"Home is Wherever There is You..."

So I’m not gonna pull any punches here-- I am pretty excited about getting on a plane tomorrow morning! I miss Nathan like crazy and the second my eyes land on anything resembling vegetables said items will be quickly devoured. My flight leaves at 4am Saturday, so I am taking a private taxi to Dakar at 7pm today, which will leave a four hour wait sitting in the airport before my flight.

I am having weird feelings of nostalgia or something because I keep feeling waves of sadness about leaving. I look at all my stuff in the closet here and I don’t know where to start packing… I think in my head I know that I am leaving today so I can suddenly allow myself to be emotional about it all. I am also having recurring, vivid sensations of being in the airport in New York and eating a hamburger. Anyway, I should probably be on meds for hallucinations or something but I think that I am just really, really excited to get on that plane!

The other volunteers I have met have actually been really great people. We all have our own stories as to how we came to be here in Senegal but really at the core of it we all wanted to help contribute to the global community. I do genuinely feel kind of sad that I will likely never see any of them again, save for creeping them on Facebook, but, c’est la vie du voyageur! And my new roommate Soleine seems like a cool chick. It has been nice to practice French with her for the last few days, and share some insights with her on living with a massive Senegalese family.

Otherwise, I have truly enjoyed blogging about it all and sharing it with my people back home. I appreciate that I have had so many people thinking about me whilst I’ve been away, dropping me a line, and sending me photos and even an Oprah magazine in the mail. In Particular, I have to get mushy about Nathan in order to thank him immensely for all his love and support during my journey to Senegal and back again.

Thanks also to everyone who has followed along with the blog. It has been a pleasure to do some writing and I want to say genuinely, thanks for reading!

Anyhow, I think its safe to say that the Senegal chapter in my book is closed!

See you all soon,

Ashley

Here's a Few Names...

I have met a lot of really interesting people along the way and I thought I would describe a few of them to answer some of the question of “who does this sort of thing anyway”.

Sally: Sally has been a real chum of mine. Sally is 40ish and British. She’s sporty and smokes and likes beer, so pretty much other than the smoking she’s my kind of cat. Sally is an RN who, back home, works in a clinic that caters to the homeless population of London. The clinic she works in treats some very difficult cases on a daily basis for a section of the population that is usually ignored when they go to hospital. Her story begins sometime last year when a few of her close friends died way too young, two died of cancer. For Sally, it was a wakeup call to have lost three close friends in such rapid succession so she decided to take advantage of the time she has on this earth and get out there and do something that would help others. Here in St Louis she has been working some with the Red Cross, some with the Talibe center and some at the hospital on the island.

Alex: Alex came to St Louis two weeks ago. She is 22 and Australian. She is a history geek and plays soccer at her university and has crazy big curly hair. She looks like she should be on classic Saturday Night Live with her big blue eyes and no word of a lie she is way more sarcastic than I could ever be. Back home Alex is working on creating a master’s thesis that has something to do with how France allowed Senegalese people to vote in their elections back before independence. That is what brought her here but more specifically the soccer program is what brought her to St Louis. She felt it was a good fit to come here, check out the library and historical resources and also do some volunteering and cultural exchange along the way.

Tamara: Tamara came last Friday. She is 27 and Australian but lives in Switzerland. Back home Tam works as a bartender because it’s really great money and her employers pay for her housing and food and she can go snowboarding every day in the winter. She is also tall and looks like Angelina Jolie somewhat but that is neither here nor there. Tamara had to leave the country for a spell because of employment insurance and typically she says she travels whenever she has enough money anyway. She was thinking of going to Morocco but changed her mind and came here instead when she realized that she could take French lessons and bum around in 35C weather for a month. She’s been pretty cool to hang out with over this last week.
Martin: Martin was here for 2 months and left last week for travel. He is 30ish and Irish but is moving the London for work. Back home Martin works as a lawyer in some giant firm but also takes on pro bono cases every year for his firm. He came to Senegal because he was transitioning to another job in London and decided to check out something different that has to do with development issues. Whilst in Senegal Martin’s project was to visit villages and talk to women who work to raise awareness and help the cause of domestic violence against women.

Otherwise there are scads of 17-20 year olds who have come for a gap year, and several other professionals who either quit their jobs to get out and try something different, or have taken a sabbatical like my new roommate Soleine who is on sabbatical for 1 month from her job as a psychologist. For myself, this has been one of the best parts of the experience. I’ve had some really interesting conversations with people about their thoughts on development issues and I have really learned a lot from their placements and experiences here.

A Night for the Talibes

The other night there was a benefit concert of sorts to raise money for Daara Vision which is one of the centers that offers some food and basic part time medical care for the talibé boys. One of the volunteers Dan organized the night and he had several acts sing including the very excellent and very popular Mame Szaabo (sp?) and even our very own Katie, a volunteer from Ireland. The backup band had two guitars, keyboards, drums and djembé drums and they were really good as well. As a side note I inquired about the meaning of talibé and discovered it means ‘disciple’ as the boys are studying the Koran. I have often seen it painted on the sides of buses and taxis so I assume it is a common enough thing to think of oneself as, if one were a devout follower of the Koran.

One of the interim acts before Mame Szaabo was a local guy named Bashir, who is attending university in Dakar for math, and is dating one of the volunteers who has decided to stay on and work full time, also in Dakar. He ‘slammed’ which is a style that is popular with younger Senegalese people. Slamming is basically spoken word with some major punch to it. The idea is to pick a topic and just start making up lyrics that sound good, or rhyme, or tell a story. It’s hard to describe his performance but he basically picked up the beat, spilled out some rhymes, and then hung out for a spell dancing and getting the crowd to clap and really get into what he was saying. His lyrics got louder and angrier though as he went into the part about the talibé boys. He described how we walk by them every day in the streets and how we think we’re being nice by tossing them a few coins into their plastic dishes but really there’s a much larger issue to address than just giving them money. He was asking everyone to really stop think about why they are there and in the state that they are in and man alive, was he ever passionate.

I was talking to my friend Hanne yesterday about how she started working at the talibé center as a means to learn more about the lives of the talibé boys. She was feeling like she has become accustomed to seeing disheveled homeless boys wandering around in the streets begging for money, so she decided to help herself have a closer experience with them by visiting the Daara center every day. I must say I have had the same experience myself where I am no longer shocked to see the boys lingering around outside the house waiting for leftovers, or seeing the boys running around the streets at all hours of the day with nothing else to do but play and beg. It’s not to say that I ignore them though. I give them my left over breakfast if there is any and also cookies and drinks if I am out and have something to share, I smile and say a friendly word, but I still never give money, and I still don’t really don’t know what else to do but raise some awareness around this issue.

