French Relations to West Africa

Below is my response to a New York Times article pertaining to French relations to countries in the West African region. Voila the link to the article:

http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.nytimes.com%2F2009%2F11%2F13%2Fworld%2Fafrica%2F13francophone.html%3F_r%3D1%26ref%3Dglobal-home&h=1281af9a255a6533299950b72c573095

This is quite an interesting article. It is true that there are pervasive anti-french sentiments throughout this region and, within Dakar itself, the sense of outsiders imposing themselves here extends to all westerners. For example, in a conversation with a family friend yesterday, he lamented with annoyance that, "the city seems to be going to the tubabs" in reference to the rich neighborhoods that are "over-run" by foreigners.

The French have maintained significant control over this region thanks to the colonial period when they sowed the seeds of dependence between themselves and the local governments, economies, and infastructures. In other words, rather than investing in the infastructure in a way that would encourage autonomy and sustainability, the French implemented cash crops and export-oriented economic systems that benefit foreigners and harm the locals. In Senegal, this manifests in a massive encouragement and export of peanuts that are refined into oil and re-imported to Senegal at a higher price than they were first exported for. Thus, the local economy is drained outwardly and France reaps the benefits.

My issue with this article, in spite of its accuracy concerning the French-West African relations at present, is its presentation of the US as a good example, refraining from maintaining relations with certain corrupt governments. However, the US is just as complicit within these abusive systems that create West African dependence on "western powers" thanks to our close ties to the IMF and World Bank. These two organisations are closely tied to the US goverment and they have conscientiously sapped local west-african economies through their Structural Adjustment Policies of the last 40 years. In short, these policies require the realocation of resources from infrastructure and education to debt repayement, which goes straight into the pockets of rich nations in an endless spiral due to the unfair terms of this debt. So, villifying the French without implicating the US within the abuses of this region is misleading.

Although the locals are not altogether fond of the remnants of the French colonial system, their imaginations are captured by the wealth associated with France and particularly the US. So, they want to partake of this richness and be your friend, because you represent money and opportunity, but they carry chagrin simultaneously. Many Senegalese still refuse to send their children to french-speaking schools. But this is a predictable legacy of colonialism.

As for the political situation, Senegal doesn't fit into the same mold as the other countries of the region because, in 2000, the French-backed former-president was ousted peacefully in favor of Abdoulaye Wade. So, their was a semblance of independence and democracy around the turn of the century, but since then it has become clear that Wade is infringing on the democratic nature of the constitution by extending his term limits. Likewise, he is maintaining close bonds with European powers, although I'm not informed enough to know whether this extends to the French.

Well, let me know if you have any questions about what I've written or about the situation in general!

~Jocelyn

Smacking Peanuts

Smack! The stick comes down hard and so gratifyingly! Smack! The hot sun melts the fatigue from hours of lazing about right out of my pores. Again, smack! And that stick hits that pile of dried peanut plants once more! I get into a rhythm with the men beside me, and someone lets out an “eeey!” signifying the start of a song. “Faster!” they cry, challenging me to keep pace with their well-toned arms. Smack!...Smack!...Smack! Smack! Smack! And those peanut plants finally start loosening up, breaking into pieces. I’m jolting those peanuts right off of their roots, chopping up these hay-colored stocks with the sheer “thwat!” of my hooked stick. Swatting that stick down is like a particularly good twirl on the dance floor, or the second-to-last move on a long and gratifying climb that really got your heart pumping! Never mind that Victoria and I are the best entertainment these men have ever seen; two white tubabs farming! And not just farming, but out in the fields doing men’s work! But the joy was not meant to last; I looked down at my hands during a slight reprieve and was shocked to perceive some very unhappy skin trying to abandon my right hand. “Eh! See here, skin!” I exclaim. “We’re only fifteen-minutes into this thrilling experience, and here you are jumping boat! None of that now!” But what was done was done, so I stuck out my blistered hands to show the men, explaining that my muscles were in no way tired –that it was my soft hands that were the problem. We can’t have them thinking that tubab women are wimps, or anything! I mean, Victoria had already made her escape under the pretext of seeking her camera, so I had to represent!

Well, the glorious peanut smacking having come to a tragic close, we moved on to new work: peanut sifting! Covered in bandaids, I took the calabash bowl in hand and learned from the local women how to hold it high over my head, shaking it just enough so that its contents would tumble out slowly, allowing the wind to carry away the lighter stalks as the peanuts and dirt clods fell straight down. The next step was to pick out all of those dirt clods from the piles of peanuts and resift by hand the stalks that didn’t separate out. I watched as, day by day and calabash by calabash, that mountainous pile of pre-chopped peanut plants dwindled and reformed into heaps of peanuts and horse food side-by-side.

