeks travelling by land through Burkina Faso,
Mali and Senegal in broken buses and janky taxi-vans from where I had been
studying in Ghana. When they arrived, each giddy with excitement, they
exclaimed “I am in Africa!” I, on the other hand, equally giddy with
excitement, exclaimed, “I am in Europe!” It seemed to be that our point of
departure dictated our perceptions of our point of arrival.
Knowing that I was approaching this vacation with my mother
after a year living in a Senegalese village, a year getting to know the
language and culture and way of life of people here in Saraya, a year getting
used to the heat and the sweat and the bugs and the smells, while my mother was
just stepping foot on the African continent for the first time since she was 5
years old, I suspected we were going to stand side by side together, looking at
the same things, but seeing them very differently.
METHODS
Being scientific-minded (and an extraordinary nerd), I
decided to put this to a test. Due to the fact that there are infinite
confounders that cannot be adjusted for derived from a lifetime of differences in
experience between my mom and myself, I decided a qualitative comparison in the
form of a series of anecdotal reports like a quasi-case series would have to be
good enough. I wrote down 5 topics and
asked my mom to write a little paragraph describing her perceptions and
experience with each one. She was instructed not to sugar coat anything, not to
write about how she thought it should be written about, but only to write about
what she actually saw. Simultaneously, I
completed the same activity about the same 5 topics without reviewing her
answers. I then compared the responses for each prompt, bolding what I
identified as differences and underlining what I identified as similarities.
RESULTS
Here are the results.
“Saraya”
SARAH:
Saraya is a fairly
large village as far as villages go and just seems to be growing larger every
day. In a matter of months there are all sort of new stores selling new things
that weren’t previously available and a whole new, organized, shaded market place to buy vegetables. Some areas of
town have the feeling of being under construction constantly but that isn’t to
say that progress isn’t being made. It’s a very diverse down relative to its size with a mix of Malinkes and
Pulaars and more Wolofs, Malians, Burkinabes, and Nigerians coming every day to
work in the gold mines. And although I wouldn’t say it is urban exactly, I
would say that there is a lot going on as it is the departmental capital
and home several levels of government, the district hospital and several NGOs
and there is definite, evident structure
to the activity. Additionally, Saraya may be somewhat small but it is definitely not quaint; it really has
everything you need – food, toiletries, hardware items, clothes, electricity
(part of the time), water (although it can be difficult), and a 3G network!
MOM:
Saraya, the village . .
. a long journey from Dakar. …
The pre-viewed photos
prepared me only for how it looks . . . there is so much more for the
senses. It was HOT. The call to prayer floating on the breeze. The
sheep and the goats. The donkey that
rolls over to scratch his back in the middle of the main street. The stars.
The endless greetings – handshakes mostly and a few words in Malinke to
be polite.
The Cissokho family was
gracious and generous, welcoming me with a special dinner of salad and
bread. I was given a Malinke name . . .
Dialunkaba Macalou. . . named after Sarah’s namesake’s mother . . . that, coupled with a new hairdo and an
African wax print dress made by the local tailor helped this Toubab melt
cultural and language barriers enough to share a few laughs.
The village women
spend a great deal of every day being homemakers . . . and they are buff! They pound the grain or fish with a well-worn
log in a deep narrow wooden bowl (not a stick . . . an actual log), they cook
over an open flame or fire pit, they clean, tend the children, wash clothes and
dishes, etc. Kind of like camping – all the time. Never did really figure out what the men do!
The women splash the otherwise bleak landscape with color.
When they go out, they are dressed in rainbow of African wax fabric
gowns. They sometimes carry big bright
tubs full of stuff (laundry? water? rice?) on their heads. They can toss their babies on their backs
with one hand and tie them on with a wrap skirt or piece of fabric (no baby
backpack).
There seems to be a constant
bustle in the streets . . . strolling the village with Diabou Tounkara, I
met a doctor and some nurses, a restaurateur with triplets, the tailor, the
coiffeur, the village chief. Many people know Diabou and come out of the
woodwork to greet her. There is a school, basketball courts, soccer field and
hospital. There is one paved main street with lots of big trucks rolling thru to/from Mali
. . . everything else is dirt.
Despite a lack of any form of 20th
century conveniences, the kids play with whatever they find (like a
protractor!), they chew gum, giggle and squeal and cry same as kids
everywhere. The babies are cuddled and
adored (Michael Jackson was learning to sit up!), everyone seems to have what
he or she needs. Simple, hard but also nice. No
place for sissies.