There is one French Canadian lady who started with PA and has since left the program to do her own thing. She is always talking about how much money she pours into the Daara Center and I don’t mean to be too critical but I question the sustainability of what she is doing. Certainly she can’t have endless piles of money, and since she hasn’t been working for 8 months she will inevitably have to go back home to earn more money leaving the center without that income. I can only hope that all her efforts working with the locals will allow her to continue to move upwards in the system and eventually garner a position where she is able to solicit for more funding. Seemingly the government here in Senegal is taking a rather soft stance on the issue of the talibés.

For myself, I think I am spending more energy mentally than I am aware of every time I leave the house because there is so much to filter: the piles of rotten garbage everywhere; young undernourished boys, shoeless, digging through rotten garbage for something to eat; the old woman with no eyeballs begging every day on the bridge; the scene with an adult male man-handling a talibé boy because he thinks he stole something; the dogs with the fly eaten ears. It’s difficult because if I really start to think about each of these scenarios the situations descend almost into despair and I feel helpless, I feel powerless, I feel deeply sad, I feel like screaming! So, it is necessary to tuck that away somewhere in your head, so you can tap into it in order to stay in touch with your humanity, but more so to keep it from impeding you from doing what you do every day: tread lightly, and impart a little bit of what you're made of onto the people you meet every day.

Rolling Along...

I was pleased to hear from Abdulaye the director of the school, that there will be other volunteers taking over for us after we leave. He asked us to fill into a book the lessons we covered off so far so that the new people can continue where we stopped.

It's hard to say how much the kids will really learn in the short class times we were given. Overall when I meet kids in the street, they are excited to share what little French they have learned with me as the foreigner as a means to connect with a stranger. Perhaps the same will go for English. This is especially true since Abdualye feels rather strongly about the kids having as much opportunity to communicate with people from other English speaking countries as possible. Perhaps that means some of the English we teach them will stick with them and even inspire them to want to learn more. For this reason, I really wanted to teach the kids things they could use right away, rather than bogging them down with too much grammar and vocabulary without the payoff of being able to share information about themselves and exchange greetings properly. I have a few of my students as neighbours as well. One little girl was over last week and she made sure to tell me that she went over her notes a few times after class and proceeded to recite what she had learned for me. It was quite endearing to see her so excited!

I think it's also worth mentionting that I am not an English Snob in that I believe everyone needs to learn English because of some mysterious superior qualities it holds. I truly believe that the more means one has to communicate with other people, the better off the whole world really is. At this time in history, it happens to be English that many businesses and so forth communicate in, so it feels good that I can help spread the common ground around.

Excursion Bird Park: Djoudj and Beyond

Sunday I organized a trip for four of us to go to the big bird reserve called Djoudj. It is supposedly the third most celebrated bird park in the world, and though I am not sure what that means, it was certainly large and impressive.
Our guide was Babacar, a very lively and colourfully dressed chap who is no less than 6 feet tall and of a rather thin build. He kept us entertained all day with stories and facts about the surrounding areas that we were driving through. We took a private taxi to the park driving first on the paved main road to get out of St Louis with the bulk of the trip being driven on the deeply rutted dirt roads. The old beater taxi sure got a work out and made several painful crunching noises, but nevertheless got us there and back in one piece!

Along the way we saw many Brahman cattle and even a few warthogs. At the very site of the warthog’s dark, bristly skin I really felt like I was in Africa. There is a hotel at Djoudj which is rather dilapidated and I question why anyone would want to stay there really. There’s nothing to do as the park itself is just a big outdoor nature reserve, and with all the swampy water lying around, I imagine the mosquitoes are horrific. Anyhow, we were just there for the morning.

Once we got into the park and purchased the park entrance license, we disembarked in a low lying pirogue. There were about 20 of us total in the boat, but once the boat got moving there was enough to look at that you really don’t notice anyone else around you! As per usual, it was a sunny day (in fact since I’ve been here, there have only been two cloudy days) and there were quite a few birds out and about, a few cows and even a couple of crocodiles. Given that all the talk about the birds was in French, I am sure some of the bird’s names were common to the area, but the ones that impressed the most and were easiest to remember were the giant pelicans. There is a huge, flat piece of rock about 40 minutes into the boat ride where they all congregate. There were literally thousands of them coming and going, flying so low overhead you could hear the dry rattle of feather on feather… it was truly amazing!

After we arrived back on land, we were promised the opportunity to buy an egg sandwich, but St. Louis and all the meals of sheep have severely depleted stocks of bread available to the sandwich lady. I was hoping that the tea and biscuits in the Poule village would be as nice as it sounded.

The village by definition was one family of 28 people. Much like my house here, there was a set of grandparents, and their offspring with married partners coming into the mix to add to the village population. It was explained to us that all these small ethnic villages are civil, but not friendly, because each head of the village wishes it to remain head of the village without fear of competition. Babacar the guide is half Poule because his parents met at university (on a rare occasion inter-ethnic marriages occur, but otherwise they are arranged by the families usually within the same ethnic group) so he was able to speak the same language as the people of the village. Otherwise, they didn’t seem to speak too much French though the 2 older boys spoke some. We were told the school was too far away for the rest of the kids to attend on a regular basis.

We had two rounds of tea. Tea here is made very, very sweet, and usually comes in rounds of three. During the tea making, Babacar sent for a large tin bowl which he used as a drum so he could sing. As soon as he struck up the first note, two of the little kids started dancing African style and were really flailing their arms and smiling great big smiles. There was something really sweet about sitting on a mat under a big tree with all sorts of people sharing tea, singing, clapping and truly feeling like this was what I was here for. It brought tears to my eyes (tears which I quickly squeezed back in because there’s no crying in Senegal).

After we finished tea and biscuits, we were invited to go look at a few of the huts. I was excited because I had seen many such huts but had never been in one. The first hut was maybe 15 by 15 feet and belonged to one lady and her kids. It was very plain but very tidy and clean. The floors were linoleum, the mosquito net was hanging neatly from the roof, and there was an interesting arrangement of tin bowls and platters on top of a small dresser. Babacar explained that the arrangement was what represented the families’ wealth. If the president of Senegal came over, he would not be served from these dishes because they are far too dear to the family.