“Wait! Jocelyn, what were you doing out on a peanut field playing around with a stick and picking up dirt clods? We thought you were in the middles of a bustling metropolis with taxis everywhere and pollution galore!” And so I was, before my program sent us all out to experience a different, somewhat more rural side of life in Senegal. I found myself in a sept place trundling two hours down the road to…well, this little place! The sign read “Louly Ngogom” and my resident host dad, Doudou, assured me that six thousand inhabitants make up this sprawling village. We were there for the week, shacked up with Chris, a very fun Peace Corps volunteer, amidst a host family composed of Doudou, his two wives, their various kids, an aunt, some cousins, and several other kids who somehow managed to find themselves in the mix. They were a rowdy bunch, those kids, but they were also wonderfully uninhibited and curious when it came to us. They would ask us questions in Serer and we’d try out a few words in that language before resorting to our rudimentary Wolof and, in extreme cases, throwing out a French phrase haphazardly.

In spite of the language barrier, we all got along just fine, teaching them hopscotch and sharing in the uber-sugary ataya tea that Wally brewed after lunch each day. I wish I could have brought Wally back to Dakar with us because he had a great energy and kind, open eyes; I wonder what my host family would have said if I unloaded a 14-year-old from the cab saying, “Hey host mom! Welcome home your new host son, Wally! He’s here to keep me company!” You know, with eleven people living in the house, what’s one more?!

I spent those days living at a slower pace, with nowhere to be at any given time and with a watch that seemed rather decorative and hardly utile. I breathed slowly, witnessing suns setting over rosy millet fields and stout but stately baobab trees, reveling in moons rising over communal bowls of peanuts being shelled by chattering kin. How I adored sitting about the peanut bowls with spoon in hand, listening to the crinkling, popping sound of the shells coming open and thinking of how that sound, combined with the smoky smell of the charcoal cookers, gave the impression of sitting about a late night campfire. All that was missing were the smores!

At the close of this leisurely but peanut-packed week, I found my way back to this city with the odd sentiment that I was returning home, but now quite. Even if the people embrace me by pulling me into their folds by giving my own Wolof name, Ramatulaye or Rama for short, I’m always aware of the strangeness of my culture in this place. But I settle in, little by little. And the new English girl living in our house reminds me of how far I’ve come. There’s nothing like warning the new girl about toilet-flushing to make you feel like you’re in the know!

Peace and love,

Jocelyn

PS If you ever wonder what exchange students in Dakar spend 80% of their time talking about, its food. Smores, homemade-meals in the US, ceebu jen versus maffe in Dakar, that amazing peanut rice in Kedougou, peanutbutter, thanksgiving turkey, café touba, candy bars, mangoes, fruit, and cookies…I’ve had multiple conversations about all of these items, and I’m not the only one!

What is this “community” of which you speak?!

We talk about individualistic societies and communitarian societies, but what does it mean to be in a communitarian society on a day-to-day basis? Well, in Senegal the communal nature of society manifests itself in myriad ways: It can be found in the lengthy greetings that are addressed to every acquaintance encountered on the street, the “salaamaalekum”s and the “how’s your morning, work, affaires, family, mother, cousin, aunt, and husband…?”s. Recognizing everyone around you is critical and saying “I don’t know you” is a paramount insult indicating that you feel you owe that person nothing, which makes no sense since everyone is interdependent and can’t help but owe everything to their community.

Emphasis on community is in the little things; the way that everyone seems to remember everyone else’s names with ease regardless of how occasionally they may interact with them. In the fact that we eat around a single bowl, unified by our close proximity and equal sharing. In the way that this sharing extends into every nook and cranny of life where any food at hand is first offered to anyone close at hand before being tasted and even a lollypop can make the rounds

But then there are the big things, like how households include the entire extended family and the relationships between everyone is critical. Even the language reflects this; in Wolof, for example, they distinguish between your father’s sister (bajjan), your mother’s sister (tataa), and your uncle’s wife (yumpaañ), all of which we refer to as simply, “aunt.” It does not suffice to overlook the details of how one person relates to another. You are not merely an individual with your own credits under your belt but rather a thread in a greater tapestry, intertwined most closely with your kin and ancestors but reaching out to and depending on the entire society to sustain you and imbue you with identity.

Why would you live alone when you could share in the joys of life with your parents, children, in-laws, and cousins all together? Why would you pass by a smiling face with only a brief wave and a “hi” when you could pause to speak with them, thereby recognizing their import role within the community and, by extension, their entire family, network of friends, and ancestry? Why would you hoard a candybar all to yourself when you could share one bite with every person in the room and truly relish the single morsel saved for yourself beside the appreciative smiles of the community you have knit around you?

~Jocelyn

PS This glowing depiction does, of course, overlook those instances where personal interests win-out over the golden standard of sharing, but the general custom is present none-the-less. Granted, communal cultures bring with them their own host of problems, just the same as individualistic cultures such as our own. The giving and sharing nature of Senegalese culture combined with the required alms-giving in Islam can lead to people falling into dependence on others easily, passively expecting to receive rather than working to pull their own weight within society. So, every society has its own problems, regardless of whether it is individualistic or communal, but the key is to understanding the merits and weaknesses of both so as to idealize or vilify neither.

