One of the great things about my Peace Corps experience is that it’s like a pendulum that swings between frustration and elation, not unlike “real life” but faster. It’s like I’m watching a film or a play unfold before me one minute and the next I realize that I’m on and I’ve forgotten my line. But more than that it’s as if I’m squeezing a little more of life’s ether out of the walls of my perception, out of the different experiences I’m having. You get that in passing moments back home, where a sense of true meaning to the world, maybe déjà vu, premonition, or basic empathy for a total stranger jolt you out of the routine and into the realm of the spiritual, or at least the contemplative. But here it comes at you with a certain spark that while not wholly unexpected, still throws me for a loop. Let me give you an example.
Yesterday I had a day I would say was more frustrating than anything else. On eight separate occasions someone asked me for money, not an uncommon occurrence in my life here. At first it really used to bother me because I wanted to be appreciated for who I am, for my skills and personality, for my decision to live in a Senegalese village for two years. But it also tugged on my conscience because in spite of my best attempts at saying “I don’t have any money,” “I’m broke,” or “I’m a Peace Corps volunteer, I don’t have a salary,” they would look at my Western clothes, my watch, my fancy sandals, my backpack, and of course my white skin, and simply know that I have money. And they’re right. Even with my modest Peace Corps stipend of just over $200 a month, I have a lot more money than they do. I had a conversation with my dad about money before leaving for Senegal, expressing my concerns over going another two years without saving any money and he told me that I’d never have to worry about it. I’ve never considered my family rich, we are comfortable. But being here I realize that we are sultans among many people stuck in the sand. So every time someone asks me for money I may not have it to give, but it’s true that I have it.
Today was different. The money theme returned, but it wasn’t the barrage of “Give me money” comments. Today I went to the neighboring village of Moumbaye to look at the spot where we hope to build a tourist campement along the river. There was a fisherman tinkering with his boat on the edge of the water. I walked over to him and said hello. His name was Degee Sow and he wore a brilliant indigo head wrap and a tattered robe-like shirt that was apparently an old kaftan. His 10 year old son Babacar wore the same, working side by side with his father. Sow shook my hand and called me “Patron,” which I tried to correct by introducing myself and explaining that I lived in Mouit and worked with the park as a volunteer. He said, “That may be Mansour, but you’re still rich and I’m still poor.” He looked me in the eyes with his weathered but kind face and I couldn’t say anything. Instead I asked him about his catch. He took me to a pile of thirty rays that he had been catching in the ocean and selling to Ghanaian merchants in Dakar. I wondered to myself if catching these beautiful creatures is sustainable and remembered my boss Bamba’s comment that protecting the environment doesn’t mean anything to someone who can barely feed their family. It turns out that Babacar, the boy, has stopped going to school so that he can help his father fish each day on their small pirogue. I wished them both a good day and walked slowly back to the road, heavy with the ether all around me.
I got home and before going into my home I stopped into the hut where Ibrahima and Alle, tow farm hands that work my father Adama’s fields live during the growing season. The hut is right next to my house and has a cement floor with thatched walls and roof, and a thin mattress for each of them. They each have a grand total of worldly possessions you could fit in a backpack, most important of which was the small teapot sitting on coals for an afternoon session of attaya. Ismillah, another farm worker who stays at our neighbors’ house was there too and I sat down for tea.
Like the money issue, I often get frustrated with my ability and lack thereof to communicate with people. My language skills are good but it takes time. Sitting with these three men gave me an appreciation for learning another language and for patience. Ibrahima is from Kolda and is Mandinka. Alle is from the Gambia and is Wolof, and Ismillah is from Ziguinchor and is Diola. Three different ethnicities, three different languages, and yet they spoke Wolof and French together, with Alle breaking into broken English here and there. They nursed me along in our conversation as I asked them about their work in the fields each day. They leave between 2AM and 4AM and return around the same time in the afternoon to avoid the heat as much as possible. I asked them if they thought a lot while watering the fields, and if so, about what. Ibrahima said he thought about money and about buying his wife and children new clothes when he goes home after harvest in the fall. Ismillah said that to work in those fields day after day you had to be very strong, and each of these guys looks like a professional athlete. I said I was weak compared to them and Ismillah said, “No Mansour, you have to be strong here,” pointing to his head. He said that without a strong mind you could never make it doing such hard work. Alle and Ibrahima nodded silently. Alle handed me my tea and I realized the ether clearly hadn’t left.
That night, in the light of our gas lamp my family prayed together after dinner, shoulder to shoulder on the patio. I had walked into the darkness of the front yard to get a better look at the stars and found myself staring back at a scene that while routine in this Senegalese village, will remain indelible in my American mind. Five times a day the pray on bent knee, foreheads to the ground towards Mecca. The sore joints, stiff backs, and tired bodies of baby boomers on the couch at home in the US would never hold up under this routine, and I am caught between cultures for an instant, not quite sure where I stand between them.