A few other things that struck me had to do with the poor quality of the road (especially during rainy season), and the relative distance to the town and hospital. My friend Sally who is a nurse had a dead child brought in to the hospital a few weeks back. The mother came from a small village way outside St. Louis. She said when the girl fell ill, they tried traditional healing at first and after that (likely caused more damage than good) she made the long trek to St Louis, stayed the night, and brought her deceased child in first thing Monday morning hoping she could be revived. While it is an abominable story, it is somewhat understandable given that the likelihood of a taxi driving by their village is slim, the cost of said taxi probably quite a lot of money for the family, and the cost of a consultation (300CFA) and any treatments far too much for the family to afford. That also leaves the mom away from the household and the kids and husband then left to fend for themselves. It was easy to understand from visiting the village, the immense efforts it would take to go to all the way to the hospital, versus buying into the hope that the traditional healer’s promises of healing the child would do some good.

School Daze

Teaching at Cidi Ndiaye has been pretty fun overall. Last Monday was particularly excellent because only half the kids showed up as it was the day before, the day before Tabaski (makes sense, right?). The class sizes are usually around 50, so between my teaching partner Krista and I, one usually does crowd control while the other teaches. With half the kids, I was able to go around and actually converse with individuals, and not just a mass of kids. It was great! They were trying really hard to do the "Hello My Name is..." and "I am ten years old" and whenever someone faltered, the kid next to them would usually try and coach them along.

We teach 2 age groups: 8 year olds and 9-11 year olds. The classes are mostly divided up by age but some older kids are put in younger classes because they are struggling academically. Our two classes of 8 year old are usually a complete gong show. The first week, during the first class, the teacher stepped out for the entire class and pretty much we had kids swinging from the rafters and screaming like animals. All Krista and I could do was laugh at each other and at how wrong the situation was. When the teacher came back in, she marched over to me with a rubber strap and said something to the effect of "this is how you keep order in the class room". Now, this may be true for her, but not so much for me. I don't think the teachers out and out beat the kids with the strap, but every class room has one, and the teachers use them to hit the desks, and their hands to hit the kids, as I have seen on a couple of occasions. We even had it where these 3 boys were being so bad all throughout the class, and after we were reprimanding him he said "No, you have to hit us to get us to behave!"

I always think back to the lady from the kindergarden who kept order with 50 little 4year olds at the mere drop of a line. "Mes amis, mes amis!" My friends, my friends! Somehow she has figured out how to keep everyone focused without so much intimidation. Even in my own house the kids get smacked if they do something wrong. Then watching the kids later, they hit each other like crazy. Even the babies will try to smack someone when they get frustrated. In the classroom there are posters about proper mosquito net use for malaria prevention, abuse against women posters, and even one poster to the effect of "Let students learn without getting the beats". Its a good message really.

I have heard many stories from other volunteers about kids in their houses getting whipped, kids in hospital getting hit for crying too much, talibe boys showing up with major whip marks from the maribouts... it's really hard to know what to do about it. I know for myself merely saying (to the rubber strap) "Oh I would really prefer not to use that I don't think it's a good thing" seems trite, but one can only hope that by taking a stance against something, others will at least consider that there's another, less harsh way of doing things.

Otherwise another highlight for teaching in a classroom that is on the first floor is being able to buy coffee through the window. The other day, this tall man came up to the window and stood there staring at us while we were reviewing colours. The teacher took notice and I was sure she was going to yell at him or give him the beats with her plastic pipe, but no, she starting talking nicely in Wolof and went over to her purse. "Tu veux du cafe?" she asked us. The guy was going around the building selling Touba coffee to the teachers! Sadly I find Touba coffee to be really, really sweet and un coffee-like so I passed.

Silence of the Lambs

Hello Again, Sorry for the delay in the post. Everything was closed Wednesday and Thursday for Tabaski.

I also haven't been able to post pictures the last couple of times but it seems to be working again which is great!

Tabaski came to a slow start. I got up at 8am to make sure I was available to help with whatever may need to be done, but at that time the ladies were all lounging around. There was no breakfast, so I went up and read my book for a while, and ate cookies from my secret stash. Supper the night before was lack, a sort of rice pudding but made with some kind of baked grains and vanilla yogurt all over it. It was nice, but not as nice as the cheeseburger I am going to eat at the JFK airport will be in a week’s time.

So by about 11 someone came up to my room to ask why I wasn’t watching the killing of the sheep… luckily I missed the actual throat slash (the gash in the neck was quite substantial!) but came in just in time to watch the sheep cleaner begin hacking away at the carcass with a machete. The process of cleaning 5 sheep was actually rather civilized (aside from a very muscular and sweaty man literally hacking at the carcasses). It took place in the sandy courtyard between our house and the next underneath a little tree. The kids were running around, boys were helping separate the guts from the good stuff, and one little girl even delighted in playing with the severed sheep`s head.

The meat-man would hack off major sections, and the ladies went through and separated out massive chunks of fat (still leaving behind a ton of fat though) from meat and bones. The guts were buried in a deep hole in the soccer field. The liver was bbq`d first as a sort of late breakfast (which I passed on) and the rest of the lunch meat was seasoned and bbq`d. By the end of the sheep killing, there were literally buckets and buckets of meat. It all seemed a bit strange because 1 sheep can feed a family for about a month… I was expecting a serious meal after all their work, but lunch was a disappointing spread of onions, stringy over bbq’d meat and french fries. I heard other people say their Tabaski was a let-down as well, and yet others said they felt eating all the food they were offered was as big an accomplishment as climbing Mt Fuji.

Anyway, after all that I went for a car ride to the University where Awa`s (scarily dilapidated) restaurant was to put bags and bags of sheep into the freezer. It was neat to see the university. They have 1500 students there and offer a full spread of courses apparently. I could see that the university was well planned and comparable to something you would find at home, with the exception that everything was in a state of serious neglect.

Getting out in the car was nice because we could drive around and see the apparent lacking in sheep, and the excess of sheeps hydes piled here and there. A pile of such hydes began collecting early on in the day by our house. A few boys were incharge of piling them neatly, and by the end, the pile was almost as tall as one of them. Then a "car rapide" (colourful bus, cheap mode of transport for people) came along and they hauled all the skins into the bus. No bags. No apparent care for where they landed. I can't say where they were going but I am certainly going to look out for where I sit next time I take a care rapide!