Photos! Louly Ngogom, peanut smacking, and baobabs.

The women loved seeing the pictures and videos we took of them. :-) Chris is the resident Peace Corps volunteer and Victoria is the other student from my program who lived in Louly Ngogom with me. (PS I did her hair. :-D)

The emblem of Senegal: baobab trees.

Me eating freshly roasted peanuts out in the fields. Can you tell that they were charcoal-black?! Yum! This is the way they were meant to be!

Sifting peanuts, with a little help from the wind.

The men out smacking peanuts.

Sipping on sunshine and bathing in moonlight: a day that lulls along

The moon is glorious tonight. I would that I were scribbling on notepaper in place of my laptop so that I could feel the moon’s full, round beams reflecting off the page. Alas, the comforting violet hues of the evening breeze and the shimmering moonlight are pierced by this electronic’s false glow. But the silhouettes of swaying trees and flapping laundry still create a lovely ambiance for reflection here atop the mosaic-tiled terrace. I could bathe in the thoughtfulness of this moon’s radiance, letting her swallow me whole and birth me into the realm of dreams and wistfulness; such is the evening.

I feel pensive, slow, bittersweet, and content. The day rolls off of me like a heavy cloak sinking slowly to the floor: pregnant with smooth strolls through hot afternoons, meandering from one swatch of shade to another. Humming would overtake me at times, adding a spring and a swish to my step, as I would swing my bag of fresh veggies around my wrist. It is on walks such as these that time lolls contentedly, like a child wandering through pastures with nowhere to be until dinner. I’m on my way to the post office to leave a letter and the lovely Senegalese woman on the stamps winks at me from her corner down in the depths of my bag. I see these various men now, sitting guard or watching passersby, and I will see them on the way back. We are each looking at the other, but only when they aren’t looking. The more forward ones will hiss at me, to grab at my attention, or make kissing sounds, but there are only a few with energy enough to make such attempts on this heat-laden afternoon. With nowhere in particular to be and nothing pressing at hand, my American pace has fallen into nothingness and my vibe slows to match the pace of this place. If I walk too quickly, strangers make note of it out loud, encouraging me to go ndank, ndake, to take is easy. But I don’t stand out today, or not anymore than a fair-skinned, scarf-wearing, yogurt-bearing girl ever does. I suck my yogurt out of the corner of its plastic sack, appreciating the creaminess and reflecting on how my gratification derived from this particular form of yogurt must go straight back to the joys of infanthood. I must face it; in spite of my Senegalese pace, I stand out distinctly because a local can never be seen walking and eating simultaneously. Ah well, at least I’m closer to the Senegalese demeanor than usual with my respectfully relaxed steps.

I am quite different now from how I was when I first arrived, or my perception has changed at any rate. I no longer perceive the folks clad in waxed fabric as being wrapped in plastic tablecloths, which is excellent considering the popularity of this form of clothing for formalwear. I even find these garments beautiful and have to remind myself at the large fabric market that no, there is no way I’ll be able to pull off that shinny fabric in the States. The hand washing and communal eating bowls seem downright normal these days and I no longer turn when I see a few goats lolloping around at the corner of a busy intersection. Perhaps best of all, I can grab a cab for within 200cfa, or forty cents, of the price I want and chat in broken Wolof with the cab driver the whole way there. Sometimes my haphazard responses to their inquiries fool them into thinking I actually speak Wolof, but when the conversations seldomly stray from the topics of origin, studies, and marriage, it’s hard to go wrong.

But the warm wanderings of the day are taking their toll and I’m fading into sleepiness. Tomorrow morning I leave for the small village Louly Ngogom without my laptop or the internet. Thus, you will not read this until I come back from that voyage and post it. By then, I’m sure I’ll have much more to share.

Hugs and love,

Jocelyn

Photos! Village life in Louly Ngogom

Me and a host of children from the family I lived with for this last week in Louly Ngogom.

Meet Jibi! This little tyke is the greatest. Not only is his smile absolutely glorious, but he eats dirt and has the roundest belly I've ever seen on a toddler. I have to wonder if the last two tidbits are related, or if he's got something more serious going on with his stomach.

Meet Oussmane the adorable troubl-maker in the foreground with Abdoul on his tail. Abdoul is the sweetest of the kids, and we had an ongoing joke that he's promised to Victoria, the other student staying in this family with me. She'll have to wait a couple years, of course! When asked, Abdoul said that, no, he's not engaged to me, that I'm engaged to Bass, one of the other little kids depicted below. :-) This is my second senegalese husband, having met the first one down in Dindenfelo on my last trip!

Meet Bas -my fiance. :-) He's carrying the tea cooker on his head.

A few girls from the village.