I am certain that moments like these can and do occur for us in our daily lives as we make the commute to work, read and write emails, attend staff meetings or go to the grocery store. But being a stranger in a strange land expedites opportunity, and being something more intimate than a tourist as I am, I feel lucky to be privy to such significant instances of perspective on the world and my small place in it.
Yesterday I had a day I would say was more frustrating than anything else. On eight separate occasions someone asked me for money, not an uncommon occurrence in my life here. At first it really used to bother me because I wanted to be appreciated for who I am, for my skills and personality, for my decision to live in a Senegalese village for two years. But it also tugged on my conscience because in spite of my best attempts at saying “I don’t have any money,” “I’m broke,” or “I’m a Peace Corps volunteer, I don’t have a salary,” they would look at my Western clothes, my watch, my fancy sandals, my backpack, and of course my white skin, and simply know that I have money. And they’re right. Even with my modest Peace Corps stipend of just over $200 a month, I have a lot more money than they do. I had a conversation with my dad about money before leaving for Senegal, expressing my concerns over going another two years without saving any money and he told me that I’d never have to worry about it. I’ve never considered my family rich, we are comfortable. But being here I realize that we are sultans among many people stuck in the sand. So every time someone asks me for money I may not have it to give, but it’s true that I have it.
Today was different. The money theme returned, but it wasn’t the barrage of “Give me money” comments. Today I went to the neighboring village of Moumbaye to look at the spot where we hope to build a tourist campement along the river. There was a fisherman tinkering with his boat on the edge of the water. I walked over to him and said hello. His name was Degee Sow and he wore a brilliant indigo head wrap and a tattered robe-like shirt that was apparently an old kaftan. His 10 year old son Babacar wore the same, working side by side with his father. Sow shook my hand and called me “Patron,” which I tried to correct by introducing myself and explaining that I lived in Mouit and worked with the park as a volunteer. He said, “That may be Mansour, but you’re still rich and I’m still poor.” He looked me in the eyes with his weathered but kind face and I couldn’t say anything. Instead I asked him about his catch. He took me to a pile of thirty rays that he had been catching in the ocean and selling to Ghanaian merchants in Dakar. I wondered to myself if catching these beautiful creatures is sustainable and remembered my boss Bamba’s comment that protecting the environment doesn’t mean anything to someone who can barely feed their family. It turns out that Babacar, the boy, has stopped going to school so that he can help his father fish each day on their small pirogue. I wished them both a good day and walked slowly back to the road, heavy with the ether all around me.
I got home and before going into my home I stopped into the hut where Ibrahima and Alle, tow farm hands that work my father Adama’s fields live during the growing season. The hut is right next to my house and has a cement floor with thatched walls and roof, and a thin mattress for each of them. They each have a grand total of worldly possessions you could fit in a backpack, most important of which was the small teapot sitting on coals for an afternoon session of attaya. Ismillah, another farm worker who stays at our neighbors’ house was there too and I sat down for tea.
Like the money issue, I often get frustrated with my ability and lack thereof to communicate with people. My language skills are good but it takes time. Sitting with these three men gave me an appreciation for learning another language and for patience. Ibrahima is from Kolda and is Mandinka. Alle is from the Gambia and is Wolof, and Ismillah is from Ziguinchor and is Diola. Three different ethnicities, three different languages, and yet they spoke Wolof and French together, with Alle breaking into broken English here and there. They nursed me along in our conversation as I asked them about their work in the fields each day. They leave between 2AM and 4AM and return around the same time in the afternoon to avoid the heat as much as possible. I asked them if they thought a lot while watering the fields, and if so, about what. Ibrahima said he thought about money and about buying his wife and children new clothes when he goes home after harvest in the fall. Ismillah said that to work in those fields day after day you had to be very strong, and each of these guys looks like a professional athlete. I said I was weak compared to them and Ismillah said, “No Mansour, you have to be strong here,” pointing to his head. He said that without a strong mind you could never make it doing such hard work. Alle and Ibrahima nodded silently. Alle handed me my tea and I realized the ether clearly hadn’t left.
That night, in the light of our gas lamp my family prayed together after dinner, shoulder to shoulder on the patio. I had walked into the darkness of the front yard to get a better look at the stars and found myself staring back at a scene that while routine in this Senegalese village, will remain indelible in my American mind. Five times a day the pray on bent knee, foreheads to the ground towards Mecca. The sore joints, stiff backs, and tired bodies of baby boomers on the couch at home in the US would never hold up under this routine, and I am caught between cultures for an instant, not quite sure where I stand between them.
I am certain that moments like these can and do occur for us in our daily lives as we make the commute to work, read and write emails, attend staff meetings or go to the grocery store. But being a stranger in a strange land expedites opportunity, and being something more intimate than a tourist as I am, I feel lucky to be privy to such significant instances of perspective on the world and my small place in it.
posted by Nat Parker | 4:29 AM
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