So then Tabaski Part II started a few hours later which involved everyone dressing up and… what? I have been wondering about that for weeks since I have never been aware of this major Muslim holiday and there was a lot of hype leading up to the days of tabaski. The ’and what’ ended up being everyone dressing up really nice, spending at least an hour putting on make-up and arranging their weaves, and dressing up the kids and… drum roll please… sitting on the couch! So we sat on the couch and a procession of neighbours stopped by to say hello. This lasted for the entire evening, and there was a round II on Thursday as all the ladies had a second outfit and another round of visits the next evening.

There was a reverse trick or treat element to Tabaski as well because some of the idea behind having all that meat is to share 1/3 with a neighbour and 1/3 with the poor. So all around our neighbourhood kids were seen carrying bags of meat to their neighbours. At the end one would expect an even balance of meat given and received but that’s no matter I suppose.

By about 8pm I was ready to head out with the other volunteers. Every Wednesday we have Quiz Night at this bar called Taverne so the proprietor, a Moroccan lady and excellent cook, treated us to a mouton of our own. She served it on couscous with this nice sweet onion sauce. The meat was soft and juicy and completely delicious.

All in all Tabaski wasn’t quite the big hoopla I was expecting, although I suppose if it was in my neighbourhood where I knew everyone and everything then I would have been a lot more fun. It was fun to have had a dress made up for the occasion. Most of the vcolunteer girls had a dress made up and a couple of guys wore Boubous which is the outfit men wear on fridays to go to Mosque.

So that's what I know today!

A Broad Abroad

Hello My Faithful Readers,

I must once again break invisible narrator status in order to address you directly.

I thought I would take a moment to reflect on a few things that that have come up of the last couple of weeks, but I will start my ramble from the beginning of the story…

Last winter I read the book “Half the Sky” (highly recommend it) which is a book all about how to help elevate the status of women’s issues, some of their stories, and also what is actually being done in the various areas of development and women. One very poignant point I came across was the idea that people often feel small and insignificant compared to the size of the problem, disconnected from the development community, and overall feel powerless to help those in need. The simple response was “just get out there and do something”. Basically to stop worrying about how insignificant you feel versus the size of the problem, get out there and contribute any way you can. Picture the entire amount of international aid as a bucket of water, and yourself as a drop of water. If you, the drop of water, are not in the bucket, the bucket just isn’t as full as it could be. So that, coupled with my pending chunk of available time in the fall (and of course much discussion with Nathan!) led me to seek out volunteer opportunities abroad (SEEKING TO BE A BROAD ABROAD as my friend Sara would say).

My initial interest in coming to Senegal was to help people who would otherwise not be receiving any attention. I know that there is great need for people to teach English, or other languages even, that could help someone get a better job, or any job in the future. I thought the type of work I would be doing would fill a need and wouldn’t be done if a volunteer like myself wasn’t here to do it. I chose to go through an organization like Projects Abroad because I felt they would be better connected to the parts of the community that would need volunteers to come and help out.

Unfortunately that initial interest in coming here hasn’t quite been fulfilled. While my personal experience with Projects Abroad was less fulfilling than I had hoped for, I really do feel that the sacrifice I have made leaving my friends and family, and also the stress that has put on them has been worthwhile when measured against my personal development and my impact in the area I volunteered and lived.

After I recovered from initial culture shock, it was easy to see that Senegalese people in St Louis are easy going and approachable. Kids especially are excited to shake your hand, simply because you’re a foreigner. The overall esthetic of Senegal has been a dichotomy between vast, clean beachscape and natural vistas, and congested and dirty city. It has been a place where Wifi is easy to find but toilet paper is not. My trip has been comprised of a thousand different moments, some of them quite poignant lessons, some of them just something to ponder, and some of them something to forget. The sounds and smells and sights of St Louis will remain forever with me.

So, after having taken 31 Malaria pills so far, I have only 11 to go before I return to the Homeland. Yes that’s correct, I will be home in 11 short days, a bit earlier than planned, but only after having spent 6 and a half very interesting weeks here in Senegal.

Thanks again for reading, and I will make sure that my final days of blogging will be worthwhile to read.

Time for Change

Before heading to the beach and hotel Mermoz this past Saturday we stopped by the Exotica grocery store to pick up some snacks. I picked out a few items and put them on the counter. The bill was 2800CFA. I took out my wallet and handed over a 10 000 bill, held my breath, and prepared myself for the ensuing argument. The problem is, there is a serious deficiency of physical currency here in Senegal that is that bane of any shopper’s existence. I cannot describe it any other way than to say if you know you need to do some shopping, you really have to think about where you’re going and what change you’ll need when you get there.

The change issue often sculpts my plans to run errands. If I know I need to buy fruit from a fruit stand and take 2 taxis that day, (or worse yet, share a taxi) and all I have are 10 000 notes, I pretty well have to walk 1km out of the way to the OiLybia gas station where they almost always have change (thanks to the taxi drivers buying 2 and 3 dollars of gas at a time), buy a pack of gum to break the note, then carry on. Last time I took cash out of the machine and it came out in 5000CFA bills, it was like I won the lottery because with 5000 notes, it’s only half as hard to get change! When you do get change, you need to be sure to guard it as though it’s gold and use sparingly.

So there I was in Exotica, a grocery store notorious for being very reluctant to give up change. I took out the bill, placed it on the counter and slid it towards the cashier very slowly trying to keep my poker face in check. “What, you don’t have to money?” the lady asked curtly. In actual fact I had three times the money and what she was doing was calling my bluff. Normally I hide money all over the place so that I can make a big show of having an empty wallet save for the one big note, but today in actual fact, I had no smaller change and 2 taxi rides pending so really, I was desperate! We stared at each other a for a spell, sweat trickled down the side of my brow, I spoke awful French to make her pity me, and at long last, the lady backed down and sent her assistant off with my cash to go bug other nearby stores for change. Last week I paid for a café au lait the same way and every employee in the café—five people—had to dig through their pockets to give me change.

I honestly have no idea why they don’t take bigger bills out of circulation and replace them with smaller coins and bills other than to think that that is an expensive project for a country that has other, much bigger fish to fry. Seriously, I have rarely ever paid 10 000+ for anything other than a weekend excursion away or the bus ride to Dakar and hotel as most purchases are rather inexpensive. I can only imagine how frustrating it is for the people who are out there selling things every day, working really hard to make 100CFA for a coffee or 500CFA for a cab ride, and never really having the right change to conduct business with.

I would also like to correct something from my past blog. Fedherbe Bridge is not getting a twin. Replacement sections are being built alongside the bridge and are then slotted in when they are complete... a very deceiving method of bridge building if I do say so myself. The old section is then taken out and crumpled into a pile, awaiting shipment elsewhere to be recycled. This weekend the bridge was closed for such an occasion leaving us worried that we would be stranded at Mermoz or worse yet would have to find a pirogue to take us back to the mainland. Fortunately the swap took less time than anticipated and I was able to enjoy a nice, breezy walk home.