“Dakar”
SARAH:
Dakar is a big, beautiful, bustling city with
beautiful ocean views and (almost) every amenity you could ask for (at a
price). The thing I really love about Dakar, besides the beautiful vistas along
the ocean bluffs and the perfect weather reminiscent, in my mind, of living in
LA, that together offer an ounce of
serenity in an otherwise fast-paced city is the way it has all the
best to offer of both the developing and developed worlds. You can walk down
the street and get a 200 CFA bean
sandwich for breakfast (about 40 cents) or you can go to a divine French
bakery and splurge $10 on a latte with the foam poured fancily like a leaf
in your cup and a mouth-wateringly good chocolate croissant. Sometimes the traffic is a little hectic, but
it has nothing on the traffic jams of San Francisco, or LA, or any other city
I’ve lived in. Plus it is clean and there are no homeless people (two more
points over LA and SF). And the transportation garage is extraordinarily clean
and organized.
MOM:
Dakar, the big city.
Not like NYC big . . . big in a way I was not prepared for . . . a foreign
country kind of big. Getting through the
airport was a piece of cake. Getting out
was a different story . . . surrounded by men
jabbering in Wolof (?), grabbing my bag and being all too helpful . . . for
a price. Taxi out of there, quick. I
could see a sprawl of half-built buildings standing everywhere – more half-built than complete. Traffic and taxis, the smell of diesel
fuel and lots of people. I am
inescapably white – I stick out like a sore thumb. The Ex-pats have it good here. A nice American school. A beautiful sports field overlooking the
Atlantic Ocean. Coming back at the
end of the trip.
“African Beauty Salons”
SARAH:
I have now had my hair
braided twice in village. The first time it was braided by my sister for Korite
(2nd biggest Muslim holiday) at the last minute. The awkward extent
to which I resembled 1990’s Coolio after that incident prompted me to seek out
a hair professional when I decided to braid my hair again for Tabaski (biggest
Muslim holiday).
While the hair
dressers themselves are incredibly fashionable and sassy and a lot of fun to
hang out with, the experience of sitting in their salon is always a little hilarious.
In one corner of the small room there is a fake Christmas tree about 3 feet
high, donned in shiny, gold garland that then stretches off the tree and
along the mantel, extending the entire length of the wall to accommodate all
the various beauty supplies. I know people here think garland like that is
fancy but the gawdiness is never lost on me.
Additionally, on three of four walls there is the same poster featuring
a matrix of women showing off different hair styles for inspiration with the
title “Hair Saloon” (not “salon). And one of these is a black girl with a
straight pony tail called “Dolly” (who is named Dolly these days??). And of course the clientele who come in with chemically
bleached skin (their equivalent to tanning) and request make-up like a drag
queen (although not as subtle) provide some good people-watching to make
the hours of tugging on your scalp go by a little faster.
MOM:
The trip to the
coiffure to have my hair braided was not something in the initial plan but I
decided on a whim to do it and it went over well. This is the female equivalent of shaving
one’s head – a no wash, no dry, no bed-head do that can be put up in a ponytail,
stuffed under a hat or stylishly wrapped in a scarf. It is so much cooler, surprisingly . . . even
with a packet of mesh woven in. Perfect
Africa do. The salon was sauna-hot . . . until the power came on at about 5 and
fired up the one fan. One woman
braiding, the other handing the strands of mesh. Most of three hours to complete. A village woman rolled in to have her make up
re-done to match her outfit change . . . it was baptism day for her baby. Take
off the big smears of gold glitter eye shadow and the crazy beautiful white
gown, reattach the gold beaded garland in the up-done hair . . . a little powder touch up . . . reapply
turquoise and magenta eye shadow to match the next dress, re-apply the
hot pink lipstick . . . rearrange
your boob and stuff your one-week postpartum self into your schmancy gown, dawn
your blue rhinestone covered stilettos and head down the dirt road back to
the party.
“Pooping in a Hole”
SARAH:
I must say, while many
people probably would not trust the authenticity with which I say this, I truly
like to poop in a hole. Of course, it does depend on the hole. The hole in my
own back yard is the best because it is wide open so it doesn’t smell and there aren’t a lot of flies. Some darker, less
well-ventilated public poop holes are a little less pleasant to use but I would
say the same for darker, less well-ventilated public toilets.
At the end of the day, it is nice because you just squat and do
your thing. You aren’t wasting a ton of highly-valuable, sparsely
available, potable water to flush it down. You never have to worry about a
clog. You don’t have to worry about people that can’t aim and peed all over the
seat. You don’t even have to worry about remembering to buy toilet paper once
you get used to using your hand to wash your backside. And once you get used to
the position, you get to build some squatting muscles in your legs as well.
All in all, I’m a fan.
MOM:
There is a hole in the ground which one inevitably
needs to use. Most important thing
about it is to learn where to plant your feet.
And . . . don’t get too close.
There seems to be more things
coming out of it than going in.