Many, Many Mouton

Yesterday I walked with my friend Hanne over to one of the main streets near the edge of town where my other friend Sally lives. This last week or so, Sally has been complaining about the increasing number sheep around her place. When she mentioned that I thought, Ya that’s right, where there was one sheep now there are two or three, and I supposed that if there were a few more like that all over the city then the mouton population would be considerably higher than a few weeks ago. So Hanne and I took off in the heat of the day to go check things out.

Before we could see the sheep we could smell them. They were laying fresh asphalt on the road and even stronger than the smell of tar was the smell of manure, and overpowering the general din of construction was the tell-tale “bleeeeh!” of sheep.
We walked further along and the road opened up to a sea of sheep. They were every which way you looked, all grouped together on the sides of the road. The sheep herders all stood by waiting for potential customers to come over and have a look. The kept their herds tight together, though the sheep really didn’t seem to want to go anywhere. I have heard of the sheep herders that they sleep on the ground next to the sheep as well.

Word on the street is that the price for a sheep ranges from $60 to $100 depending on the quality of the ram and also depending on the person buying it and their haggling skills. Anyhow, it was amazing to see and hear so many sheep all in one place. Perhaps more amazing was the realization that not one single sheep was tied up, and though many were chasing each other around and heat butting, they didn’t seem inclined to run away.

All the sheep are for Tabaski which is this coming Wednesday. Whenever you mention the word mouton to anyone their faces light up and they say Oui, Tabaski!, as though Santa is coming to town. I realise that Tabaski is a very religiously significant day for the Muslims however it is difficult not to getting caught up in all the Toubab’s concern that this Wednesday, every single sheep will be killed, pretty much all at the same time. The word bloodbath keeps coming to mind for some reason… All I know for sure is that Wednesday will be an eye opening day and is sure to have a really great meal!

After Dinner Vignette...

Last night after dinner I walked out the front patio of the house to stretch my legs after having eaten dinner on the floor. In the front foyer there were three Talibe boys lying, sleeping, waiting for our leftovers. One boy asked me for 50F but I as always declined. I began thinking of some kind of nice gesture and remembered the growing collection of empty water bottles in my room. Here in Senegal, I have done my very best to drink only the bottled water provided, and avoid eating fruits and veggies from suspect places that may wash fresh food in tap water. Some people think the tap water here is fine. I would rather avoid finding out that its not.

Nevertheless, I rushed upstairs to grab three bottles and filled them up with water as quick as I could. I went back down the stairs and into the foyer to find 4 Talibe boys lying in wait for some food. I distributed the three bottles, and left to find another, giving a reassuring look to the one rather dejected boy who got nothing. Up I went, back into my room, to get another bottle and fill it up. When I went back downstairs I found the foyer empty.

I went out the front door and by then there were 6 boys huddled around the food platter. I left the bottle with the boy I had assured would get one and went back up to my room, peeking over the second story balcony along the way to find 8 boys huddled eating around the food tray, each boy perched on their haunches as though they may take off in flight at any moment. The food had quickly disappeared, and what little bits were leftover were being scooped up with bread chunks slowly and deliberately. I looked out across the field, and there were more boys emerging from the dark, walking in from across the soccer field.

Once in my room I sat down to read my book but shortly after, unable to concentrate, I went back to the balcony to have a look. I peered over the railing and all there was to see were two crushed water bottles and not a soul in sight.

To Market, To Market...

There is a market here in St Louis that is open whenever it is daytime, and generally only closed friday afternoons which is when people go to mosque. It is located just before Fedherbe Bridge and has two main components, the stalls all along the main road, and a more out of the way, off the beaten path section not for the faint of heart.

Yesterday my friend Krista were on the hunt for fabric to take to her tailor. Krista had had a dress made for Tabaski and I thought it would be fun to do the same (though she went with an african style dress complete with head piece and I chose something more western). The tailor-man has a little shop with two sewing machines and two plain wooden benches where he sits and sews all day. One only needs to look at his catalogue, print a picture off the internet, or draw a simple line drawing and have him take your measurements, and he will sew anything you ask him to.

The market is an interesting place to go and in the same breath it is a hard place to describe. In a way, the market caters to locals who are looking for groceries, clothes, electronics and many other things. There are several entrances that are quite dirty with an offputting amount of flies there to greet you. The alley ways are numerous, winding, covered in tin and any other thing that will keep out the sun and heavy rain, and the pathways are just wide enough for you to navigate around the bowls of fish and other wares. People offer you up their (eggplants, okra, pinto beans, tiny cabbages...) but don't push too hard, which either means they don't think you're there for groceries, or they are more laid back than some of the other vendors.

The stalls or 'stores' are each about 5 X 5 in size and utilise every inch of vertical space to their advantage. Trying to look at all the stuff up and around you can only lead to you tripping over a hungry cat or a bag of rice.

We found a tiny booth with a good selection and haggled the lady down to 1000CFA per metre, which is about $2. After talking to the tailor, we negotiated 3500CFA for his work (complete with zipper!) and all said and told the dress should cost around $10. I can only hope that his friendly, interested demeanour bodes well for the dress actually fitting me properly. Pick up is set for tomorrow at 6:30... until then I'm definitely keeping my fingers crossed!

Dakar Part II: This Weekend I Broke the Law

We were 6 people heading to the hotel so we split up into 2 cabs, with our cab following and the other one leading since the cabbies in Dakar have no idea where most things are unless you give them an exact address. When we were nearing the hotel, the other cab turned right to the side streets and our cabbie headed straight on towards the Place de l’Independence (a huge square in the middle of Point E considered to be central Dakar, and where our hotel was located). I was sorting out change with Kat, a German girl and all of a sudden we were flagged down by the police.

The cabbie pulled over, and the police officer stuck his head in the window while flashing his flashlight right in our faces. “Donne moi votre piece d’identification!” he said. I pulled out my wallet knowing full well that I had no id on me and said (in French), “I’m sorry but I haven’t got any”. Kat sat stone quiet as she doesn’t speak french, and Tenita woke up in the front seat and started telling the cabbie where to go. The police officer continued to yammer on about how it was past 12:30 and we need id otherwise it’s a 6000CFA ($12) fine, a point which he kept repeating.

I kept my cool and kept politely telling him that we didn’t have id and unfortunately I wasn’t going to give him any money. I said he was welcome to take us to the station to get things sorted out if need be. That was when he got into the back seat with us and told the cabbie to keep driving. “So what’s going on then?” he says. “I don’t know, you tell me” I say. In my mind, this was all very suspect and since his main concern was that we need to pay the fine it further confirmed in my mind that we were being taken.

Eventually he asked where we were from which gave me an opportunity to tell him we are from St Louis, arrived yesterday, we were leaving tomorrow, we’re volunteers here to work with the children of Senegal, we had no idea we needed id on us, and if he wanted to talk to the director of our program he was welcome to. As I was saying this I pulled out my cell phone and started dialing Moctar’s number. It was 12:30 and I was really hoping Moctar was still up and would answer his phone. Two rings in the Officer gave up. Suddenly everything was fine so he lectured us a little more and just sat there looking at us. “Out!” I said to the girls, “Pay the fare and get out! I am completely done with this cab ride!” We were off the hook and still not at the hotel.

Finally we made it back to the hotel at about 1am only after we went into a restaurant to ask directions, and a nice couple having a late dinner called our hotel, and paid for our cab ride there after telling the cabbie explicitly where we were staying.

The next morning we were off to a late start. Sally another Brit had taken a late cab ride home at about 3:30 or so with 2 other people. “So I hear you got pulled over by the police last night?” Sally asked first thing. I told her all about it and let her know how annoyed I was about almost getting ripped off by the police. Sally’s cab had the same experience, and they managed to get a hold of Moctar while they were talking to the officer because their negotiating was going nowhere. Moctar let them know that it is in fact necessary to have id on us late at night and that they were in fact breaking the law at that point in time. Moctar talked to their officer, and negotiated a 10 000CFA for 3, steal-of-a-deal ‘fine’ versus each person paying 6000.

So I guess this weekend I broke the law, and was quite lucky to get out of it when I got caught!

Otherwise the rest of the trip was uneventful. I was grateful I didn’t go to Dakar on my own as I probably wouldn’t have gone out to see stuff, especially after dark. We walked around a bit but most things were closed as it was Sunday. The street vendors weren’t as polite as in St Louis and one even called us racist because we didn’t want to go into his shop.

So, back to the bus for a 2:00 (4:00 Sen time) departure. This time I snagged the front seat beside the driver. I had the window open and my feet on the dashboard the whole way home. Along the way I saw the slummy outskirts of Dakar, a huge yard full of hundreds of Sheep ready for Tabaski, donkeys pulling carts loaded with grain bags and firewood, Brahman cattle with huge horns being herded around, farmers piling their grasses into African style stooks, women in bright coloured dresses with flashy sequined scarves on their heads, and endless vistas of Baobab trees.

Excursion: Dakar & Ile du Goree

This past weekend was an ‘organized’ trip to Dakar. Dakar is the biggest city in Senegal, with a population of 2.4 million people. The city is divided into various quartiers, some of which are really nice, some of which aren’t.

Papis who works for PA arranged a bus for the 19 people going on the trip. Upon the bus’s arrival, it was evident that in Canadian terms the bus should seat 10 people but here in Senegal it would seat 19, and therefore be a really cozy 4-5 hour car ride! We left at 6:30 ‘Senegal time’ which meant 7:45… needless to say it was really a cramped, uncomfortable bus ride that got us to our hotel at 1:30.am and a ride that I would rather soon forget. It was impossible to see anything along the way because it is dark at around 7:30.

The next morning we were to take the ferry to Ile to Goree. Since we were travelling en mass, we made it for the 12:30 ferry. Ile de Goree was really a highlight of the trip so far. It’s a small island off the south east tip of Dakar which has no roads and about 600 permanent residents. After walking around Dakar a bit in the morning, and living in the noisy hustle and bustle of St Louis these past few weeks, it was really nice to walk down quaint, narrow streets with flowers and birds and plain old quiet.

Ile de Goree is really known as the last stop for most of the slaves exiting Africa. I visited the Musee d’Esclaves which is a small inconspicuous building made up of guest rooms with a view on the top floor, and small, dark holding rooms on the bottom that separated men from women and women from children until they all boarded the ship to South America, the Caribbean and North America. Typically the museums I have visited here in Senegal have been really scant on details and generally out of date. That is how the museum was presented here, but having read up on the slave trade in the past, Musee d’Esclaves really held a significant symbolic importance to the subject. I would say that especially of the small, square doorway that opens up right onto the Atlantic Ocean-- the doorway touted has being the point of no return for all who passed through it.

The rest of the island featured regular families going about their days, and a slew of artists who weren’t as pushy as most vendors I have come across. There were also a few leftover bits of artillery from an old Dutch base but most were in a ruinous state and not much of that story was told outside of one small notation on the tourist map.

Overall Goree was a great place to take pictures and wander around the streets. It was definitely very touristy but once we moved away from the beach it was hard to notice. At 4:30 we caught the ferry back to the mainland. We were all going out for a real West African dinner in celebration of Briony’s (a doctor from the UK) 30th birthday.

Dinner was amazing. Briony read about this new place called La Calabesse which is located on top of the African Cultural Centre (more like expensive African souvenir shop with one statue in homage to some past President). We had the set plate deal for 12000 ($24) which included appetizer, main and dessert, and since there were a load of us eating, the Maître D basically kept the food coming till we said stop. There were several meat dishes such as fish with coconut, chicken with peanut, goat (?) with sauce (?) and other such things as beans, couscous, rice, and prawns of various presentations. All in all it was nice to sit at a table, with my own plate and a fork and knife AND have good food to boot (though I should say I have only had a couple of meals that I didn’t like back in St Louis). The meal ended at midnight, and I was toast so myself and 5 other girls decided to head back to the hotel.

To Be Continued…

Care for a Walk?

My walk to school takes 20 minutes. I head out the door, walk along the short side of the soccer pitch through the dirty sand, and turn left onto our side street that takes you out to the main road. In the morning, it is strangely quiet on the street. Women are seen dragging their children along, hustling, so as to get to school on time. The ladies wear brightly coloured dresses, and the children all have their school pinafores on with such details as the school name, and phone number in case you are inclined to stalk any child in particular and want to make easy work of it. Otherwise most traffic happens when I hit the main road.

I pass the same homeless man on the left sidewalk every day. He wears a touque, an old dress short (once white, now grey), and dress pants. Unless I see a piece of bread sticking out of his pocket, I usually give him a piece of my breakfast baguette. Once I turn onto the main road it becomes much busier and noisier. The colourful Car Rapides (buses) and taxis and UN convoy vehicles and horse and buggys are all in a hurry to get somewhere.