“Eating at the Communal Food Bowl”
SARAH:
Eating at the food bowl is like a group of hungry lions fighting over
the gazelle carcass. As soon as
the lid is lifted, the smell begins to waft and mouths begin to water. It is
not, however, until a portion of the rice is removed for later snacking and the
sauce is poured in generous portions over the top that the patriarch or
matriarch of the bowl will signal that eating time has begun. From there it is
a tricky game balancing hunger and
desire for the tastiest, most nutritious things all gathered at the center of
the bowl with cultural standards that demand you share with one another and
don’t take more than your allotted portion. Additionally, once you go for
some of the good stuff, anybody is allowed to go for it so you don’t want to
open the flood gates if you aren’t prepared to swim swiftly. You want to go for
the good stuff, but you want to do so without inviting the ill-will or competition
of those around you.
Women have a
particularly challenging time getting the goods if they are not at a
female-only bowl. They often wait patiently until their husbands and brothers
have eaten their fill of the vegetables and meat before they take their share,
even if that means that all the vegetables and meat will be exhausted before
they have a chance to take some. I prefer to think of this action as a
willingly generous gift on the part of the women that care so lovingly for the
men in their family and not as the women lying flat under the heavy boot of the
men that walk over them but sometimes it is hard to tell the difference.
That being said, there
is a communal aspect of the bowl that is very, wonderfully inclusive. Anybody,
anywhere will invite you to a meal if you pass by while they are eating. It is only polite to do so. Of course, they
don’t really expect you to join as it is not so polite to actually accept the
offer although they would not refuse you if you were hungry and wanted to eat.
MOM:
The communal food bowl is a concept worth advancing to the developed
world. One uses his or her spoon – or maybe just
the right hand – leans in and heartily
gobbles up the portion of food in front of them, walking away when they are
done. The Cissokho family does this
daily at all three meals . . . I just shared lunch and dinner. Lunch is in the heat of the day, about 2 PM .
. . dinner is by flashlight, somewhere
about 8. Bowl is served on the
ground. One dish to wash, a pot or two
and a couple of spoons . . . easy peasy.
Usually rice with something on it . . . leaf sauce – big yum . . .
peanut sauce – OK, not too bad . . . fish and fish balls – must be an acquired
taste. . . salad with bread was delicious.
DISCUSSION
These results reveal a few themes. Firstly, as expected, we
seem to have different perceptions or standards of what is considered “nice”
and what is considered “tolerable”. The poop hole is a case in point. While I
described it as, “nice because you just squat and do your thing”, my mom
described it as, “a hole in the ground which one inevitably needs to use”. She noted that, “there seems to be more things
coming out of it than going in” while I specifically described it as not
“smell[ing] and there aren’t a lot of flies”. Likewise, my mother’s description
of Saraya focused on the goats, sheep and donkeys, characterizing the village
as, “simple, hard but also nice. No
place for sissies” while I described it as “organized” and “definitely not
quaint”, pointing to all the services and amenities available there that are
not so available in other villages. It therefore seems our recent experiences
may have affected our standards of quality; perhaps prolonged stays in relatively
more bantam circumstances intenerate the hardship associated with them.
Secondly, there is an evident difference in what we are
looking at when we look at something. The commentary on the food bowl is a
perfect example wherein I ranted about the social dynamics of who can take what
and when and how cutthroat-competitive it sometimes feels when trying to get
your hands on the good stuff. My mom, conversely, saw the food bowl for what it
was: a bowl of food, shared among family and friends at each meal, with
different qualities of foods served in it. Similarly, in our descriptions of
Dakar, my testimony largely reflected Dakar as a whole, the city happenings and
the landscape. My mom’s focused on the
limited time period in which she initially saw the city, immediately after
landing from a long 2 days travelling, jet-lagged, hectically navigating the
airport, unable to speak the foreign language, picked up and immediately
dragged to an ex-pat softball tournament to watch some games. Having both eaten
out of many food bowls and having visited Dakar multiple times previously, I
seem blinded to what is right in front of me; I no longer see the objects and
the people simply for what they are. My mom was able to see them and take note
of them.
And lastly, it appears that some things, like an African
beauty salon, just seem ridiculous to us as Americans regardless. The gold garland, the oppressively heavy make-up
in vibrant colors, the awkward posters and the women that we can’t help but stare
at as they re-adjust their boobs to get their top to fit and don fancy outfits
complete with crystal-covered high heels in anticipation of whatever big event
they are about to attend grab our attention for their gaudiness or garishness
or flamboyance or whatever. But we both look at them and not beyond them
because experience here does nothing to make those things and that behavior
more comprehensible. And we both find in
them some sort of quirky, peculiar whimsicality and some type of resulting
humor.
CONCLUSION
More people should come visit. I will probably make you
contribute to my blog. But I’m interested to see how you see my world!
APPENDICES
Appendix I: A Handful of Pictures from Our Adventure
 |
| The arrival |
 |
| Lunchtime |
 |
| Drinks on the water |
 |
| A few birds |
 |
| Post-Braid |
 |
| Not a part of this trip but I had to post my post-braid to be fair |
Appendix II: Algorithm for Deciding to Visit Senegal