Everyday the fruit vendor asks me if I need fruit. His pile of watermelons is never very appealing so I wait for the guy down the street who usually offers the same price and has nice looking oranges, apples and bananas. The coffee vendor offers me a tiny cup of super sweet Touba coffee for 50CFA and since it`s just not my taste I politely decline.

Everywhere I walk someone is psss-ing me to get my attention. While it is common to hail a cab with such a hiss or someone you know or want to know, I find it pretty irritating to be psst-ed everywhere I go, so with great practise I have developed selective hearing over these last couple of weeks!

Next I pass the police station or Commissariat at the round about that either tosses you straight towards the bridge or right out into the country side if you drive 15 minutes. After that its only a couple of more streets until I turn right onto level ground. Most (or all, likely) side streets are made of sand which may account for why the cobblestone sidewalks and other paved roads are in such disrepair.

This weekend we are off to Dakar for a 2 day excursion. We are taking a private bus and staying in some sort of apartment deal because it's cheap. That being said, I will not be making posts this weekend... so have a great weekend!

Oops!

Hello to my faithful readers,

I would like to apologise for any and all spelling, grammatical and syntatical errors that have occured over the last few weeks in my blog. There really is never a good excuse for making such errors, but I would like to say that I have tried my best to proofread. Thanks to Nathan`s kind email today, I discovered that I haven`t exactly been doing an amazing job in the proofreading department.

Anyway, I`ll continue to do my best but I am not promising anything!

Thanks

Ashley

Fedherbe Bridge Will Soon Have a Twin

The Fedherbe Bridge will soon have a twin. Construction began in the spring of this year and project completion is set vaguely for mid year, next year. Until then, traffic is staggered so that one direction crosses while the other one waits. Late at night, when you take a taxi home from the island and the cabbie takes dark and twisty back routes, there is no need to fear, he is merely working his way to the queue to cross the bridge back to the mainland.

Pedestrian traffic is likewise doubled on the one side of the bridge because the second walkway is right in the midst of all the construction. The walkway is made of thick wooden slats, brand new in some spots, and old and rotten in others. If you're lucky, you can follow a sheep herder across the bridge with his knobbly kneed flock, as it is quite entertaining to watch!

Before crossing the bridge coming from land, it is important to visit the two pleasant peanut ladies who are often known to give a good deal on their wares. Both ladies are old and wear elaborate cloth dresses of which involve folds upon folds of colourful african design fabric. When you ask for change, they often have to dig through various folds of their garb in order to seek out the correct coins. They have set up shop with a large white pail and a metal platter that holds all the bagged peanuts. Bits of used cardboard are set underneath the bags of nuts to create the appearance of sanitary food presentation.

On the bridge, there is always a firm breeze that rolls in off the ocean. Even on the hottest days, it is easy to find reprieve from the heat during the 5 minute walk across to the other side.

On the island side of the bridge, there are several vendors, always with the same selection: sandals, necklaces, magazines, sliced coconut, peanuts, Touba coffee, novelty toy sized buses. The necklace vendors are the most persistant, and will often follow you all the way down the street until you convince them you really don't need another necklace, but maybe tomorrow you will.

After the vendors you reach the large post office on the left, and the Hotel de la Poste on the right. The post office is a grand, white, art-nouveau style building that scarcely contains all the grandeur it must have once had. The Hotel de la Poste is where the French air mail pilots were housed back in the heyday of St. Louis. I can't speak to the current quality of it`s lodging, but sitting underneath the covered terrace with a cafe au lait and a laptop is really quite a great way to settle in and blog about a bridge.

Visit to the Daaras

I wanted to describe a bit more about my visit to the Daaras because I feel it is a really important topic to cover. Since I have not actually worked with the Talibe boys it is hard for me to describe a complete picture, but I have heard many stories from other volunteers, and read a few articles before I even came to Senegal. The fact that it was on the radar when I was googling anything and everything I could find, told me then it would be something worth looking into when I finally arrived here.

In brief, the UNICEF website describes the Daaras history as such: Daaras or Koranic schools began as a rural and city based Koranic school which intended to teach boys the Koran in preperation for adult life. In return, the boys would work for the Maribouts in their fields. Due to drought and economic downturn in the late 70's and early 80s, the Daaras were struggling and so moved to the cities in order to be able to beg for money to keep the Daaras running.

I think the culture then shifted in the Daaras from a more pure intention with community involvement, to one where the Maribouts are making money by exploiting the children who are essentially forced to attend. The boys I have seen all live in harsh conditions, and are malnourished. The UNICEF website says there are around 100,000 children who attend these schools, but statistics regarding such issues from developing countries are notoriously undervalued. The boys hang about in the streets at all hours hoping they can collect meagre handouts from passers by.

The people with PA who work with the talibe mostly work to clean and bandage wounds and offer other topical medical attention. They also help with the friday meal, where an upwards of 200 children show up for a piece of bread with chocolate spread and oil on it.

Last week, Briony a doctor from the UK, told me about how she attended the friday meal. She said that after 150 kids they ran out of food. The volunteers were left scrambling trying to figure out how to not disappoint the remaining 50 kids. Briony offered to pay for whatever supplies they needed to make sure everyone got something. It cost her 4000 CFA ( the equivalent of $8) to purchase one more tub of chocolate spread and enough bread for everyone. Her comment to me was "Jeez, I would think nothing of spending 4000 on a glass of wine at dinner".

I often see the boys out in the streets at the appropriate times during the day praying with their wooden tablet, repeating and repeating the lines that are written out in coal. I highly doubt they can read what is actually written, so interpretation and explanation would be left up to the Maribout. I also wonder what life skills the Maribouts really think these boys are getting other than surviving life on the streets.

When we delivered donuts on Sunday I got to visit 5 different Daaras all in the same general area. Our escorts were the men who work in the talibe centres or go to the Daaras to help out with the boys. The centres have a place to hang out during the day, and a doctors office that has services, albeit limited services sporadically througout the week. The men are primarily responsible for anything from haircuts to first aid to sourcing food every friday for the 1 supper.

The men who work with the Talibes really are amazing people. Everywhere we walked they took the time to exchange greetings and shake hands with the boys we met in the streets. When it came time to change bandages, or in the case of one boy who had an abcess on his backside looked at, they were kind and gentle and sincere.

The first Daara was situated in a soccer stadium. The deal is, the boys can sleep and stay there, but if a game is on then they all have to leave. The stadium is old and dilapidated as are many buildings here, and their wash spot was an old puddle. When we handed out donuts, the boys were polite, lined up and made sure their pals got one too.

The next Daara wasn't so large, maybe 15 boys or so. It was situated in a smallish abandoned type house. There was a mat to sit on, an old mosquito net and not much else. These boys actually showed a little excitement at our arrival, but otherwise I scarcely saw a smile on any boy's face all day.

The two next ones were about the same, though the Maribouts refused to shake the girls' hands, as this is sometimes the case with Muslim men.

The last one was referred to as the "Daara des Mouches" which means Daara with lots of flies. It lived up to its name. We wandered along the long abandoned train tracks where garbage was piled high and goats were busy sorting through to see if there was anything good to eat in the piles. Then we veered off through narrower allyways where there were less people and more abandoned buildings. There was shallow ditches outside the houses that smelled of sewage.

We turned again down a narrow alleyway and came to the Darra, marked only by some scraggly writing in chalk on the wall. We waited while one of the escorts went in to make sure things were still ok with the Maribout.

There were about 100 boys or so at this place. They were all sitting cross legged with their tablets, knee to knee, crammed into these tiny rooms where they were apparently recieving instruction. Once they figured out we had treats for them they all immediately began scrambling to get one. Luckily we had enough for everyone...

Honestly, it was really depressing walking around the shit neighbourhoods of this area, walking over open sewage and arriving at a dilapidated building with 50 kids shoved in a tiny room, filthy, repeating and repeating the Koran which they don't understand but are merely repeating over and over because it's what they're supposed to do.

When I walked down my street to go home, the street looked totally different. Suddenly the garbage wasn't as bad as it could be, the people were better off, the kids in my house appeared to be thriving compared to these skinny Talibe boys despite their lack of toys and occasional threat of being whipped by the tv cable. It was really really crazy to see such a contrast after just 1 morning wandering around in the poorer areas.

I also have a hard time seeing where we can really get in there and help. Giving money to get supplies such as food and bandages and blankets is certainly needed but only offers a topical solution. There really is a greater need for a major cultural shift to happen.

On a lighter note, I have seen several incidents where random neighbours in my neighbourhood have stopped fights, or chastised talibes for bad behaviour. Many people offer them leftovers, but I rather think that having a consistent set of people raising me, and feeding me would be far more beneficial than simply knowing where the good handouts are.

First Day of School

Yesterday we had our induction into Ecole El Hadji Sidi Ndiaye which is a moutful of words to describe a school with boys and girls aged 8 - 12. The population of girls in this school is slightly above the boys, but I can only assume that is because many boys are attending Koranic schools instead.

The Director, Abdulaye, was most welcoming. He took us around to each of the 14 classes to introduce us and give a very rousing speech about the importance of learning English in order to better their opportunities in English speaking countries. Along the way, he spoke about how this school is one of the few offering English to primary children, so for some students, this is their first crack at learning any English. Aside from the usual maths, sciences and so forth, the children learn French and Arabic, which means they could very soon be quadrilingual (that is, if we have any success teaching them our own native language!)

My teaching partner is Krista, a 19 year old student from Vancouver. She was involved in the summer school that PA puts on so she will be a good resource to keep the classes moving along.

We are responsible for 4 classes of the same level aged 9 and 10, 4 classes of a heightened level of the same ages, and 2 classes aged 8 who have had zero English instruction so far.

Today we covered off numbers 1 - 20 and the ABC's and saw a few cobwebs fly out of come students ears. I certainly think we have our work cut out for us, but with only two sessions half an hour in length per week, I can't be sure how much we can really cram in.

Sounds Like Senegal

Sounds Like Senegal
I wish I could take all the sounds of Senegal and bottle them up for my people back home. At my host family's house, the sound of shuffling feet echoes ghost like through the hallways because the walls are hard and the floor is tiled. So while I can always tell someone is lurking around by the schhh schhh schhh, it is almost ghostly because no can be seen making the shuffling noises.

The children's voices are becoming very familiar to me. Mama tends to cry a lot and so does Aisha but Mama is more baritone while Aisha more treble. Mama likes to boss everyone around and generally at the ripe age of 3 has a pretty good sense of humour about life and is often shouting this or that at everyone, all the time, morning, noon and night. As for the rest of the kids, you can be assured that they are well heard...

Though I manage to sleep through the early morning call to prayer most mornings, there is the odd occasion where the loud tinny voice of the religious guy barrels through and wakes me. There is also the odd time when a loud cricket wakes me up first. The giant crickets have been sneaking into my room through a hole beside the door, and even after I shoved newspaper int he hole, I can still hear them cheep cheep cheeping softly while scratching to get in.

Every horse pulling a buggy has a bell or two on them ranging from something like a dinner bell to something off of Santa's sleigh. The taxi cabs use their horn as a means to navigate the roads without stopping or slowing down. The giant trucks hauling loads of materials do the same, though I rather think that noone is going to bother getting in their way.

In the evenings the Talibe boys congregate in the soccer field outside my house. I have never seen them appear, but it happens sometime after soccer practise is over, and shortly after the sun goes down. I think they are mostly waiting for something to eat and a front step to sleep on before the food is handed out.

The other night I was drawn out to my balcony because I could hear their voices and it sounded that there were a great many of them, and there were. I watched as one boy did sloppy somersaults across the entire length of the soccer pitch. I watched older boys tenderly scoop up the smaller boys and toss them around to their delight. I watched a boy renact crawling through an invisible war field, his long legs, thighs as skinny as calves, stretching insect like forward and back until another boy interrupts him by coming over and kicking him in the side. I watched one boy urinate on the ground in front of our house. I watched them wrestle. I watched them play soccer with a ball of garbage. I watched them laugh, and throw rocks at each other, and sit around talking like there wasn't a care in the world.

Today we delivered home made donuts to the Daaras, the Kornic schools where the boys live mostly and learn the Koran. Talibe boys are a well-known problem, as in, the fact that there are droves of homeless boys wandering around looking for hand-outs is well known, but there doesn't seem to be an apparent solution. I find it frustrating because it is hard to get a straight answer, or a complete answer, as to why there are all these boys homeless and poor. I also tend to wonder about where all their sisters are, and how life is happening for them.

Today was my first view into where the boys live, who the volunteer 'social workers' are, the Maribous (Daara religious leader type figure), and what the Daaras look like. I suppose those details will have to wait til another day...